As I watch one after another pastel tutu clad ballerina bourrée into the arms of a white-tighted danseur, a melody not credited on the program floats through my brain. You know the one. It’s from “A Chorus Line:” Everything was beautiful at the ballet. Week one of the Arpino Dance Festival features precise footwork and buoyant lifts, delivered with impressive verve by the Joffrey Ballet, Oklahoma City Ballet, and AVID, a company new to me, plus guest artists Misa Kuranaga and Angelo Greco. It's an unseasonably warm day for October in New York. The kind of day when we might be excused for taking a break from the unrelenting news treadmill. Even so, this matinee program strikes me as jarringly out of touch with the times.
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I have not read a dance review with such delight in a long, long time. This reminds me why I used to love Arlene Croce’s writing in The New Yorker magazine, at least 20 years before I actually ever saw a dance performed in real life in a theater. (And now I photograph dance.) The descriptions are so richly and felicitously written, it is as if the words themselves are dancing. Just a pure delight.