Robert Gottlieb attends a Michael Smuin Dance performance and feels his evening has been stolen from him. “Just as depressing as these two works is the company itself—joylessness incarnate. The boys are stiff. The girls are dull. No one can really tap. The dancers’ energy doesn’t spring from the music; it’s tacked on, to make its showbizzy points. Everything is indicated, sold—it’s not just the music that’s canned, it’s the dancing, too. Why do audiences eat it up? Pure nostalgia? Some questions are better left unanswered.”