Confessions of a Theatre Reviewer

I have a confession to make: my title will probably be the most interesting thing about this article.

Deliberately titillating, that provocative word confessions is really no more than a sad attempt to disguise the fact that this will be just one more article written by me about me.

I usually write theatre reviews and, as everyone knows, reviews tell you more about the reviewer than the show. (After all, no matter what show I go to see, I’m always there. It’s this inevitability – rather than the quality of the work – that explains why so many reviewers become jaded.)

So, if this is just another article about me, why write it at all?

It recently occurred to me, that as of last year, I’ve written as many reviews about other people’s shows as I’ve had reviews written about my own shows. So, I guess, I’m in a weirdly privileged position.

Dear Theatre-maker, I know your love-hate relationship with reviewers, and I think I can offer some insight. (Or, if not, at least I’ve harnessed another opportunity to write about myself.)

Dear Theatre-maker, these are the things I must confess:

• I’m excited every single time you send me an invitation to a show.

• I don’t especially like to go to your opening night.

• I like to bring a plus one.

• I know what I write is not very important, certainly not as important as what you write.

• I’m aware that everything I write is sloppy. I’d like to take more time and write for posterity, but I know that posterity doesn’t buy tickets. (What I write is mere fish wrap, hence the above image.)

• I’m not trying to market your show, but I know you are. So, if I like your show, I’ll include a line or two you can use as a pull-out quote.

• I dislike the idea of grading or comparing productions.

• I’m not trying to make you famous. (I’m not trying to make me famous. It’s with great reluctance that my reviews have a byline. I’d prefer not to include my name at the conclusion of what I write, but I believe the obligation of accountability outweighs the pleasures of anonymity.) And, if fame is what you are trying to achieve, I think you should carefully consider why. I think you should also consider what that desire suggests about your attitude to other people. I’m not saying you shouldn’t seek financial gain from your art – but because I believe artists shouldn’t starve, I’d also rather they remain in good psychological health.  

• I want people to read what I write. So, if you like my review, share it on your socials.

• Personally, I don’t read reviews. I think a fair percentage of reviewers write terribly. It’s sometimes said that we reviewers are failed artists, but that’s not the whole story: many of us are failed reviewers as well.

• I read your program only so as not to misspell the names of your creative team (though sometimes I’ll still get them wrong anyway.) Apart from that, I studiously avoid everything you write about your show: marketing, advertising, director and writer’s notes … everything. In fact, reading your program notes afterwards can feel like a type of gaslighting; I saw the show, and now you’re telling me, in such authoritative tones, that my interpretation of the show is wrong? (But I understand why you write these notes. Many of the notes I’ve written as a playwright have simply been repeated back at me by reviewers and, as a result, the reviews have been a delight to read.) 

• I know you won’t like everything I write, and I’m OK with that.

• I give your show much more thought than you probably imagine.

• I find the spoiler-rule frustrating, but I’ll abide by it. I don’t like it when you act as though I’ve broken the rule when I’ve merely outlined the scenario. I have to be able to say what your show is about; I can’t just gush hyperbolic platitudes.

• I don’t like it when you suggest I’ve misunderstood your play. You’ve shared it, and now it’s ours.

• I know what I write is subjective. I know I have personal preferences and interests, and I know they’ll inform what I write. I don’t believe there’s an objective viewpoint, and I think those who assert there is are either naïve or lying.

• I’m not interested in your politics. Or, more to the point, I’m interested in them in a way you might find surprising. To be honest, your piece of theatre is extremely unlikely to change my political outlook – but I do love to learn what political perspectives are being held by other people, artists included. When you behave as though your art will change hearts and minds, I think it’s a little odd. I’m not saying it won’t, or it can’t, but to have that as your driving purpose is to assume your audience is less sophisticated than you.

• I like to be thanked for my review. Even a one-word message will suffice. Here’s one you can cut and paste for future use: Thanks.

And to end this article, I’ll take my own advice.

I’m absolutely thrilled about the upcoming year of theatre, and so, in advance, to all Theatre-makers, an enormous THANKS.

Paul Gilchrist

Tags: theatre, Theatre Reviews, Theatre Reviews Sydney