Chasing Stars: The real reason I quit being a theatre critic

It took a painful wake-up call to make me lay my career to rest.

At the height of my ‘infamy’. (C. Tigz Rice)

Ever missed a conversation with someone that turned out to be the last? I still recall that singular pain from April 2020 when my editor, John, wished me happy birthday. The message was surprisingly tender, renowned as he was for acerbity. He called me his ‘sweet girl’, said if there was anything I wanted to vent about he was ‘here, and cancerous, and listening’. 

I knew he was ill, but with some health issues myself I’d been too distracted to consider how serious it might be at this point. Could it be morphine oiling the chambers of his heart? 

When I replied three days later, the doors were closed again. He was back in hospital, extremely unwell, and had reverted to his signature sarcasm. My follow up enquiries about his health went unanswered, and within a month he was gone. 

John’s death stunned me for a while. All the writers were invited to send tributes for an article honouring him, but I wasn’t ready to accept it. I agonised over what I wish I’d said when he reached out to me with such affection. He meant a lot to me, and wherever he is now I hope he knows that.

When venues finally reopened after lockdown and press invites resumed, I dragged my pen. I told myself that I didn’t want to do it without John, that it wouldn’t be the same, but I realised in time that I simply didn’t want to be a critic any more. At least, not the kind of critic I’d become. 

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In 2015, the online publication my partner wrote for had a reviewer pull out at the last minute before a premiere at the Royal Opera House. I wrote show reviews for my own publication, and he suggested me as a replacement. I stayed on and wrote more until the pandemic brought the house down. 

My partner was significantly older than me and I found myself in thrall, accompanying him to shows all over London, from opera boxes to The Box. We’d sit in bed with our laptops in the early hours, typing up reviews and proof reading each other’s work. His critiques of my writing could feel devastating, and I craved his approval as much as his love.

When the relationship finally crumbled, my desire to learn, please and be mentored transferred to our editor, John, a veteran critic in his sixties. I got to know him personally when he hired me to build him a new website. I copied across his entire body of work, reading and learning as I went. John was loved and loathed by colleagues and PR departments respectively, utterly vicious in public and unfailingly kind and generous in private to his friends. He was a supportive editor, but expected bite and bravery from his reviewers; no fluff, fawning or fodder. 

As every review ran, I’d wait to see if I would make his mentions on social media, a coveted stamp of approval for a subculture writer crippled by impostor syndrome in a stable of predominantly male critics. I followed the editorial guide religiously, agonising over every sentence. 

It became apparent, however, that the publication was more interested in entertainment than informed dissection. Reviews should be well crafted, certainly, but punchy, concise and eye catching with a killer headline. This often meant a negative or controversial review was better for traffic than an enthused, positive one. The more creatively cruel I was, the more praise and encouragement I typically received.

When I excoriated a famous West End actress in a much hyped revival, John reposted it, calling it ‘fucking fantastic writing’. It was one of the best reviews I'd written, I knew that, but he was thrilled I’d taken an independent line when all the broadsheets gushed over it, salivating at my savagery. A veteran male colleague commented ‘Her master’s voice’ which, looking back, was pertinent, not just pointed, but I was too ecstatic at the time to notice. I also received a complimentary message from my ex about the review, but the longed-for praise I used to sweat for now felt less savoury. 

When the site reduced and ultimately retired reviews post-lockdown, I refocused on my own magazine, which covers burlesque and variety entertainment. In the burlesque scene particularly there was a longstanding divide between the trained performers used to criticism and self scrutiny, and those who embraced the art form for more emotive reasons. The former invited informed critique and show reviews, keen for burlesque to be held to the same standards as circus or theatre, but sometimes bridled at what they were told. The latter often viscerally rejected it, finding it painfully personal and disempowering. 

I discovered that I’d inadvertently become the picky, powerful boyfriend everyone wanted to please, and the irony wasn’t lost on me. I found myself slinging for my supper at aftershow dinners, urged to ‘tell us what you really thought’ when I mentioned what I’d seen that month. A professional friendship ended overnight when a performer persistently requested notes on their act mid-run until I gave in, and promptly ended our association the following day, citing hurt feelings. At one show I pretended not to hear a front of house rep say ‘Anna Wintour is here’ into their headset as they walked me to my table. The producer appeared soon after and asked me if I could ‘go easy on them’ tonight. I’d become a figure of fear rather than a friend to an industry I’d dedicated my life to. 

What creatives think they want to hear, and what they need to keep putting one heel or well turned phrase in front of the other, can differ. We need to know we’re talented, that we’re not wasting our time, that our parents, teacher - or partner - were wrong. That more work will come, that it’s worth holding our nerve and sticking it out. 

Besides, as Andrew Lloyd Webber himself once grizzled at curtain call, what do critics know anyway? Who needs ‘em? And who even reads reviews now in the age of five second videos and snappy captions? Our attention spans are fried and every Tom, Dick and troll has an opinion. Whether it’s a great restaurant, unmissable show, holiday read or city break you crave, a single click delivers instant feedback from consumers all over the world. ‘The people’ know what they like, and who’s to say 1000 pithy ratings from the public aren’t as valid as the informed opinion of ten critics employed to guide you? Prime time shows like Strictly and X Factor turned critical expert judges into pantomime villains, imperious foils to the underdog contestant on the receiving end. A sideshow spat before the viewers crown the most deserving winner. 

Back in the real world, with ticket sales floundering and performers fearing for their livelihoods, I determined that my role as a critic was now redundant compared to the platform I’d spent sixteen years building. I’m a documenter and promoter first and critic second, but West End PR companies still want reviews even when I offer profiles and features instead. ‘Stunning interview, thanks so much, but do you think you could review it as well?’ It’s still all about the stars on a poster, a one-glance galaxy of praise to strike FOMO into the hearts of theatre-goers. Off the strip, the peelers, tumblers and chanteuses are just trying to keep the lights on, and I’m a lady with a lamp.

In a post-John, post-critic era of sorts, witty, critty prose doesn’t feel nearly as vital as promoting and documenting those trying to survive as audiences continue to tighten their purses and avoid risks. My biggest thrills come from boosting the signal for artists who need it, facilitating candid discussions and sharing information. At showtime, it’s a joy to just be one of the people ‘still out there in the dark’.

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