Broken forms of communication.
I need to be clear at the outset.
This is not a rant against Chicago Tribune theatre critic Chris Jones. In fact, this is not a rant against theatre critics at all. This is an absolution, of sorts, for crimes real and imagined.
It is not their fault. The entire system of their occupation is inherently broken and I think responsibility for that situation rests in the hands of larger forces from further in the past than can be laid at the feet of today's opinion merchants.
Theatre is a mode of communication, notable and distinct from many other art forms for its necessity to exist within a moment in time. You can listen to a recording of live music with great satisfaction, but in almost every case of viewing recorded theater, most people will attest that it was better to see it happening live.
This is because what you experience when you sit in the audience is a conversation, of sorts, as real as sitting across a diner table from your best friend. A person or group of people tell you a story, or relate a feeling; you listen, you respond in your turn, you create a sort of fluid rhythm within the acts of talking and listening. Conversations like these are the kind that two people have all night in the hallway after the party has ended, they are how two people can fall in love with each other for the rest of their lives. When the conversational chemistry between audience and performance is perfect, you end up having a relationship with each other that you remember and cherish long after the two of you have parted ways, a relationship that you may long to experience once again in times of spiritual ennui.
Often, I will hear or read a theatre critic claim that their job is to be an advocate for the audience. This is a decent defense of their practice...it is a noble desire to exist as an advocate for anybody. It deuces me odd, however, that the advocate for the audience is compelled by the demands of their advocacy to exist outside of the audience. By which I mean: the critic often forces themselves outside of the back-and-forth I described above.
Instead, they are often required to interrupt the flow of the conversation by attempting to overlay an entirely different conversation. The performance is talking to the audience about the performance itself, the audience is listening to the performance, and the critic is sitting quietly in the house, scribbling notes on a small steno pad and silently talking over the relationship, telling a story of the things that the performance is doing rightly or wrongly.
Today, Chris posted a glowing review of the touring production of Rent, starring original production cast members Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal. Now...I've actually grown to appreciate Jones as a theatre journalist after reading his blog since its inception; some of his articles on the nuts and bolts of individual Chicago theaters, and his analysis of things like the ensemble mode of theater foundation in light of American Theater Company's recent schism, have been sharp and insightful. I get a sense that he now appreciates Chicago's theatre scene in a way that did not seem evident in my readings of his earlier prose, and even though his blind spots and prejudices are what they are, I don't often feel he's being dishonest with me.
And yet there, in the center of his glowing Rent review, is the following bit:
Since Rapp and Pascal are both pushing 40--nearly double the intended age of Larson’s iconic downtown characters--I was ready with the quips about them being more of an age for mortgage payments than “La Vie Boheme” in Alphabet City.
This is why I say that the very practice of modern criticism is inherently broken. Because I know that Jones is not alone among his critical brethren in having his "quips" ready, and I know that part of why he has to have such quips at the ready is that the essence of modern criticism is in producing quotable text, in being entertaining to read, whether the review is a rave or a pan. Engage in wordplay based on the title of the work, twist a plot point into a clever rejoinder of the author's main theme, bask in the bloodstained gleam of your razor wit.
Keep trying to interrupt the deep conversation about philosophy and human nature by telling that joke you came up with in the elevator a few minutes ago. Do this, and we will anoint you a professional critic.
And again...I can't really blame the critics themselves for working within the confines of this expectation. But I also can't help but think that the state of the art is better served by those who desire to be a part of the relationship as it is happening, who desire to ride the thermals and crosswinds rather than report on the weather.
This is not a rant against Chicago Tribune theatre critic Chris Jones. In fact, this is not a rant against theatre critics at all. This is an absolution, of sorts, for crimes real and imagined.
It is not their fault. The entire system of their occupation is inherently broken and I think responsibility for that situation rests in the hands of larger forces from further in the past than can be laid at the feet of today's opinion merchants.
Theatre is a mode of communication, notable and distinct from many other art forms for its necessity to exist within a moment in time. You can listen to a recording of live music with great satisfaction, but in almost every case of viewing recorded theater, most people will attest that it was better to see it happening live.
This is because what you experience when you sit in the audience is a conversation, of sorts, as real as sitting across a diner table from your best friend. A person or group of people tell you a story, or relate a feeling; you listen, you respond in your turn, you create a sort of fluid rhythm within the acts of talking and listening. Conversations like these are the kind that two people have all night in the hallway after the party has ended, they are how two people can fall in love with each other for the rest of their lives. When the conversational chemistry between audience and performance is perfect, you end up having a relationship with each other that you remember and cherish long after the two of you have parted ways, a relationship that you may long to experience once again in times of spiritual ennui.
Often, I will hear or read a theatre critic claim that their job is to be an advocate for the audience. This is a decent defense of their practice...it is a noble desire to exist as an advocate for anybody. It deuces me odd, however, that the advocate for the audience is compelled by the demands of their advocacy to exist outside of the audience. By which I mean: the critic often forces themselves outside of the back-and-forth I described above.
Instead, they are often required to interrupt the flow of the conversation by attempting to overlay an entirely different conversation. The performance is talking to the audience about the performance itself, the audience is listening to the performance, and the critic is sitting quietly in the house, scribbling notes on a small steno pad and silently talking over the relationship, telling a story of the things that the performance is doing rightly or wrongly.
Today, Chris posted a glowing review of the touring production of Rent, starring original production cast members Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal. Now...I've actually grown to appreciate Jones as a theatre journalist after reading his blog since its inception; some of his articles on the nuts and bolts of individual Chicago theaters, and his analysis of things like the ensemble mode of theater foundation in light of American Theater Company's recent schism, have been sharp and insightful. I get a sense that he now appreciates Chicago's theatre scene in a way that did not seem evident in my readings of his earlier prose, and even though his blind spots and prejudices are what they are, I don't often feel he's being dishonest with me.
And yet there, in the center of his glowing Rent review, is the following bit:
Since Rapp and Pascal are both pushing 40--nearly double the intended age of Larson’s iconic downtown characters--I was ready with the quips about them being more of an age for mortgage payments than “La Vie Boheme” in Alphabet City.
This is why I say that the very practice of modern criticism is inherently broken. Because I know that Jones is not alone among his critical brethren in having his "quips" ready, and I know that part of why he has to have such quips at the ready is that the essence of modern criticism is in producing quotable text, in being entertaining to read, whether the review is a rave or a pan. Engage in wordplay based on the title of the work, twist a plot point into a clever rejoinder of the author's main theme, bask in the bloodstained gleam of your razor wit.
Keep trying to interrupt the deep conversation about philosophy and human nature by telling that joke you came up with in the elevator a few minutes ago. Do this, and we will anoint you a professional critic.
And again...I can't really blame the critics themselves for working within the confines of this expectation. But I also can't help but think that the state of the art is better served by those who desire to be a part of the relationship as it is happening, who desire to ride the thermals and crosswinds rather than report on the weather.