Seeing Stars: What's in a review?

Somehow during the Fringe, between aborted romances, editing a daily magazine, seeing six shows a day and following the coffee, nervous energy and forgetting to eat weight-loss plan, I managed to hook up with other critics. Aside from sneering at each other’s turn of phrase and comparing our absurd schedules, we discussed our purpose in the artistic process, the only thing that staves off the gnawing sense of artistic failure that obviously drives my articles and editorials.

At the Fringe, it’s easy. Our reviews can go from word-processor to print overnight, and end up in the bin or stapled to a hopeful flyer within 24 hours. For once, I have the power I crave: to sink shows, to get my name on posters, and to be congratulated on my insight by a bleary-eyed comedian in the middle of a 25 show run in Dance Base’s toilets.

The rest of the time, it’s impossible. By the time I have reviewed a show, the run has ended and my beautiful prose is just an unwanted Google search result. Fortunately, a bad review will be remembered for years by the artist, and it gives us something to chat about the next time I don’t hide in the bathroom quickly enough when I see them. But beyond fodder for those uncomfortable moments at parties, what are reviews for?

Hopefully, they are a bit like the form for horse-racing: an indicator of possibilities. With this in mind, I beg forgiveness for a brief explanation of The Skinny’s star rating system, at least for theatre. I have always been a bit uncomfortable with stars – they reduce hours of crafted analysis into a brief conclusion, and don’t capture the contours of performances, which can veer from emotional to tedious at the entrance of an actor. However, the half dozen people who have read this far might feel better informed if I clarify.

One Skinny is the lowest score: a show that is poor in most areas, from acting to script, wobbly scenery, strange costume choices and an inability to communicate even the most rudimentary idea without embarrassing somebody. I saw three shows this August that would have scraped one skinny. I decided not to review these. The world didn’t need to see me score points over hard-working – and probably ashamed - performers, but was delighted when other critics displayed more mettle and got medieval on them. If a company ever gets one skinny, they ought to be offering free tickets to their next show.

Two skinnys – well, they tried. Something didn’t work, and the review ought to make it clear where the problems were. The reviewer’s taste might come into it, and a two skinny review is constructive. It probably wasn’t a great night out, though: hair-washing or watching The God Channel would be as fun.

Three skinnys is the tough one. It will probably appeal to fans of the company or genre, communicate clearly and have a good level of technical accomplishment. There’s an air of damning with faint praise about this: a national company ought to be doing better, while a group of drama students ought to be overjoyed.

Four skinnys is clearer: worth a risk, and probably the most fun available that night. Five skinnys is a guarantee of excellence, a show that does exactly what it set out to do. Mind, that doesn’t mean a five skinny show will convert someone ideologically opposed to women undressing to burlesque, or make it clear exactly why I am obsessed with Belgian contemporary dance.