Young People Today (part 2)

Of course, this might be a bit of Vile blather - feel free to nip off and read some proper theatre criticism while I indulge myself. But in trying to understand how I can approach youth theatre as a critic, I have opened up a few gaps in my thinking.

Like Agamemnon out of The Iliad, I am a man who can't let go of an idea, once I have had it. They pass through my mind too infrequently to be discarded.

So far, I have made a division between 'professional' and 'youth' performance. The former involves people who get paid - and presumably have a rehearsal schedule that reflects a working day - while the later is created by people under the age of 25 (fitting in with Creative Scotland's parameters for 'youth'), and has a rehearsal schedule that has to compete with other concerns (like exams, study).

I know this is rough - some companies are not all paid, or have funding, or do that 'share of the profits' gig, but the broad outline works. A closer look at the structures of youth theatre companies could help but, frankly, that would be getting too detailed for something that is pretty easy to spot.

My second assertion is that the usual critical approach does not work for youth theatre. Not because they lack the quality to compete (anyone who thinks that professional is a synonym for good can come and watch Forced Entertainment's work between 2007 and 2011 with me), but because the intention of youth theatre is bound up with the process as well as the production.

In other words, the journey of the young people is as important as the audience's experience of the production.

And while I might care about how Jim Davidson grew as a human being during his time in the pantomime at the Pavilion, that isn't really a matter for star ratings.

Equally, and I hate to be blunt, but the standard of youth theatre is very rarely close to the quality of professional theatre. Now and again, there are stand-out turns, or exciting productions, but to put youth theatre on the same rating system as the National Theatre or Robert Lepage would lead to a large number of youth companies getting two stars.

It's also patronising to adjust the rating because they are young people. Giving a good review 'because they are kids' kind of destroys the point of having a professional (yes) critic in the house.

The next step of this investigation might have something to do with a closer look at the function of theatre, and how that is filtered through the lens of 'professional' against 'youth.'

Objections to Objectivity

In past posts, I pondered the possibility of an objection position perceiving performance. I failed to mention that objectivity does exist - it is my opinion, happily - and everyone else is objective in so far as they agree with me. The remainder of this post suggests ways in which anyone who is not lucky enough to be me can engage critically with art.

Taking the subjectivity of the critic as a given does not reduce criticism is a mere series of opinions. Like in those essays I am supposed to be doing at University, a supported opinion is more valuable than an absolute truth. The function of a critique is not to reveal the true meaning or worth of a work, but to extend the conversation generated by the work in question.

In one sense, this abandons the traditional critical analysis of performance and interpretation: the brilliance of Hayman's Lear is less interesting than the angle taken by the director in staging King Lear. Perhaps Hayman did a grand job of presenting the geriatric fool-king, but it is a support to the thrust of Dominic Hill's reading of Shakespeare's text.

Apart from a general disbelief in objectivity, acknowledging the subjectivity of the critic opens up a way of standardising an approach to criticism. Contrary to the approach at school - opinion is the last thing most subjects develop - the critic begins with that moment of connection to an art work: its emotional impact. The critical process is making the connection between that emotion and the content.

Hmmm... The Real Criticulous?

Rock'n'roll's Alan Partridge

This afternoon, it’s time for a big shout out to Peter Paphides. He put up a really helpful guide to the new Daft Punk Album. Concluding with some marketing advice for record labels, it’s an object lesson in how not to write a critical response and I hope that the young critics of Glasgow are reading it, laughing and wondering why owning Sting albums is something to mention in public, let alone boast about.

Having spent a great deal of time pondering the role of the critic, and being painfully pompous in my attempts to describe possible functions, Paphides cuts to the chase. The job of the critic is, obviously, to tell people why they are not listening to music properly. He reminds me of Mr Didcot, my school music teacher, shouting at the class of twelve year olds for not showing real respect to Mozart.

Upset by the negative reaction to Daft Punk’s latest opus, which will doubtless take its place alongside Figaro in the twenty-fifth century, Paphides gets annoyed with the haters. He constructs his response in the form of a numbered list. It’s hilarious, especially when he bangs on about owning Sting albums. This apparently makes him an authority. 

Funnily enough, he starts off well enough,  pointing out that just because the album is not what was necessarily expected, that doesn't make it bad. But he quickly leaps into the worst critical persona: the arrogant know-it-all who understands the precise detail of an audience's listening experience. 

Apparently, paying for product makes the consumer appreciate it in more detail (possibly true, but I don't know if there is any evidence, and Paphides provides none). The listeners have nothing in their record collection that sounds like a particular track (no sophisticated meditation on originality or influence here, just a bold accusation). And Columbia's marketing department hadn't done enough research on how to disseminate the release. 

I mean, I like Live Art, and it is far more disliked than Daft Punk. There's a whole episode of excellent sit-com Spaced devoted to mocking it. Yet I have managed to avoid writing a list of ways to enjoy it properly...

(Actually, I did just that once. A prize to any reader who can find it.)

I'm done. Paphides has a bit of form on this - another article he wrote was about the Coldplay wristband he had glowing in the dark. Here's thanks to Limmy for starting the twitter row that made Paphides' article come to my attention - although a bit less time on the internet and more on writing sketches that don't trade on your wide-eyed innocence for the next series would be nice, Limmy. 

And for a little balance, Paphides' book, Lost in Music, is still worth a read. That's a passionate and personal account of how music shaped his life. 

Oh sorry, that was Giles Smith. It's just the quote from the song on Paphides' blog confused me....  

Three Types of Criticism, All Fictional

Somewhere back along the way, I became obsessed with the idea of a scientific criticism. After about

fifteen minutes, I realised that this would be difficult:  science is, despite claims that it is a body of theories  known as facts or statistics wearing a fancy gown, a methodology for investigation. When Nicholas Bone described the vision of his company, Magnetic North, as wondering would happen if..., then he was a great deal closer to science than the next idiot at the dinner party who starts shouting about natural selection being a fact (it isn't: evolution is. Natural selection is a theory explaining the mechanism whereby evolution happens).

I try to imagine what a scientific criticism would look like. It might look a bit like my blog, with all the different ways that a review or preview being slapped out at a rate of knots, and seeing what sticks (although thinking about it, that sounds rather like natural selection... when a particular approach gets a good hit rate, I repeat it). I am hoping that my Young Critics might provide me with ideas. In the meantime, I'll moan about how much criticism is theological or philosophical in nature. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

First of all, I want to define the two approaches. Quickly, like, and yes, I am just making this up. It's part of an attempt to find out how criticism works. If it sounds stupid, it is because I am either stupid or trying to begin a study without reference to existing theories.

Then I want to take the philosophical approach and see if I can't break it down.

Criticism-as-theology is usually the criticism voiced by artists trying to articulate their creative process, or make sense of their art. Peter Brooke has a couple of real beauties in his writings that follows his interest in religion and spirituality - and many of the interview on my blog have a similar attitude. For example, Harry Giles notes that, for him, it is a choice of making theatre or death.

I have come out with plenty of criticism-as-theology myself. Again, it's not surprising: I have never hidden my enthusiasm for Buddhist ideas and Jesuit spirituality. In brief, criticism-as-theology regards art as ultimately mysterious, an indivisable whole that cannot be divided into petty details. The puriest theology just marvels at its majesty, and attempts to reflect the glory.

Philosophical criticism takes a more analytical approach. It examines the various aspects of an art work - the materials, the presentation, the diverse influences - and assesses their contribution to the whole. It's probably the most common form of criticism: it stretches across the academic and populist forms.

This approach divides the performance into categories: it defines the form and the function, separates content from style, does a nice side-line in categories. It shares the broad general statement of theology, is quite happy to use a priori definitions and put theatre into a wider context.

Scientific criticism is, as yet, undefined. I could just take a load of scientific theories and apply them to theatre. However, that would not be scientific. It would be philosophical... true scientific criticism applies the scientific method to art. And I have no idea how that is going to play out

Oh Please, Just Stop: Critical Process Pondered. Again.

In a recent article in The Metro, when asked to respond to the increased importance of social media in the critical process, Barry Norman claimed that "the biggest obligation is to the readers, viewers and listeners," and defines honesty as the criteria for a "good reviewer." While it is a clear and solid piece of advice for critics, it doesn't really address the article's core issue - that the internet has allowed everyone to think that they are a critic. His subsequent comment ("the professional critic should have seen a hell of a lot more films than the amateur") gets closer to the point, although whether my obsessive viewing of Pasolini really helps me to judge  Iron Man 3 is a moot point.

Being prone to introspection, Norman has set me off thinking about the purpose of criticism. Since The Metro article ends with the opinions of a film PR, there's the underlying assumption that a review's main purpose is either attracting or warning off potential audiences. That works for film (and albums), which might explain why movies and music get more space in traditional press. Unfortunately, there's a fair proportion of theatre that won't get long enough runs to need a glowing press commendation.

It is a pretty esoteric question - why do I think theatre criticism is worth spending my life on? - but it might answer some of the questions about my own subjectivity. Sure, my enthusiasms for Jesuit spirituality, scientific method and classical Greek theatre are bound to inform my opinions - as are the relative tightness of my belt and the comfort of my seat. But in the last few weeks, I have noticed that my opinions on certain performances, which aren't necessarily in accord with either audience reaction or the other critics (whom I respect), can be related to my belief in the nature of criticism.

Admittedly, I probably took my faith a little far when I shouted that the job of the critic is to be a witness ("in both a legal and religious sense," I hollered, much to the bemusement of my fellow passengers on the train into Glasgow). And it does go back to my undergraduate study of ancient tragedy: I regard art as the place where ideas get discussed, and the critical process is the further discussion of those ideas.

So, something like Poke or Wuthering Heights (both winners of The Arches Platform 18 Award) are both "my kind of theatre." It's not even that I agree with the politics in the pieces - Poke's representation of masculinity frightens me, because it might be true and the penis might be mightier than the mind. But against Scottish Ballet's revival of Highland Fling, they are all about forwarding conversations. I've been deliberately mentioning them in fragments across the blog, never making any real aesthetic judgments but alighting on ideas, letting them sit. Highland Fling, meanwhile, is a bit of a laugh, but I am not sure it has that much to say about Scottish identity or the nature of erotic fixation - a more aesthetic analysis would be closer to the choreographer's intentions.

I have also been left feeling uncomfortable about plays that inhibit the conversation around a subject. Quiz Show is full of fantastic facts - yet to discuss its core issue is to give away the twist in the tale. At risk of invoking Plato (and revealing my relative idiocy), I have a moral problem with this - not an aesthetic one.

But this is my problem - not theatre's. It might help to explain why I prefer certain productions, or excuse my frequent failure to include those essential features of the review ("this actor was good, that director was imaginative"). I am throwing out a few questions - the joy of a blog is never concluding, never conforming to the format of beginning, middle and end...