Write like No-one is Reading...
One of the great joys of being performance editor of The Skinny is the freedom. Sitting in my flat, wondering how I am going to pay my rent, I can dream up new worlds, new ideas and throw them into the public domain. Whether it is bearding Facebook politicians, writing love letters to burlesque performers in the guise of festival reviews or plagiarising Luther Blisset and claiming that I have invented "Critical Radical Subjectivity", between blog postings and editorials I can parade my rampant egotism and concommitant low self-esteem.
On the negative side, it can lead to awkward social situations. In the queue for a Fringe show, I was accosted by an Italian company who suggested that my review failed to understand their performance. My advocacy of A Prayer leads to long silences from other critics. And covering so much theatre, cabaret and dance has slowly revealed how I am merely a bigot, who dresses up his opinions in fancy language to defend himself from legitimate accusations of bias.
Rather then defend myself, I admit it. I have strong tastes, and I am frequently frustrated by the failure of theatre to live up to my prejudices. Although I love Shakespeare and Greek Tragedy, I dislike the naturalism that has crept into script-writing: equally, I hate the overblown poetry that other scripts smuggle into what is supposed to be a visceral, arresting medium. On the one hand, I am asking theatre not to compete with the imagery of written art; on the other, I am moaning that it reduces drama to the mundane. Not just a bigot, then, but confused. Even worse, while I stand by my opinions, I have frequently expressed them in a manner that I regret, favouring the sharp line over compassion. This is an apology to anyone that I have offended. I still hate the work, but it isn't personal.
Ultimately, I am hoping that criticism can take its place as an accepted art from, mainly because it might get me into the funding bodies' payrolls. There has been a traditional antagonism between artists and critics - nearly every other play in my collection of Avant Garde theatre features a critic, of dubious health and sexual practice. While this can be ignored, bearing in mind the reason that most Avant Garde theatre remains underground (it's shit), other complaints are more serious. Tennyson called us "a louse in the locks of literature", and the great Rabby added "thou eunuch of language... pimp of gender... pickle-herring in the puppet show of nonsense... butcher". Even Elaine C Smith castigated the contempary critic as "a failed performer" - anyone who has seen my Mr Criticilicious routine can attest to the accuracy of that accusation.
Criticism has been, for me, far more than that: it is about both advocacy of good theatre and feedback to performers that encourages inprovement. My own enthusiasm for slapping my personality into reviews is about more than egotism. I want readers to be aware of my prejudices. I am enthusiastic about cabaret, contemporary dance, experimental approaches and mythical narratives. I enjoy a spot of intelligent metaphysical speculation, rejoice in the absurd and get irritated by trendy misery that pretends to be realism. I believe that my signposting my position, I am giving information for the reader to decide whether my latest review is coming from a sympathetic perspective. If I appear to be utterly wrong, it is because I am biased. Hopefully, this isn't a synonym for uninformed.
In a desperate attempt to further embarass myself publicly and professionally, I am setting up a newsroom in the next NTS Allotment. Aside from the drama of watching the live creation of a magazine, there will be opportunities for audiences to watch a Live Critic ply his art. It's a small step towards abolishing the boundaries between performance and criticism. I have generously allowed a performer to take his place in the ranks of our critics. Now I can find out what the other side of the footlights feels like.