Monday, February 02, 2004


I do adore Baryshnikov for about a half dozen reasons, not the least of which is: he keeps moving. He makes art, or else. He founds new groups, he sets up an arts center, he walks the talk. He uses his powers for good. He does not fade away. There is no question that he will be old and great. The only time I saw him dance "live" was with Mark Morris' group, probably eightish years ago. He dazzled darkly.

But when he was introduced to the "Sex and the City" blend, I was none too happy. He and Sarah Jessica couldn't seem, in the first few episodes, to strike a pleasant conversational rhythm, and, though it seemed unintentional, there always seemed to be a moment where he came out from behind the role--jumping gloriously over garbage cans, or, more recently, beaning a rat with a frying pan--with the most poetic flair.

But somehow the writers and producers caught on to the atonality of Carrie and Alex's courtship, and now, it is quite movingly, about how they often fail to understand each other. There are odd pockets of silence and sadness in the waning days of this peppy, pink-hued show, and I am well pleased.


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