How I approach a Review | July 14, 2025

I’ve been reviewing plays for just over three years now. In that time, I’ve seen a lot, written a lot, and thought even more. What follows isn’t a comprehensive manifesto. It’s not advice, either. Think of it as a semi-organized scatterplot of thoughts I’ve collected while watching theatre with a pen in my hand.

More Theatre = Better Artist

There’s this author (whose work doesn’t impress me, so I won’t name them) who once said, “Reading is like ketchup. It’s nice, but not really necessary.” Weird thing to say about reading—doubly so from a writer.

I think about that quote when I see plays. A theatre maker who doesn't see plays isn't becoming a better theatre maker. I relate a lot to this video from Don Cheadle in this way.  Because to me, seeing theatre is absolutely necessary. It’s how I learn. I steal constantly—clever staging, brilliant character choices, emotional beats that hit. I also find myself thinking, “Oof, I wish they had fixed that.” But even that’s a gift. Seeing a glaring mistake is a warning to my future ar making. Watching the theatre others have made makes me a better artist, plain and simple.

Reviewing vs. Watching

Watching a show with a notebook is fundamentally different from watching without. I’m not saying I turn my brain off when I’m not reviewing—but I absolutely use a different part of it. As an audience member without a pen in hand, there's a lot that goes unnoticed in the best way. I'm not focused on dropped lines, missed cues, or technical choices. I'm only interested in how it impacts me. It's funny. As a director, I try to think "how will the audience respond to this?" As a reviewer, I think, "What did these artists do, and how will people respond do that? How are they responding around me right now?" As an audience member, I just think "how is this impacting me?"

What a Good Review Needs

Every review I write has a few non-negotiables:

You always have to talk about the lead actor(s). If you don't write about them, it usually says more than if you DO. So even when it's critical, it's best to say what happened. If I see Phantom and don't write about the Phantom, then at best he was forgettable. 

I write about the director as much as I can. It's hard to know exactly what is on them, but their fingerprints are on things like design unity, pacing, tableaus, broad character interpretation and so forth. This is an especially valuable tool at smaller venues where you can pin acting failures or director issues on directors. Directors are strong. They can take it. And if they can't, maybe open the chair to someone who can. 

Reviews should talk about at least two design elements. Maybe a venue doesn't have much to work with. That doesn't mean trash their limited resources. Just talk about the choices made and what worked (or didn't!). Even the choice to do a bare light in stage black with no props is a choice. So what is it saying?

If it’s a new script, I talk about the writing. If something major happened—an electrical outage, an understudy going on, a cultural event—context matters. And of course, opinions need evidence. Always.

I also try to say who would like the show. Even if the only person who might enjoy it is the mother of the stage manager…that’s still useful information.

Where I Like to Sit

If you haven’t seen a show outdoors lately—you really, really, really, really should. I love Blackbox spaces, oddball venues, and anything that breaks the rules of traditional staging. That’s where the magic often hides. I try to not talk too much about things a venue can no longer control (one venue has asked me to stop writing about their sightlines in a relatively new space!), and the best directed shows play to every part of the venue.

Scaling the Review

I’ve taught theatre to toddlers, teens, adults, and university students. When I review, I scale to the context. I don’t gush about community theatre because I think it’s ready for a national tour—I gush because for a community theatre, it landed. If it goes beyond that, I usually say so. Expectations matter; and yeah, ticket price plays a role. If I paid $50 for a family ticket at SCERA, that’s a different expectation than a $150 ticket that I want to be as good as a day at Disneyland. My tickets are free as a reviewer (for which I'm ever grateful), but I write knowing they aren't for my readers. 

Being a Gracious Guest

I always approach a review knowing that I'm their guest. I try to show up plenty early. I talk to the people around me. I aim to be neat in my appearance and respectful to volunteers and staff. There's no show without them, and they are the unsung heroes of every single performance world wide. And I save my discussion of the show for after I have started the car on my way home. Gush or gasp, they deserve respect. I always applaud (with varying levels of enthusiasm), and I recognize that the joy of live theatre is that it happens in real time. Sometimes I'm wrong, too.

Not every venue invites reviews. Not every artist is open to interpretation or judgement of their art (good luck with that). And I have absolutely edited reviews or content after when there was a legitimate reason to. The age of the critic who weaponizes their pen to destroy a career is over, and good riddance. My job as a reviewer is to be a canary in a coal mine seeing how good the show is, and to take an unbiased view of that work back to the people who are paying to see it as well as the people who want to know what their performance reflected on that night.