Edinburgh diary: Who are these reviewers, then?

Without the deluge of daily reviews, the Edinburgh Festival would be very different. Nicky Woolf meets the people who write them.

The Edinburgh Festival revolves around performers and shows. Without them, there is no festival. But there is another gravitational well about which the punters also orbit: the reviewers, and there are no shortage of them.

The national newspapers send their correspondents, but there are also a great number of small independent publications that spring into life for the month of August, or specialise in covering fringe theatre: Fest, the Skinny, Fringe Review, Fringebiscuit, Fringe Guru, WhatsOnStage, Three Weeks and Broadway Baby to name but a few.

These publications rely almost entirely on volunteers for reviewers; many, perhaps most, are students; but almost all are essentially enthusiastic amateurs. Three Weeks and Broadway Baby are the most prolific, with more than a hundred such reviewers apiece.

I speak to Dan*, a former Broadway Baby reviewer who was working for the site two years ago. “There was no training, really,” he tells me. “They had a meeting, that was it. There was no vetting, and the standard of reviewing [on all these sites] vary. Some of them shove four or five stars on anything. There is a guy who does a look over the thing, but it's just basic sub-editing to make sure it's not offensive. Three Weeks, for example, has a bit of a reputation for being open to anyone who's written an article at university, or anyone who can nearly string a sentence together.”

Levi Bailey, the managing editor of Broadway Baby, does tell me that the site aims to “make sure [reviewers] are from a background where they've already been trained”, but nonetheless a quick glance across the review-sheets that the two big sites print daily will show some people who seem to be writing from a position of genre-bias, appear to have fallen in love with their own critical phraseology – a quick glance at today's reveals “being locked in the cabinet would have been more fun” – want to air their own theatrical theories (“I have always been of the opinion,” one particularly memorable review opened dictatorially, “that Shakespeare cannot be read but must be performed”), or are simply written with such poor attention to grammar, syntax and vocabulary that any theatrical judgement must be put in doubt simply by association.

“Another problem with a lot of the sites like Broadway Baby and Three Weeks are that a lot of them are trying to prove their writing flair, so they want to try out new things,” Dan tells me. “Everybody wants to be Will Self up here.”

Often, this all means there is little love lost between performers and reviewers. A bad review can dent a young production's chances of commercial success, while a good one can often guarantee it. Especially in the internet age where a young theatre company's Google rankings are as important as word-of-mouth recommendations, the power to make or break a show is a lot of responsibility to place in the hands of someone who is essentially an unqualified amateur.

Tom Eccleshare and Valentina Ceschi are the theatrical duo behind Captain Ko and the Planet of Rice, a beautiful but unusual production which has suffered at the hands of some reviewers. “Now I like mime,” a Broadway Baby review of their show opines, “but I do have an issue with a mime that lasts twenty minutes.” Thus are Tom and Valentina are afflicted by the reviewer's short attention span. Is this fair?

“We knew that the piece would be divisive, [but] we didn't find any bad reviews for a while and our sales were really good, so we thought maybe no news is good news,” Ceschi tells me. “Then we found them all at once. It was really upsetting. After a while, if you keep reading them there is a danger of believing what you read.”

“You're doing it every night and now you have those words in your head, and as soon as you hear somebody shuffling in the audience a voice in your head goes: 'ah, there you go. They were right.'”

On the other hand, the duo tell me, despite the critical hostility, their audiences have been positive – and large. “The thing with a bad review,” says Ceschi, “is people might not really see it. It's the good reviews that people are looking for. If the show has good word of mouth, and if the audience response has been positive, that's the most important thing. If you got 5-stars to whack on your poster it's going to be eye-catching, but there's a limit to the damage a bad review can do.”

A galaxy of stars is a real boost to a young company, however. By now, many shows will have had several reviewers in, and those that have been rewarded with good ratings will be sitting around diligently stapling printouts of those stars to their flyers and posters. But there is a lot of pressure on reviewers to give out good reviews. “People just aren't as careful with the star rating,” says Dan, “but it's the star ratings that sell shows. People put them on their flyers, but if everyone's got five stars, maybe they become valueless.”

Some shows are clearly worthy of the reviews that will adorn their posters by the end of the month. Others are doubtless less deserving of praise. But reviewing theatre is always an exercise in subjectivity, and because there are so many reviewers and so many publications at the Fringe there can be no real consistency; one reviewer may be in the habit of heaping praise but be measly with stars; others might give stars out like tic-tacs; others still might simply be prejudiced against a performance because the room is too hot. Sometimes a production just is unlucky.

Then again, the young critics are in a bind. Should they shy away from telling the truth in order to spare the feelings of strangers? Ultimately, a critic must reward and damn with as much fairness as they can muster, but this is very difficult without context and experience.

Tom Martin, editor of Twitter-based site Fringebiscuit, has also struggled with this process. “Because we're running a young writers' training scheme we try to engage with the thought process more. We want to make sure our writers are checking themselves.” At least three pairs of eyes see every review: the two editors and the reviewer. If a review doesn't ring true, or suffers from prejudicial bias, they will send it back to the writer. “It's about making sure that not only is the writer working on all cylinders, but the production is fairly represented. We want to make sure that they engage with it on fair terms. Of course, sometimes some productions just are really bad – but that's OK.”

“There have been some reviews for both shows,” says Eccleshare, “and not necessarily the more positive ones, that I've thought have really attempted to engage with the show, and make an intelligent response to it. [That's better], even if that's not necessarily positive.”

“Ultimately,” says Dan, “whether someone's had training as a reviewer or not, their opinion as an audience member will be just as valid.”

*name has been changed.

You should always read the reviews. Photograph: Getty Images

Nicky Woolf is a writer for the Guardian based in the US. He tweets @NickyWoolf.

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Why does food taste better when we Instagram it?

Delay leads to increased pleasure when you set up a perfect shot of your dinner.

Been on holiday? Take any snaps? Of course you did – but if you’re anything like me, your friends and family didn’t make it into many of them. Frankly, I can only hope that Mr Whippy and I will still be mates in sixty years, because I’m going to have an awful lot of pictures of him to look back on.

Once a decidedly niche pursuit, photographing food is now almost as popular as eating it, and if you thought that the habit was annoying at home, it is even worse when it intrudes on the sacred peace of a holiday. Buy an ice cream and you’ll find yourself alone with a cone as your companion rushes across a four-lane highway to capture his or hers against the azure sea. Reach for a chip before the bowl has been immortalised on social media and get your hand smacked for your trouble.

It’s a trend that sucks the joy out of every meal – unless, that is, you’re the one behind the camera. A new study published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology suggests that taking pictures of food enhances our pleasure in it. Diners at the food court of a farmers’ market in Philadelphia were asked either to photograph their meal or to eat “as you normally would”, then were questioned about how they found it. Those in the photography group reported that not only did they enjoy their meal more, but they were “significantly more immersed in the experience” of eating it.

This backs up evidence from previous studies, including one from this year in the Journal of Consumer Marketing, which found that participants who had been asked to photograph a red velvet cake – that bleeding behemoth of American overindulgence – later rated it as significantly tastier than those who had not.

Interestingly, taking a picture of a fruit salad had no effect on its perceived charms, but “when descriptive social norms regarding healthy eating [were] made salient”, photographing these healthier foods did lead to greater enjoyment. In other words, if you see lots of glossy, beautifully lit pictures of chia seed pudding on social media, you are more likely to believe that it’s edible, despite all the evidence to the contrary.
This may seem puzzling. After all, surely anything tastes better fresh from the kitchen rather than a protracted glamour shoot – runny yolks carefully split to capture that golden ooze, strips of bacon arranged just so atop plump hemispheres of avocado, pillowy burger buns posed to give a glimpse of meat beneath. It is hardly surprising that 95 million posts on Instagram, the photo-sharing site, proudly bear the hashtag #foodporn.

However, it is this delay that is apparently responsible for the increase in pleasure: the act of rearranging that parsley garnish, or moving the plate closer to the light, increases our anticipation of what we are about to eat, forcing us to consider how delicious it looks even as we forbid ourselves to take a bite until the perfect shot is in the bag. You could no doubt achieve the same heightened sense of satisfaction by saying grace before tucking in, but you would lose the gratification that comes from imagining other people ogling your grilled Ibizan sardines as they tuck in to an egg mayonnaise at their desk.

Bear in mind, though, that the food that is most successful on Instagram often has a freakish quality – lurid, rainbow-coloured bagel-croissant hybrids that look like something out of Frankenstein’s bakery are particularly popular at the moment – which may lead to some unwise menu choices in pursuit of online acclaim.

On the plus side, if a diet of giant burgers and salted-caramel lattes leaves you feeling queasy, take heart: if there is one thing that social media likes more than #avotoast, it is embarrassing oversharing. After a week of sickening ice-cream shots, a sickbed selfie is guaranteed to cheer up the rest of us. 

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser