Stars! Huh! Good God! What are they good for? Absolutely nothing…?
As a critic, I’m not a fan of the star rating system.
I think it’s trivialising and absurd to mark a piece of culture out of five. You wouldn’t do it with a view of the ocean, or a friendship, or a memory. So why do it with the expression of a creative sensibility?
What’s more, I think criticism should be about description and argument, not judgment – engaging in a conversation, not handing down a verdict.
So that’s why I don’t use star ratings on this blog.
All the same, I recognise that star ratings – like many absurd things in this world, from Pop Tarts to royal families – exist and have their uses.
Like awards, stars are a form of promotional capital – gold stickers that critics (and others) can bestow upon a piece of culture and help people know about it, whether or not those people engage with actual critical description and argument.
And as a matter of practicality, I do give star ratings when writing for publications that use them as standard. I’m a freelance writer and my feelings on the subject aren’t strong enough to make me to pass up a good gig.
Reviewing for the Scotsman during the Edinburgh Fringe is a good gig – as was reviewing for Time Out London when I did that. Both titles use star ratings, so I have dished out hundreds if not thousands of them in my time.
And while I think the star-rating system is absurd in itself, I take awarding them seriously because I know a high or low star rating from a major publication can have a real effect on a show’s fortunes, as well as the feelings of its creators.
Neither of those things is my responsibility – critics aren’t publicists or parents – but nor would I like to do thoughtless harm.
This year I covered 36 shows for the Scotsman, with an average star rating of 3.2. (I also saw a bunch of shows I didn’t review for the Scotsman so they have no star rating to factor into the calculation.)
Early in this year’s festival, a cabaret performer asked me how she could get five stars for her show. No one’s ever asked me that point blank before, and I thought it was a good question.
It’s another way of asking: what makes a truly exceptional cabaret show?
That’s different from asking what makes a truly exceptional play, or stand-up gig, or film. Each form has its own parameters and should be considered accordingly.
So I came up with five questions specific to my understanding cabaret – a formula for a five-star show. If I answer yes to all five questions, you show gets five stars. Simple.
So, here they are:
1. Do I believe you?
Cabaret is all about the distinctive expression of a unique individual sensibility, and your ability to communicate that sensibility directly to an audience. Cabaret has fewer resources and less mainstream credibility than other art forms – but it has more freedom. You can choose more or less whatever you want in terms of content and form, from music to burlesque to circus to drag to magic to storytelling and beyond. But your basic job it to weave a connection between yourself on the stage and us in the audience, so it’s absolutely vital that what you do comes from the heart – that you’re personally invested in whatever it is you’re giving us. Mere technical excellence doesn’t count for much if we don’t believe you mean it.
2. Are you on your game?
That said, technical prowess is extremely important. Whichever of the diverse forms of cabaret you choose, there should be a good reason you’ve chosen it. Why is that the best vehicle for expressing your distinctive sensibility and conveying the subject at hand? And, having chosen it, you need to be able to do it with confidence, originality and excellence. It can be pretty cringey watching a performer who can’t sing labour through a song, or one who hasn’t bothered to write any patter fumble from one part of the show to the next. And do try to make sure your tech is up to scratch: rough around the edges isn’t the end of the world but we need to be able to see and hear you.
3. Do you want it to be a good date?
The technical side of things should be a means to an end, not the end itself. At its heart, cabaret isn’t about showing off your skills, and it’s certainly not about going through the motions. It’s about the exchange of energy between performer and audience – the conversation, the flirtation, the conspiracy. This could involve anything from relaxed, assured stage patter that genuinely connects with the room to full-on audience participation. The choice, and the responsibility for making sure it goes well, is yours. It’s as if by putting on a cabaret show, you’ve invited your audience on a date. And, as on a romantic date, you might be incredibly skilled and passionate about what you do, but if you don’t care about making a meaningful connection with us, the encounter won’t lead to love. (Here are some tips on how not to screw up audience participation in a cabaret show.)
4. Are your politics cool?
I don’t mean who you vote for. Partly, I mean the contents of your material – if you’re trafficking in lazy bigotry (misogyny, homophobia, racism) or other forms of punching down (targeting those with less power than yourself), I’m unlikely to be impressed. (Is it “just a joke”? Then think of some better jokes.) But mostly, I mean the politics embedded in cabaret as a form – the sense of the room as a microcosm for the world and the potential that can be unleashed by encouraging all of us within it to empathise and collaborate with one another, letting us leave feeling a bit more connected than when we walked in. That won’t happen if you’re making fun of people or singling them out for humiliation.
5. Do you transport me?
Now, this is the biggie, and it doesn’t happen very often. For a show to get five stars, it has to really transport me – make me forget that I’m sitting in that particular venue on that particular night watching a show, and take me somewhere else altogether. That might be deep inside the performer’s thoughtworld, drawing us inside their head and heart in a way that makes us feel we see things through different eyes. Or it might be about creating such sheer, ecstatic joy that we lose track of the outside world. Or, best of all, it might be a glimpse of utopia – a sense that a new micro-community has been formed out of the people in that room on that night all working together to create something none of us could do alone – a way of being with each other that has its own rules – a way that is different from outside normality, and better – a way that we all feel we have a stake in, that makes us feel more connected to one another and closer to beauty, truth and love.
No pressure, then.
So, that’s how I decide whether to give a cabaret show five stars. I hope it might provide a bit of food for thought for some performers as they think about their next show.
And if you think I’m wrong, ignore me and do it your way.
Stars don’t belong to anyone.
