The Sordid Life of Theatre Critics

Or, when bad things happen to good critics

Photo: Billy Aboulkheir on Unsplash

Rosemary Waugh

The billboard press quotes. The three hour lunches. The close proximity to stars of stage and screen. The unparalleled wealth and social status. Everyone once had their reason for wanting to become a theatre critic (mine, since you asked, was because I imagined looking really good sat at a typewriter while stroking a dachshund in my black-and-white author photo). But the reality of pursuing a career as a theatrical hack is – shockingly – often a little different. From worrying about a possible UTI while shivering on the platform at Stratford-upon-Avon to crying big, hungover tears as you slowly trudge across the Meadows for one more day living the dream at the Fringe, the lived experience of the nation’s best performing arts critics often involves some less-than-glamorous moments.

So in the interest of full transparency, I invite you, my dear colleagues, to share your most memorable “Why the hell didn’t I get a proper job?!” moments. Oh, come on, it will be (our favourite word) cathartic – I promise.

Here’s mine:

The freelancer lifestyle doesn’t really accommodate sick days. And neither does a stoic British sensibility (especially not in the pre-Covid days). So when I found myself with a mild cough/borderline TB, I didn’t think: “Time to head home for a cup of Manuka honey and an early night.” I thought: “I reckon I can still make it to the Arcola to review. After all, I only have to sit and watch a play. That’s practically resting anyway.”

Unfortunately when I got there, I quickly realised this was not going to be the healing environment my ricocheting torso was asking for. No, it was a D. H. Lawrence play set in a coal mining village and this production was really going some to recreate that smoky, sooty, dusty atmosphere. Which made me cough. And cough. And then cough some more. So I panicked, because no one wants to be The Cougher. How lucky I felt when I remembered I had with me a whole bag of traditional menthol cough sweets to suck. How beautifully it worked – but only if I sucked them absolutely continuously one after the other for the entire (surprisingly long, or so it seemed) show.

I left the theatre, slightly coughy, a little bit high on pure glucose and an unknown blend of herbs, but alive and just one Overground and one Victoria line train away from my then-home in Walthamstow. Once there, I reached my front door, crashed on through it like a drunk, ran directly to the toilet and vomited up a great volcanic rush of black sludge caused by consuming approximately 79 of Jakeman’s Throat & Chest soothing menthol lozenges in quick succession. As I came to from the haze of this hideous bodily purging, I vividly recall one thought flickering into my head: And now I have to go write that fucking review. Flush the loo, Rosemary, and go and write.

Barzakh took place in a warehouse in Welwyn Garden City in 2019

Emily Jupp

The show was called Barzakh. Self-described as ‘The world’s most extreme art project’, it was one in a series of immersive art experiments by unhinged artist Sean Rogg. It was in an old, cold warehouse in Welwyn Garden City: there were a group of people ‘playing’ guards/torturers, who, after getting us to strip off and wear a shorts and sleeveless top, hosed us with cold water, and placed strategic pressure on our bodies to force us to kneel, crawl or face the wall. One smacked my head on the concrete. Another pushed into my knees to force me to the floor. But the worst thing was the custard.