. . .  just hate  writing ballet reviews if they can’t figure out how to make it an  opportunity to write about Balanchine.  Other critics see choreography  where the corps de ballet performs first arabesque saute and cry out to  blessed relief, “Look at the Balanchine influence!”  [Sorry, Mr. B  didn’t actually invent the first arabesque saute for corps work; he just  used it ad nauseam.]

Still other critics do little more than  promote the usual agenda which is:  a. whine if a visiting company  doesn’t perform Balanchine, b. scowl and complain if it does, and c.  wallow in the critics’ own celestially-bestowed gifts of choreographic  insight as to what Balanchine intended here or intended there or  intended in his underwear.

And one critic in particular wants the dwindling  readership of his newspaper to know just how tired and bored and  miserable he is when his job requires him to sit through a ballet  performance that’s just not his cup of tea though the rest of the  knowledgeable audience loves it.   Don’t know why his editors let that  sort of fartournalism toot through.  One never reads elsewhere in that  paper that a writer is miserable about having to write once again about  Iraq or is so tired of having to cover the losing Mets day-in and  day-out.  It seems kind of like the critic is really resentful that the  general audience doesn’t agree with him; so he’ll just use his dark wit  to belittle the audience for appreciating what he doesn‘t – or can‘t.
Yep, no doubt about it,  dance criticism in the big city's newspapers has become little more than  a tiresome cup of tea made with old, used teabags.  But at least it  retains its diuretic properties judging from all the pissing that  results.