On Pina Bausch

Well, it's good to know that there are some luminaries of the intelligentsia that get expressions of collective mourning as passionate as those intended for poor Michael or Farrah.
Facebook is ablaze with grief over Pina Bausch. In her case, I must say, I'm incapable of feeling anything because I have seen limited amounts of her work and it's cool but I just don't care. Let's say Expressionistic German modern dance is not my cup of tea. I was utterly annoyed at Almodovar for sticking one interminable piece of hers in the middle of Hable con Ella. It was like cinematic namedropping: P.R.E.T.E.N.T.I.O.U.S.
I respect all of those who are shedding tears over her demise. Some of them are my best friends! Seriously, many of them are people whose tastes I respect. I guess there is no arguing with taste.
But Bausch seems to be one of those cultural icons that one is supposed to admire, like Tarkovsky or Meredith Monk or Robert Wilson (or most of BAM's programming), or if you will excuse and forgive me, Godard: artists with difficult reputations and insufferable works, yet that furnish you with instant cultural cred. It's a bit like eating broccoli or eggplant or tofu, not altogether palatable but supposedly very good for you.
So call me a Philistine.