"Hey, the hangman says I have a nice neck!" Or: why people in glass houses probably shouldn't get stoned.
My short, sweet review of Love Song -- John Kolvenbach's short, sweet play -- is in today's Herald Sun. (Page 81!) It's something of a rave review of the MTC's production, which opened on Wednesday night. And a well-earned rave, I reckon.
Now, I'm reluctant to use the expression "writer's block" in relation to reviewing which, at its very very best, is not much more than a creative response to someone else's creativity... and therefore relatively bloody easy... but rave reviews are the hardest to write. For me at least.
Not (just) because we critics fear overpraising more than anything. More because it's harder to be convincing when you're being nice. Accuracy, in praise, is everything.
All up, Love Song is only 90 minutes stage traffic. It's performed, here, in two halves. For once that isn't (necessarily) a mistake. There's a bit of a gear change and the second half starts with such focus and intensity there isn't the usual lag while the Drumsticked-up audience refocusses its attention.
Prolix. Prolix. Nothing a pair of scissors can't fix... as Mister Cave sings on his newie, Dig!!! Lazarus, Dig!!!
On my way home at the ridiculously early hour of ten, I knew I was in for a long night. Not blocked, but knowing that my reviewing Rain Dance couldn't be rushed. Rather like this prolix little post. But nine hours to review ninety minutes? Jeez, Loueeeez!
I took my time. Bought some groceries. Listened to LNL. (Was that the Peter Singer night?) I made myself a meal. Goodie. (I've been having a culinary affair... I improvised a puttanesca sauce a few days ago and I'm at the limerance stage. "Can we see each other two nights in a row? What about three? God, I love you!")
Midnight. Fired up the beast. Wrote the top and tail of the review. Dates, place, names, company.
Bought 'Head and Heart' from iTunes. (I've been reading Martin Amis... Bonus points for anyone who can connect Martin Amis with John Martyn.)
Rescued two cats from my roof pre-dawn. (I had to clamber on the bourge mobile to do it.) (Yes, the one with the CAT plates, appositely.) If they get up there again, I swear to god, I'll hose them! I don't care about the goddamn 3a water restrictions!
It was 5:35 am when I wrote my first usable word. Two and a bit hours later I filed my review... before my self-imposed 8 am deadline.
And it's one of the shortest reviews I've ever written. Ahem! Short, as I say, but sweet. Focussed.
Twenty years ago -- twenty-one years ago to be precise -- when the count of my published reviews was still in single digits [or, er, digit? -- Ed.] (now, I'm very well advanced on the whole fist of digits!) I had to write my first rave review. It was the premiere production, at La Mama, of Phil Motherwell's Fitzroy Crossing which starred Gina Riley, from memory, as a Chrissie Amphlett fantasy grrrl.
I had a very tight deadline. I'd taken home a computer from work -- a boxy first gen Macintosh (does anyone remember acoustic couplers?!) which hummed at me expectantly like an IBM golf-ball typewriter... taunting me to bang something on the keyboard and stop boring it -- and I sat blankly in front of its white screen like a zombie.
I'm actually quite proud of the fact that I've never (what, never?) started a review in the Fiona Scott-Norman "every so often something comes around" style. But, bloody hell, it's tempting.
La Mama wasn't quite 21 years old when Fitzroy Crossing opened there. And my review -- or parts thereof -- scraped into a publication marking and celebrating La Mama's first 21 years. That book, serendipitously, turned out to be the first book I was ever asked to review.
And there I was... quoted in it.
Stop. Right now. If you're thinking this is about self-aggrandisement. The bit they quoted had a grammatical error. Well, at best it was a grammatical 'infelicity'. But, praise is praise, however clumsy and ugly, right? As long as it's accurate.
Yes. Well.
Critics love being quoted. You know... "'An unmitigated disaster' -- A. Croggon." That kind of thing.
While my name is not taken "in vanity", there are two press releases currently doing the rounds that refer to reviews of mine. The first is of Kit Lazaroo's play Asylum, which I reviewed in its first season at Headquarters, last year. The release reads: "At every level, the execution of the play is first rate. Sometimes clever, sometimes truly inspired."
You can guess, I reckon, what the next word is. Go on.
[...]
You've got it. It's a "but". A big capital-But as a matter of fact.
No matter. The Press Relief (sic) that really gets up my nose -- and it's something that I get from the Australian Ballet all the time -- is the one that refers to my review of Graeme Murphy's Swan Lake, which is having Yet Another return season in Melbourne this month with Sydney to follow.
I wrote one of my raviest-of-all-time rave reviews of the premiere, in 2002, for the Financial Review. It's a tad over a thousand words of raving in fact.
Here's a snippet:
Okay. That's not really a sound bite, is it... But how about this:
Still no? This:
Orright, they're not exactly lending themselves to Broadway-style up-in-lights repro are they?
But WHERE THE FUCK (excuse me) do they get this bilge water from?
I would ritually disembowel myself before using several of those words and expressions. I don't believe I have used the word 'gem' since the late 20th century... unless it was between a pair of double quotes and was hyphenated with a "-like", as in burn with a gem-like flame...
The words brilliant, imbued, well-loved, freshness, relevance and must-see do not appear in my review.
I mean, ICK!!!!
As Nicholas Pickard has discovered to his chagrin, anything that's on the page (or on any nearby page) with your review -- even if it's a photo caption written by a sub-aqua-headed work-experience boy suffering an E-over -- is fair game.
What I take exception to, however, is that the above 'quote' (ick, again!) appears in various press releases (here's one) under the heading: WHAT THE CRITIC'S SAID.
I assume, given the catastrophic apostrophe, that this is some kind of exclamation similar to something my nephew was saying when he was three... You know: "What the..." And that "critic's said" is akin to "Holy See" or "What the Philip Ruddock were you thinking?"
There. I'm almost done with my venting.
My most humiliating -- therefore most funny -- quoted review wasn't actually the Fitzroy Crossing one. It was a review of a Handspan show called Banquet.
Now, there were some serious layout problems in that particular edition of The Melbourne Times, and they all centred on (on, not around! LOL!) my review. Again, we're talking late 1980s, so think archaic computer equipment and software. But the three columns of my review were printed in random order. The proofreader? subeditor? intern? dickwad? noticed that there was a problem. The fix? Making sure that the end of the previous column segued relatively cleanly into the start of the next column. It was cosmetic surgery by The Simpsons' favourite quack, Doctor Nick.
I was mortified.
But, bless, Handspan intuited that there was a rave review in it, somewhere, and quoted it often -- and hugely. Banquet, the press adverts screamed, is a feast for the senses. (In my defence, that was much less of a hoary old cliche in the 1980s that it has become today.)
For those of you who have been patient and forbearing enough to read this far... here's the opening par (or so) of my review in today's paper:
The Melbourne Theatre Company's production of Love Song is at the Fairfax Studio, The Arts Centre, until April 19.
Phil Motherwell has some short plays at Headquarters, La Mama in Carlton, from Wednesday 12th. (Also on March 12, Philip Maxwell Ruddock turns 64... time to get the fuck out of our lives, Pip. You know: Pip, pip... ho!)
Graeme Murphy's Swan Lake is at the State Theatre, Melbourne, from March 14. Then the Sydney Opera House from April 4. (Both seasons will sell out, so book early and often!) Or see it at the Théâtre Du Châtelet in Paris in October! (Or The Lowry, in Manchester, if you're slumming.) (Joke, K?)
Dig!!! Lazarus, Dig!!! is out now. And is, IMHO, one of Nick Cave's most lacklustre releases ever. The first par from my up-coming review:
Gosh I'm a bitch.
Prolix, prolix...
Now, I'm reluctant to use the expression "writer's block" in relation to reviewing which, at its very very best, is not much more than a creative response to someone else's creativity... and therefore relatively bloody easy... but rave reviews are the hardest to write. For me at least.
Not (just) because we critics fear overpraising more than anything. More because it's harder to be convincing when you're being nice. Accuracy, in praise, is everything.
All up, Love Song is only 90 minutes stage traffic. It's performed, here, in two halves. For once that isn't (necessarily) a mistake. There's a bit of a gear change and the second half starts with such focus and intensity there isn't the usual lag while the Drumsticked-up audience refocusses its attention.
Prolix. Prolix. Nothing a pair of scissors can't fix... as Mister Cave sings on his newie, Dig!!! Lazarus, Dig!!!
On my way home at the ridiculously early hour of ten, I knew I was in for a long night. Not blocked, but knowing that my reviewing Rain Dance couldn't be rushed. Rather like this prolix little post. But nine hours to review ninety minutes? Jeez, Loueeeez!
I took my time. Bought some groceries. Listened to LNL. (Was that the Peter Singer night?) I made myself a meal. Goodie. (I've been having a culinary affair... I improvised a puttanesca sauce a few days ago and I'm at the limerance stage. "Can we see each other two nights in a row? What about three? God, I love you!")
Midnight. Fired up the beast. Wrote the top and tail of the review. Dates, place, names, company.
Bought 'Head and Heart' from iTunes. (I've been reading Martin Amis... Bonus points for anyone who can connect Martin Amis with John Martyn.)
Rescued two cats from my roof pre-dawn. (I had to clamber on the bourge mobile to do it.) (Yes, the one with the CAT plates, appositely.) If they get up there again, I swear to god, I'll hose them! I don't care about the goddamn 3a water restrictions!
It was 5:35 am when I wrote my first usable word. Two and a bit hours later I filed my review... before my self-imposed 8 am deadline.
And it's one of the shortest reviews I've ever written. Ahem! Short, as I say, but sweet. Focussed.
Twenty years ago -- twenty-one years ago to be precise -- when the count of my published reviews was still in single digits [or, er, digit? -- Ed.] (now, I'm very well advanced on the whole fist of digits!) I had to write my first rave review. It was the premiere production, at La Mama, of Phil Motherwell's Fitzroy Crossing which starred Gina Riley, from memory, as a Chrissie Amphlett fantasy grrrl.
I had a very tight deadline. I'd taken home a computer from work -- a boxy first gen Macintosh (does anyone remember acoustic couplers?!) which hummed at me expectantly like an IBM golf-ball typewriter... taunting me to bang something on the keyboard and stop boring it -- and I sat blankly in front of its white screen like a zombie.
I'm actually quite proud of the fact that I've never (what, never?) started a review in the Fiona Scott-Norman "every so often something comes around" style. But, bloody hell, it's tempting.
La Mama wasn't quite 21 years old when Fitzroy Crossing opened there. And my review -- or parts thereof -- scraped into a publication marking and celebrating La Mama's first 21 years. That book, serendipitously, turned out to be the first book I was ever asked to review.
And there I was... quoted in it.
Stop. Right now. If you're thinking this is about self-aggrandisement. The bit they quoted had a grammatical error. Well, at best it was a grammatical 'infelicity'. But, praise is praise, however clumsy and ugly, right? As long as it's accurate.
Yes. Well.
Critics love being quoted. You know... "'An unmitigated disaster' -- A. Croggon." That kind of thing.
While my name is not taken "in vanity", there are two press releases currently doing the rounds that refer to reviews of mine. The first is of Kit Lazaroo's play Asylum, which I reviewed in its first season at Headquarters, last year. The release reads: "At every level, the execution of the play is first rate. Sometimes clever, sometimes truly inspired."
You can guess, I reckon, what the next word is. Go on.
[...]
You've got it. It's a "but". A big capital-But as a matter of fact.
No matter. The Press Relief (sic) that really gets up my nose -- and it's something that I get from the Australian Ballet all the time -- is the one that refers to my review of Graeme Murphy's Swan Lake, which is having Yet Another return season in Melbourne this month with Sydney to follow.
I wrote one of my raviest-of-all-time rave reviews of the premiere, in 2002, for the Financial Review. It's a tad over a thousand words of raving in fact.
Here's a snippet:
After a century and a quarter of balletic creationism, this Swan Lake is as revelatory -- and as revolutionary -- as science. Instead of blaming an evil genius (the Baron) for Siegfried's betrayal of Odette, Murphy boils the drama down to something simple but knotty; something that is both banal and infinitely fascinating; something all too familiar but utterly unknowable... a love triangle.
Okay. That's not really a sound bite, is it... But how about this:
The party scene would have to be one of the most dazzlingly and effortlessly sexy scenes in classical ballet.
Still no? This:
Murphy's choreography is as dazzling and clean as Fredrikson's hi-key Lake Geneva set.
Orright, they're not exactly lending themselves to Broadway-style up-in-lights repro are they?
But WHERE THE FUCK (excuse me) do they get this bilge water from?
"Graeme Murphy's brilliant take on Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake has imbued this well-loved classic with freshness and a relevance that make this gem of a production a must-see."
Australian Financial Review, 2002
I would ritually disembowel myself before using several of those words and expressions. I don't believe I have used the word 'gem' since the late 20th century... unless it was between a pair of double quotes and was hyphenated with a "-like", as in burn with a gem-like flame...
The words brilliant, imbued, well-loved, freshness, relevance and must-see do not appear in my review.
I mean, ICK!!!!
As Nicholas Pickard has discovered to his chagrin, anything that's on the page (or on any nearby page) with your review -- even if it's a photo caption written by a sub-aqua-headed work-experience boy suffering an E-over -- is fair game.
What I take exception to, however, is that the above 'quote' (ick, again!) appears in various press releases (here's one) under the heading: WHAT THE CRITIC'S SAID.
I assume, given the catastrophic apostrophe, that this is some kind of exclamation similar to something my nephew was saying when he was three... You know: "What the..." And that "critic's said" is akin to "Holy See" or "What the Philip Ruddock were you thinking?"
There. I'm almost done with my venting.
My most humiliating -- therefore most funny -- quoted review wasn't actually the Fitzroy Crossing one. It was a review of a Handspan show called Banquet.
Now, there were some serious layout problems in that particular edition of The Melbourne Times, and they all centred on (on, not around! LOL!) my review. Again, we're talking late 1980s, so think archaic computer equipment and software. But the three columns of my review were printed in random order. The proofreader? subeditor? intern? dickwad? noticed that there was a problem. The fix? Making sure that the end of the previous column segued relatively cleanly into the start of the next column. It was cosmetic surgery by The Simpsons' favourite quack, Doctor Nick.
I was mortified.
But, bless, Handspan intuited that there was a rave review in it, somewhere, and quoted it often -- and hugely. Banquet, the press adverts screamed, is a feast for the senses. (In my defence, that was much less of a hoary old cliche in the 1980s that it has become today.)
For those of you who have been patient and forbearing enough to read this far... here's the opening par (or so) of my review in today's paper:
They call it "suspension of disbelief." That's when you go to the theatre and have to work harder than the actors pretending you're watching something half-way real.
But occasionally -- all too rarely I have to say -- a crazy story will be presented with such confidence and ease, and belief on the part of the cast and crew, that audiences are powerless to resist. Not only is disbelief suspended, gravity is too.
This production of Love Song is a shining example of theatre that switches off the rules of the universe and takes its audience on a Leunig-like flight of fancy and fantasy. It's a miraculously weightless and romantic piece about a sad, lonely, messed-up, loveless man named Beane who dreams his way out of his life-long depression.
The Melbourne Theatre Company's production of Love Song is at the Fairfax Studio, The Arts Centre, until April 19.
Phil Motherwell has some short plays at Headquarters, La Mama in Carlton, from Wednesday 12th. (Also on March 12, Philip Maxwell Ruddock turns 64... time to get the fuck out of our lives, Pip. You know: Pip, pip... ho!)
Graeme Murphy's Swan Lake is at the State Theatre, Melbourne, from March 14. Then the Sydney Opera House from April 4. (Both seasons will sell out, so book early and often!) Or see it at the Théâtre Du Châtelet in Paris in October! (Or The Lowry, in Manchester, if you're slumming.) (Joke, K?)
Dig!!! Lazarus, Dig!!! is out now. And is, IMHO, one of Nick Cave's most lacklustre releases ever. The first par from my up-coming review:
There's a book's worth of poetry on The Bad Seeds' 15th studio CD but only about 20 minutes worth of okay music. Nick should have started saving up for the next "B-sides and rarities" release. This could have been a kick-arse EP rather than this long-winded and dreary set.
Gosh I'm a bitch.
Prolix, prolix...
posted by Chris Boyd at 6:57 AM
9 Comments:
Awesome, awesome.
I shall be looking for that freshly relevant gem in my program next Saturdee arvo.
Pre-Google ads, innit. What a bitch indeed. Great post, you do have a lovely neck, Chris, and you should show it off more often.
Har har, I got 'sux' in midst of the captcha.
Ha. Great read. More venting please.
"Prolix. Prolix. Nothing a pair of scissors can't fix..."
Hee! I adore you. And totally agree about the difficulty of raving without sounding, well, like a raving lunatic. So me, I just give up and go with the raving. But then I can afford to, can't I? *screws up her nobody face*
Most excellent point about the EP --- i've been thinking about that all day and am agreeing more every time --- although I am holding out hope that maybe mine ears might improve on Nick. Or vice versa. Or something. The excessive exclamation points really don't help. *shudders*
Also, argh, writers block Appropriately enough, I have no words to help. But I feel your pain!
Although, really, totally AWESOME bitchfesting, Chris! :p
I like that the post about rave reviews has resulted in a number of rave comments.
Of which this would be one, too, were I not by my nature so stubbornly contrarian.
Which is to say: Pathetic post, Boyd! Self-indulgent tripe! Etc., etc.
Ah, who am I kidding? My heart isn't in it. I want to rave with the rest of them.
I'm with quick (and Oliver and Barry Humphries): More Please.
Hey Chris, Adam Cass here... in terms of raves: since seeing Love Song I have been screaming 'see it! see it!' to everyone who crosses my path. I sat there on opening night seriously thinking all the way through, and becoming more and more convinced as it progressed, FAR OUT I'M GLAD I'M A PLAYWRIGHT!
Rave ends here.
I know. Rachel[?] sings Head and Heart in the film of The Rachel Papers.
We are living in a Head On-istic society! Well done. (And what took you all so bloody long?!)
She did sing it... and rather badly too. It's a yummy scene tho.
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