Am I the bad guy? Dance criticism through the lens of classic horror

I’ve been thinking about what a dance critic is, because thanks to Springback Academy, I am pretending to be one. In the grip of imposter syndrome, I notice a recurring theme throughout Spring Forward Festival; several of the shows are horror-inflected (1 11 3 8 7 by Trevoga, to be possessed by Chara Kotsali and Bless the Sound that Saved a Witch like me by Benjamin Kahn). By strange coincidence, I find a local Darmstadt museum has curated an exhibition dedicated to ‘Tod und Teufel’ (Death and the Devil), and my experience of the Festival is bookended by startling images of classic fiends of the silver screen. I cannot escape a troubling thought: am I the bad guy? Is the critic just a horror-movie villain?

If the creative is the hero, fighting against the odds to make something worthwhile in the world, it seems an obvious choice to cast the critic, with our inherently judgemental role and occasionally brutal words, as a natural foil.

There is a fair case for comparing a dance critic to The Phantom of the Opera (before Andrew Lloyd Webber and Joel Schumacher got to him). Like Erik, as portrayed by Lon Chaney in the 1925 film adaptation, critics love a good theatre. And there are many places to hide in the 50,000 square-foot labyrinth of Staatstheater Darmstadt. We can be quite particular about our seats and are deeply obsessive and opinionated about our art form. Where we differ from Erik, is in his focus on the performer – although we like to highlight dancers that stand out, the choreographer usually commands more of our attention, though hopefully not to a lovelorn and murderous degree.

During our pre-festival writing workshop, Sanjoy Roy argued jokingly for the critic-as-vampire. He’s comparing our usual late-night hours, and of course, a parasitic relationship to dance. He also just quite likes vampires.

Applying a vampiric lens, I would add that criticism can feel powerful. Like Christopher Lee in Terence Fisher’s 1958 Dracula, you might fantasise that you have absolute command of the subject, utter self-assurance of your power over it, as you coil over a laptop, ready to sink your fangs into the meat of the dance. However, I don’t believe even an especially biting review can suck the life out of a dance work. Dance itself is undying, flitting in and out of existence on stage at each performance, haunting us from beyond the theatre, with the really good stuff sticking to our hearts like a crucifix to sizzling flesh.

No, ultimately, writing as a critic makes me feel like Doctor Frankenstein, from James Whale’s 1931 film: the mad scientist. I study the work in pursuit of understanding, trying to pin down why dance moves us, to distill its essence into clear language. I haphazardly sew together what I have watched with pieces of my knowledge, relevant context and life experience. I try to imbue my creation with a lightning spark of entertainment, so it can somehow stand on its own, be capable of showing great love, instilling great terror and never escaping the parts it is made from. My reviews live on like strange children that I am perhaps doomed to reject, as they quietly say a fair bit about me, my tastes, my blind spots and my craft.

On film, villains are so often the most interesting element. Despite our somewhat villainous personas, critics are certainly not the most interesting part of dance. We might just instead be the most interested, sitting silently in the deep dark of the theatre, eyes glittering, minds hungry.

Always watching.

Waiting.

Hannah Finnimore