Reviewing plays in Cambridge is a unique experience. We are blessed with some of the most talented performers and artists in the country. Hour upon hour is poured into every production, along with blood, sweat, and tears… and then the reviewer simply signs up, strolls into the ADC, collects their two tickets, and then rates the performance out of five. There is something satisfying about having such complete undeserved power – and also something really horribly unpleasant. Because if going to see an awful play is disappointing, then having to review an awful play is painful.

There’s a terrible temptation at the back of your mind to unleash the inner-Satan that’s been lingering throughout the performance, whispering phrases such as “an absolute disaster”, “the worst two hours of my life”, and “has potential to be used as an instrument of torture”. But then again, you are intensely aware that these are real people who have invested a lot of time and effort into the production, so you are equally tempted to slap three-stars on the review and mumble something about how the actors were “talented” but the production “didn’t quite come together.” In the end you resign yourself to the fact that your role is to give an honest account of whether it’s worth dragging yourself out of your room to go and see it – and so you tell the truth, even if it’s harsh.

The problem is that eventually you start bumping into people you’ve reviewed. I once turned up late for a college football match, and so I had to get changed whilst the other team was in the dressing room. As I dressed I chatted to the girl next to me, and quickly noticed that she wasn’t being very friendly. I was telling her a story about how a cat outside had leaped up to bite me as I’d walked past. I thought it was a very exciting story – mainly because the cat had followed me inside and was sat next to me, swiping at my hands in a crazed frenzy. I couldn’t get it to leave me alone. This girl had a face like stone. I was pondering the girl’s silence and intimidating glower when I realised the awful truth – only three days before I had reviewed her in a play, and given her a horrific review. I hadn’t said anything too personal, but the production was just so miserable – almost three hours long, I’d almost fallen asleep halfway through, and I had made my displeasure clear. I avoided her for the rest of the match, terrified to touch the ball in case she tackled me to the ground.

A much more awkward incident came when I reviewed a sketch show by a group of people from my college for (dare I admit it?) another of Cambridge’s esteemed student publications. I studied the same subject as a few of them, so I was crossing my fingers that their production would be great and I could give them a really nice review. Almost inevitably, I didn’t enjoy the play. It was fairly entertaining but it just wasn’t my thing. I didn’t feel that I could be too biased just because I knew them, so I gave them a reasonable seven out of ten and wrote a long review explaining exactly what I liked and didn’t like about the production. However, disaster struck the next day when I had a look online at my review (it’s sad I know, but I get a kick out of seeing my name on an article). The editor had cut out all of my nice comments, leaving a rather brutal review. None of the cast spoke to me again, so I didn’t get the chance to tell them what had happened. Very unfortunate.

So why do I continue reviewing? The answer is simple – because it’s all worth it when you come across a five-star play. No review is more satisfying to write and more pleasant to read than a review where the writer has clearly fallen in love with the production. Their writing is set alight. They gush about the actors, about the moments which made them gasp, and the lines which will stick in their mind for a long time. As the audience applauds at the end of the production, you cannot hide the smug little smile on your face. Everyone else claps to show their appreciation. You will write your appreciation for all the world to see, bestowing a special kind of glory.