Over the past 48 hours, the culture pages in England have been filled with reports which are all variants of the same story: “Walkouts abound at The Royal Shakespeare Company’s Marat/Sade.” I first spotted this on Sunday in The Daily Mail and since then, the BBC, The Guardian and The Telegraph, among many others, have all piled on.

Marat/Sade, while an acknowledged modern classic, is a challenging work with content that surely doesn’t appeal to all audiences. So it shouldn’t really surprise anyone that a play about the Marquis de Sade might provoke squirming and even early exits; I suspect that Doug Wright’s Quills, also about de Sade’s incarceration at Charenton, sent some people fleeing from assorted theatres as well. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if artists involved in various productions of both of these plays see the odd hasty retreat as a sign that they’re succeeding, a badge of honor.

So whether the current press frenzy is a result of an opportunity to portray theatre as transgressive and dangerous during a time when arts support is already challenged, or if it’s a case of schadenfreude to see the fortunes of the august RSC brought into question, or if the show is in fact deeply off-putting – or simply not a good production – I really can’t say. But the reports have set tongues wagging on this side of the Atlantic as well, prompting online chat about whether it’s right to walk out of a show, whether anyone has personally walked out of a show, and so on.  As this seems to be snowballing, I cannot resist sharing a few thoughts and admissions.

Let me start by saying that I have worked on shows that have prompted audience walkouts – and I mean real walkouts, during the show, not politely at intermission. Off-hand, I recall people exiting mid-scene from two productions in particular at Hartford Stage: a 1986 production of Sam Shepard’s The Tooth of Crime and a 1990 interpretation of Büchner’s Woyzeck by director Richard Foreman (which ran, in total, only 70 minutes, but some folks just couldn’t wait to escape). As staff of an institution where I was, in part, responsible for drawing in audiences, this was troubling. But given the artistic choices, it was also inevitable; we did our utmost to prepare the audience for what they would be experiencing before they went in, and then had to let the chips fall where they may.

I consider the mid-scene walk out to be a very strong statement; it is at best impolite, at worst a middle finger thrust upwards at all involved (even if the director, designers, author and company leadership aren’t there to see it first-hand in most cases). During these plays, the people I saw leave made no attempt to do so surreptitiously; they haughtily stood and marched indignantly up the aisles, determined that others would register their statement. In one instance during Tooth of Crime, actor David Patrick Kelly (who was, coincidentally, also our Woyzeck), costumed with a pistol, paused the action as one couple left loudly and prominently – and leveled his weapon at their backs until they were completely gone, to the profound amusement of all who remained, which was the majority of the audience.

If we believe theatre to be a conversation with an audience, and at times a provocative or confrontational one, then perhaps the walk-out isn’t something to look down upon. It certainly beats staying and heckling the cast for material they did not create, but only take part in interpreting. It is perhaps the one opportunity the audience has to express displeasure during a performance, beyond stony silence (which can mean just about anything); theatre audiences do not have the outlet of booing, as opera seems to, but even then the “commentary” is reserved for curtain calls.

I have never walked out of a show mid-scene, or even between scenes, but I will confess to having quietly departed at intermission a few times over the years (never during my tenure at the American Theatre Wing, where such an action, if known, could have had repercussions in connection with The Tony Awards). But there have been times when the lure of television or bed have been stronger than the appeal of a second act, though I am not proud of this; in one case, I left because I was – for perhaps the only time in my life – offended on behalf of my religion and had no desire to watch it subjected to more ridicule. I have no doubt that had I willed myself to stay for some of those second acts, my ultimate opinion of the show concerned might have shifted, but at these times, I wasn’t patient enough to wait and see.

Was I taking the coward’s way out, rather than making a statement? I don’t think so, since every actor I’ve ever spoken with tells me how acutely aware they are, from the stage, of what goes on in the house. A full house in act one followed by one dotted with empty seats in act two speaks volumes. But I bet it’s preferable to audience members fidgeting in their seats, repeatedly checking their watches or glaring at their companions from time to time.

The problem with the walk-out, be it ostentatious or subtle, is that, as I alluded to earlier, it rarely reaches the people to whom the opinion is most properly expressed. They experience it, if at all, only through a stage manager or house manager’s report, and it is the house manager, box office personnel and even volunteer ushers who absorb the displeasure first-hand. Though it feels declarative as it happens, it is a fairly impotent act.

There is a corollary act, more acceptable but no less pointless: the withholding of applause at a curtain call. I have, as I know others have, at times been so miserable at a production that I am disinclined to applaud. But if it is the story, or the production concept which dismays me, withholding applause insults only the actors, who have just spent several hours telling me a story in the manner they’ve been asked to. I may feel better, but it is ineffective – the loss of my two hands hardly register in the overall decibel level of an ovation, nor does remaining seated while the rest of the audience rises to its feet visibly alter a standing horde.

I am not writing to endorse the walkout, since it is an expression of opinion that is misdirected and often falls on deaf ears. I feel for the actors in the current Marat/Sade, since surely they are giving their all, regardless of whether they in fact feel good about the show. But I cannot help but feel that a reduced audience is better than an actively hostile one.

What would I like people to take away from this? That sometimes a walkout is just a walkout, and it can be a sign of failure or even success. It really shouldn’t rise to the level of news coverage, let alone international attention, unless the audience is so decimated after the interval that half the crowd has fled, night after night after night. If you feel you must leave, at least wait for intermission, or if you must go sooner, a scene break. You owe that courtesy to the actors and your fellow audience members; remember, this is much more than changing a channel or stopping a film midstream at home. But if you really want to let the right people know what you think, write a letter or send an e-mail to the producer or company leadership; even tweets may never reach the decision makers.

No one should feel compelled to be miserable at the theatre. Leave if you must – that’s your right. But walk, don’t run.

This post originally appeared on the 2amtheatre website.

An exaggerated example of a blue-haired senior, via “Are You Being Served?”

I suspect that, for many working in the arts, the weekday matinee is no man’s land.

I’m not suggesting that we don’t operate them, or deal with them, but I do wonder the last time any of you have had occasion to attend one as a member of the audience. After all, we’re usually too busy working in the arts to go to a Wednesday matinee, and it’s probably something we instinctively avoid, given the opportunity.

Why? I suspect it is because of our ingrained aversion to the blue hairs.

Now don’t pretend you don’t know the term. We’ve all used it. I can’t even remember how long I’ve known it, or where I learned it. But for those who are in denial, “blue hairs” refers to the senior audience that frequents matinees, named for a hair coloring with a bluish tinge popular a long time ago. I suspect that even the blue hairs look disparagingly at blue hair, and that the term is vestigial of an earlier time. But it is, no matter how you slice it, a form of disparagement, not endearment.

Over the past couple of months, I have had the occasion to attend two weekday matinees: one in New York, one at a regional theatre; one in the company of a senior citizen in his 80s, one by myself. Because of the ingrained prejudices, I expected an audience of candy-wrapper-crinkling, hearing-aid-feedbacking, loudly-speaking-during-the-show-so-they-could-be-heard-by-everyone patrons.  Isn’t that your image?

Well I can report that none of the above were true, at least no more so than at any other performance I’ve attended lately. What did not happen, I should report, is that no one’s cell phone rang during the show, and certainly no one initiated or accepted a call at any time during the performance.

Now in some quarters, the weekday matinee is a thing of the past. The rise of the working woman in the 70s dissipated one of the core constituencies for these performances, leaving retirees and student groups (which makes for a fascinating mix when equally balanced, with revelatory post-show discussions). Many shows both commercial and non-profit opt for two-show days on Saturdays and Sundays in order to bypass the weekday matinee. But they persist – and so do their loyal audiences.

So why are these performances merely tolerated by those on the inside? Yes, it’s an audience that may be less computer and internet savvy than others; they still need to speak to a human being to buy their tickets. Yes, they may move more slowly than other audiences, but that’s a physical issue, not an intentional one. Is their pre-show chatter louder than some audiences? Sure, but that’s because hearing loss is a natural progression in our lives, not some voluntary game played by the old upon the young for sport.

My recent matinee attendance was eye-opening precisely because I haven’t had the experience in so very long (weekday matinees were staples of school vacations in high school and college, but that’s almost three decades ago) and because the experience was only marginally different than any other performance I ever attend (save, indeed, for the hair coloring, which tends to white, or baldness, where I fit right in). Adding to my sensitivity is the fact that I had, unusually for someone my age, cataract surgery on both eyes in May, and because my wife and I both suffer from chronic neck and shoulder pain which can make sitting in the theatre profoundly uncomfortable. And surely this is just a taste of things to come.

I have every intention of going to the theatre as long as I am able (perhaps another three or four decades if I’m lucky) and as I find myself poised between theatergoing novice and lifelong veteran, I know that I may someday be relegated to the ranks of the once blue-haired, perhaps by virtue of failing eyesight (making it difficult to drive or even be out at night), reliance on civic or private transportation when I can no longer drive myself, or even the tyranny of the early dinner schedule at an assisted living facility. But so long as I’m breathing and mobile, I’ll go to theatre.

Will I deserve anyone’s condescension, let alone scorn, at that point in my life? Surely not. Will my wide-ranging aesthetic suddenly lapse into “just wanting to be entertained,” causing me to seek less challenging work? I hope not, and I doubt it. Might I need a larger print program, or be challenged by steps, or even need audio amplification or audio described performances? It’s entirely possible, and I certainly hope they’ll be available to me without stigma.

I write of these issues because in this era of voluminous blogs about audience development and the cultivation of new audiences, our senior audience seems to be absent. Let me make absolutely clear: the necessity of finding new theatergoers and insuring the long-term health of the form is essential, as is arts education in our schools; nothing in this essay should suggest otherwise. But I fear that an important constituency is being largely ignored, at least in our rhetoric these days, and that we do so out of short-sightedness.

Those who attend our weekday matinees (and often make up a significant percentage of weekend matinee audiences as well) are the same people who have been attending and supporting theatre throughout their lives. They do not suddenly appear at our box offices at age 70 simply because they have nothing else to do, but rather because they value what we do. Indeed, they may have vast knowledge of theatrical work dating back a half-century or more. Instead of being vestiges themselves, they may in fact be untapped resources, not simply fans to be shunted into our volunteer usher or docent corps. And to be perfectly honest, if we have and continue to play meaningful roles in their lives, we may receive their support even after they can no longer sit in our seats.

While I suspect that those inside theatres are indulgent of their senior audiences even when such indulgence might drift into being patronizing, I see evidence of this arts ageism in my forays on the web. Not long ago, one Twitter wit asked where theatre today would be without Social Security, only to have another wag double down by making the jibe specific to a particular theatre here in New York. A British website focused on “A Younger Theatre” questioned the repertoire at one of that country’s subsidized theatres for one work which was deemed insufficiently appealing to, well, a younger audience. In Washington DC, discounting tickets for seniors (and students) is under investigation for being a discriminatory practice.

In the creation of art, we celebrate and support the new, the different, the challenging, the innovative. But let’s remember that it was ever thus, and the audience that frequents our matinees may have once been early supporters of the theatres they attend, or the audience for fringe theatre before even such a term was common, whether in Greenwich Village or Seattle.

As someone who has begun to mark my life by how many revivals I now see of work which I saw in its premiere, as I prepare to leave the demographic designated by ratings services and ad agencies as desirable, as I move from the era of weddings and births to, sadly, the era of funerals, theatre will remain my joy and my refuge, and I believe it should be that for every patron. We need to nurture and support all of our audiences for the many things that we can bring to them and they can bring to us, including standing by us when some would marginalize our importance and even our existence in an ever-changing economic and social reality.

Because, dammit, I expect theatre to be there for me in another quarter century, and whatever my falterings and failings, I want to be part of an audience, and not as a special interest to be tolerated. Or else I will truly be blue.

This post originally appeared on the 2amtheatre website.

They come, with startling regularity, on Monday and Tuesday each week. “The Grosses.” The Broadway League aggregates and releases the gross sales and attendance for every Broadway show on Monday afternoons (Tuesdays when there’s been a holiday), and a wide range of outlets dutifully report on the biggest hits, the biggest losers, and prognosticate on a show’s future based on their own analyses, some informed, some less so. For a few thousand people who work in professional theatre, this is valuable information  (I touched upon this earlier this year in another post, “Scoring“). For most people, however, The Grosses have become the new arbiter of quality, since a review runs but once, while The Grosses appear week in and week out.

The Grosses are followed, and sometimes preceded, by a bevy of press releases from individual shows announcing their most recent box office achievements: “Highest grossing week ever in x theatre,” “Highest grossing week for x show,” “Biggest one day box office gross at x theatre,” and so on. Because there is now an industry of websites and bloggers who regurgitate this information largely unremarked-upon, this has become the new currency of achievement on Broadway. “SRO” just doesn’t mean the same thing as “$$$.”

What no one stops to point out is that these ever-higher box office achievements are taking place with the same number of seats in each theatre, meaning only one thing: people are paying more and more for tickets, or records wouldn’t be set. Since the introduction of premium seats 10 years ago, the pace has accelerated; the ability of shows to put tickets at the TKTS booth at varying discount rates has also allowed seats to be filled more strategically, so shows with excess inventory at the last minute need not be bound to a 50% discount, but can use a sliding scale. Box office prices are not even fixed any longer; displayed on video screens in lobbies, I am told they can be adjusted a couple of times each week based on demand.

So the fact is, yes, Broadway is setting records, but it’s doing so by generating more money per seat, or in layman’s terms, raising prices. If you thought it odd when Broadway shows said they were playing to 101.6% of capacity (meaning they’re selling standing room), now we can marvel at how shows can gross hundreds of thousands of dollars more than their declared weekly potential.

Before you start shouting “Occupy Broadway” and running with your hastily but tastefully made signage to camp out in Shubert Alley, let’s take a breath.

The majority of productions on Broadway are commercial enterprises. Each show is its own corporation and it has a responsibility, like any business, to maximize its revenue. Famously, only one in five shows supposedly turns a profit; many of the limited runs on Broadway are fortunate to simply return their capitalization.  Finding investors is difficult, costs are escalating from a variety of sources (labor, advertising rates, etc.) and the entire business model is called into question by many. Can we blame producers for seeking to keep Broadway alive, and shouldn’t we accept that the hits need to be ever more remunerative in order to keep more investors interested in participating in Broadway shows and mitigating their losses elsewhere? I think these are all valid considerations and should not be ignored in favor of simple populist rhetoric.

But at what point do we reach, or have we passed, the tipping point where, to echo some of the Occupy Wall Street rhetoric, the top 1% of the country’s theatregoers can afford and secure 99% of the tickets, and every effort to popularize theatre and insure future audiences is negated by economic reality? Just as people have begun to ask about banks and brokerages, is it possibly unethical to make “too much money” with the arts, whether commercial or non-profit?

Yes, I know that many people don’t pay the “rack rate” for Broadway. There’s the aforementioned TKTS booth, the wide range of discounting practiced by all but the most successful shows, the $20 lotteries for front row seats held at 6 pm nightly in front of many theatres. Frankly, Broadway has developed a balkanized pricing system, with the hit shows charging ever higher amounts while shows with less broad-based appeal forced into a cycle of discounting from which they can rarely escape. But the rack rate keeps increasing, so even the discount seats increase in price.

I shouldn’t pick on Broadway alone, as recent news reports have indicated that premium pricing has infiltrated Off-Broadway, both commercial and non-profit. One New York non-profit that famously gives away tickets to several productions for free each year will also let you acquire reserved seats for a pre-set donation amount, perhaps the most pronounced example of price disparity that allows the “haves” to simply pay in advance for what others must seek out for free at the expense of considerable waiting time. Also, while Off-Broadway’s rack rate may be half of that on Broadway, the Broadway discounts equalize the prices – forcing Off-Broadway to then discount its own seats to a point where the production can’t meet its weekly costs, giving rise, in part, to the reduction in commercial activity Off-Broadway in recent years.

“Load management,” pioneered by the airlines, is the original term for what the arts now politely call “dynamic pricing” and it’s not just a New York phenomenon, as both presenting houses around the country and resident theatres attempt to maximize revenue, although perhaps in a less pronounced manner than what we’ve seen thus far in New York. In the case of airlines, they actually can control seating capacity by running greater or fewer flights on various routes, sometimes limiting seating to maximize the price per seat. Theatre doesn’t have this option, but even as one who years ago pondered how to adopt load management at a not-for-profit, I now look to the public’s low opinion of airlines and air travel and worry that the arts could drive themselves into a similarly unpopular consensus. To top things off, this comes at a time when a recent report has informed us that charitable giving to the arts disproportionately benefits the upper echelons of arts audiences.

There is a theatrical ecosystem and it includes professional theatres from small communities to Broadway; I am sure the same is true for symphonies, museums and all of the arts as well. There is absolutely a case of trickle-down economics, but not in any positive way: it is the negative of the upward price and expense cycle that rolls downhill to everyone’s detriment, but most especially to undermine everyone’s supposed shared goal of attracting new audiences and introducing future generations to the arts, if not out of altruism, then out of self-preservation.

Do we need a movement? Perhaps not yet. But do we need pronounced change we can believe in when it comes to access and pricing for the arts? Absolutely. Otherwise, things will just get grosser.

This post originally appeared on the 2amtheatre website.

Tweets, blogs and other manners of Internet posting have been aflame since this morning, when Charles Isherwood of The New York Times declared online that he wished to forego having to review any further plays by Adam Rapp.  In the ensuing hours, Isherwood has been chastised for the tone of his piece and for seemingly abandoning his post as a major theatre critic with regard to this particular playwright.  I have a number of reactions and would like to tease out the separate strands of this decidedly inside-theatre story.

First, I would like to praise Charles for his honesty. He is willing to admit that he  simply does not connect with Adam’s work after seeing a great deal of it. He wishes to recuse himself from offering his opinion publicly any longer, believing that it would be better for him and, he suspects, for Adam. I praise Charles in this because he could continue to bash the prolific Rapp endlessly, which does them both a disservice. Christopher Durang has spoken of how he could never get a good review from Frank Rich during the latter’s tenure. While I take Chris at his word and have not done my own assessment of those reviews, it’s pretty clear that Durang would have welcomed such a recusal all those years ago.

I might feel differently about this if New York was a one-newspaper town, or if Charles were the Times’ only theatre critic. Especially if the latter case prevailed, such a recusal could be tantamount to ignoring the work of a playwright and the theatres that produce him, but The Times does have the resources, either staff or freelance, to insure that Adam’s work will still be covered.

That said, I don’t believe that Charles should be relieved of the responsibility of seeing Adam’s plays. If he is to remain an authoritative voice on theatre in this city, or nationally, he cannot be excused from remaining knowledgeable about any playwright who so many feel is talented and worthy. When working critics get to selectively cease learning about and understanding new work, they are not recusing themselves, but abdicating. Whether they write about it is another story, no pun intended.

I have no idea what Adam may feel about today’s piece by Charles, although others have been quick to cite his own  past comments and writing about critics, both pro and con. I doubt that any of those statements precipitated this action, and frankly value the idea that artists can speak freely about the impact of critics upon their work. Too many shy away, ceding the conversation wholly to the media, and theatre is, after all, about dialogue. Unfortunately, personal reactions to being reviewed  negatively often makes it impossible for any such dialogue to be productive.

What does trouble me greatly about today’s “Theater Talkback” is the way in which The Times has milked this issue for attention. What should have been an internal discussion between journalist and editor(s) has been instead brought out in public precisely to generate the kind of brouhaha that quickly ensued in admittedly narrow circles (and to which I now add my own voice sustaining it, dammit). Having just panned Adam’s newest play, the most recent in a long line of negative reviews, why did Charles feel the need – and why was he afforded the opportunity – to air his negative opinions yet again, especially when he suggests his editor will not necessarily allow him to do as he wishes? Why, if permitted, couldn’t he have simply stopped reviewing Adam’s shows and, if some overzealous press agent questioned it in the future, been told that theTimes’ assignment policies are its own business (as I so often was told in my press agent days).

In the wake of the Porgy and Bess imbroglio, which the paper exploited by releasing Stephen Sondheim’s letter to them days before it saw print, has the Times decided that this level of debate should be promoted, in order to drive readership, whether online or off? Must they be sending tweets repeatedly urging people to read not only Charles’ piece, as well as the many responses to it? I cannot help but feel that this is a form of intellectual hucksterism that ill suits the Times and does the theatre no good.  At the core of the issue is a worthwhile discussion, but so long as it comes at the potential expense of a specific artist’s reputation, it is a case of power being wielded unfairly. Names did not need to be named, and people could have inferred what they wished, guessing at the artist or artists in question.

In smaller towns, or one newspaper cities, theatres can be subject to the singular opinion of a particular critics writing for the only major media outlet that covers theatre. That influence can be wielded for decades at a time, outlasting playwrights and artistic leadership. Energies should be expended addressing how to remedy that monopolization, not debating the pros and cons of one critic at an outlet with multiple voices, in a city with many critics, who admits he just doesn’t share one playwright’s aesthetic.

P.S. Since it’s on my mind, for further debate about criticism unrelated to the specifics of the above, let’s also focus our energies on the ongoing issue of why theatre criticism remains dominated by white males, when gender and racial diversity would give rise, presumably, to more diverse theatre. To be continued.

This post originally appeared on the 2amtheatre website.

“Everyone,” I wrote in a tweet to promote my previous blog post, “enjoys a good blurbing now and again.” Although I didn’t mind if someone read some perverse double entendre into “blurbing,” it was neither euphemism nor metaphor. I was referring to the time-honored and oft-criticized practice of skillfully extracting positive phrases from arts reportage or critique in order to employ them in service of marketing a show. As a former “flack” (if we’re going with slang, I’m going all the way), I gave good blurb; it was part of my job. When I left Hartford Stage, the graphic designer who did our print ads presented me with a framed “Ellipsis Award,” for the most skillful use of those three dots, which could cover a multitude of sins and through which one could, if they chose, drive a figurative truck.

I have not personally practiced the dark arts of blurbing, nor craftily employed the ellipsis, professionally for almost 20 years. Yet just as many came before me, others have followed, and publicists and marketers still employ “pull quotes” for press releases, ads, brochures, and the like with skill and abandon, all to pull in the rubes (that’s carny slang for marketing).

I have watched the quotes themselves grow larger as attributions grow smaller; in some cases ads are designed to appear as if the uniformly glowing words at the top are quotes, when in fact they carry neither the necessary punctuation or any source. The pinnacle (or nadir) of this practice came when a Hollywood studio was revealed to have invented both a critic and a press outlet solely for the purpose of manufacturing positive blurbs.

Several decades ago, those of us inside Hartford Stage would have philosophical discussions about the use of blurbs, as well as my artful insertion of ellipses that turned positive words into enthusiastic ones. Wouldn’t the people who saw the ads realize the quote had been subtly manipulated? No, we decided, since no one was likely to have saved the original copy  (remember, pre-internet). Wasn’t the ellipsis itself tipping people off? No, because frankly most people didn’t study them them as we did (and besides, to use an excuse popular in so many situations, everyone else was doing it). Wasn’t using quotes reinforcing the importance of critics, when we wanted audiences to decide for themselves?

To that last question, the answer, to our own chagrin, was yes. We were emphasizing critical opinion for our marketing needs. We had to. Why? Well here it is again: because everyone else was. Blurbs, pull quotes, what have you – they were a necessity. We believed that if a show had opened and we couldn’t feature at last one positive quote from a prominent media outlet in our advertising, the audience would be convinced the show was a dog. Even after the show had closed, we used those blurbs again: in subscription brochures, in grant applications, in annual reports. Blurbs were crack and we were hooked.

25 years later, little has changed, even if the media has. Despite the ability of anyone with a computer to locate a complete review, blurbs, be they accurate or artful, proliferate. The brevity of Twitter facilitates such practice. Even though the original context can be quickly recalled on Google, we still cling to quotes in our marketing, embracing reviews even as (and thus was also always the case) we often vilify the source, namely the critic.

This paradox is at the center of arts marketing. We do everything we can to make our productions critic-proof, yet we throw our arms wide open the moment a critic, any critic, praises the work.  If we bitch about critical power, why do we reinforce it? In brainstorming sessions, over drinks, we dream of cutting the cord, going cold turkey and abandoning quotes in our ads, but we can’t do it. We need our fix and seem convinced that our audiences do as well. As subscription rates have, overall, declined, blurb-laden ads are perhaps more needed (we think) than ever, since single ticket sales have reasserted themselves in our economic models (as they have always done in the case of commercial work).

I will paraphrase the producer Kevin McCollum here, only because I’m not positive I recall this comment precisely: “We are the only business that decides what to do tomorrow based on how we did it yesterday.” And indeed, we in the age of the internet deploy blurbs just as they were used by hucksters a century ago, locked in a perpetual cycle of believing that outside affirmation is the best, and perhaps only, means of assigning value to our work in order to lure audiences.

I’m not raising the paradox to pan critics; in fact I think we must do all we can to insure that full-length reviews written with intelligence and care remain part of the arts landscape. However, the attention span of both editors and consumers seem to favor ever briefer consideration of the arts – which are then further reduced to a ranking of so many stars on a scale, or a subjective, simplistic thumbs up/thumbs down summary by third party aggregators. Arts writing is coming to us pre-blurbed.

In a world of new and ever-evolving media, we are mired in an archaic marketing technique which has, to my knowledge, no empirical proof that it even works. Blurb if you must, but can’t we do better? Or are we just a …. bunch of … addicts?

This post originally appeared on the 2amtheatre website.