On theatre blogging
I am feeling a little out of step with the world this week. It might just be the absinthe, or the continued evolution of a romantic sensibility I can’t quite name, but I have been worried by my response to plays that have been receiving positive reviews. My usual misanthropy, which reflects itself in the fascination I hold for my own behaviour while other critics are paying attention to what happens on stage, has led me to finally question why a theatre critic has such consistent disdain for scripted theatre and sees only aimless posturing where others detect meaning and wit.
These blogs are an attempt to discover some sort of foundation to my aesthetics, connect together my disparate and desperate tastes and offer some of the reasons behind my reviews. Since I am constantly banging on about the sheer wonder of stuff that is routinely excluded from other Theatre Sections, I feel the need to confess.
Ever since the Tiger Lillies made me nearly wet myself in fright in 2003 (Tramway, The Holy Body Tattoo), I have been using the theatre to get the kicks that loud music used to offer. I am searching for that moment of emotional connection, the sharp, sudden shock that forces me to question my assumptions. It’s no surprise that I don’t get press invitations to Andrew Lloyd Weber’s latest. I never really know where the hit will come: it’s been in Edinburgh University’s version of Sarah Kane, a student interpretation that wrested home from her final, despairing ravings; Les Ballet C de la B’s VSPRS, where gypsy psychedelia collides with anti-choreography; Little Johnny’s Big Gay Musical; Live Art reviews, alternative cabarets, Torture Garden burlesque programmes.
The only thing that these events seem to share is that they demand a different response. Sitting on the sidelines and praising well-crafted sets or strong performances is too neutral, and denies the visceral thrill that keeps me on the mailing lists for New Territories and the RSAMD’s Contemporary Performance Practice course.
As my style has developed, I have included more and more about myself. Apart from my mother’s obvious pride when I wrote about my speed dating experiences, or the egotistical delight I take in demeaning my personality with a veneer of anti-social aggression (which is never backed up by any ability to actually defend myself physically). But without some sense of who I am, the pleasure that some art gives me is utterly incomprehensible. And, exaggerations aside- okay, I am really that unlucky in love- it feels unfair for me as a critic to hide myself when the performers are so frequently baring their all.
Fortunately, I recently discovered an ally. In The Death of Hermeneutics, by celebrity footballer and anarchist collectivist Luther Blisset, there is an appeal to radical subjectivity, a criticism that acknowledges the reviewer as part of the performance- not just a frame, but an active participant. Blisset goes on to assault the common mythology of “the artist”. At least next time I am accused of just talking about myself, I have a thousand pages of theory to justify my antics.