Some say arts criticism is dead. I spent two weeks at summer camp for theatre critics — here’s why I’ve never felt more optimistic

The bag was deemed too heavy at the Pearson Airport check-in desk, but the Flair attendant seemed to take pity on me when I told her where I was going: a two-week summer camp for North American culture critics, a destination so pathetic I could be spared the overweight baggage fee.

One flight, a New York City subway ride and an Amtrak jaunt later, I’m in Connecticut, the state I’ll call home for two weeks as I learn how to be a better culture writer.

I’m here, at the mythic Eugene O’Neill Theater Center, as a 2024 fellow at the National Critics Institute, facilitated by Chicago Tribune theatre critic Chris Jones and incoming Washington Post theatre critic Naveen Kumar. Billed as one of the most prestigious arts criticism training programs in the world, the National Critics Institute has topped my bucket list for years.

And beyond its critic camp, the O’Neill is a special place: its programs have launched an unconscionable number of projects and careers, from award-winning shows like “In the Heights” and “Slave Play” to stars like John Krasinski and Jennifer Garner.

It’s not an easy time to be an arts journalist in North America. With each passing day, new layoffs make headlines: several of my critic camp classmates are between jobs, talented culture writers caught in a thankless cycle of cutbacks and frantic restructuring.

At home in Toronto, those same threats linger in the air — it seems only a matter of time before broadcaster Corus scales back its operations beyond recognition, for instance, marking the latest in a series of disquieting Canadian media crises.

But the O’Neill is an oasis from the noise of the media industry. For two weeks every year, 18 or so arts critics gather to hone their craft, play in the ocean and enjoy New England ice cream, away from the day-to-day chaos of newsrooms and unconquerable inboxes.

Once we drop our suitcases and notebooks off at our dorms, the critics corral us into a conference room, where Jones tells us what’s what. We’ll be reviewing a cultural experience every single night — mostly theatre, but also dance, restaurants and films — and every morning we’ll work with an invited guest to critique and improve our reviews.

“This experience will change your life,” Jones promises, and already I believe him.

That first night, we grab dinner at a roadside lobster shack. I bite into juicy corn on the cob, slurp Diet Coke so crisp it shakes me awake from my travel-induced sleepiness. I learn about my fellow fellows: they come from all over the U.S.

Over buttered lobster rolls, we exchange war stories about libel notices and corrections. After a while, our stories melt into each other — our experiences as precocious, writerly theatre kids are quite similar, despite the international border between their careers and mine. Most of us skipped traditional journalism school (like me, several of my fellow critics have degrees in theatre) and the common ground in our cosy cohort seems to be the feeling of having fallen into journalism by accident.

While it’s easy to compare the National Critics Institute to the summer camps of “The Parent Trap” and “Camp Rock” of yore, it’s certainly not a vacation.

Jones and Kumar have shaped the rigorous National Critics Institute to help us navigate this often thankless, frequently stressful industry. Over two intense weeks, we learn how to pitch stories; how to strengthen our ledes and kickers; how to bug editors for bylines without being too much of a pest.

In 14 days, we work with three Pulitzer winners — the New Yorker’s Justin Chang and former WaPo critics Sarah Kaufman and Peter Marks — and we try our hand at audio reviews, guided by NPR culture editor Jennifer Vanasco.

I’m surprised by how much these lectures reveal about myself: I quite like film and dance criticism, it turns out, and I have a lot left to learn about podcasting, skills that will only make my criticism more valuable to a wider range of outlets.

Some may say criticism’s dying — and it’s true that print journalism’s in an increasingly tight spot as advertisers pivot away from traditional media — but the beauty of criticism is its ability to shape-shift between forms. A TikTok video can be criticism; so can a one-minute radio spot; so can a lively debate in the back seat of a beat-up van. Criticism is only as dead as we allow it to be.

On a weekend trip to Jacob’s Pillow, an internationally renowned dance retreat in Becket, Mass., I recognize the importance of this thing we’re doing. By writing about art, we’re remembering performances on behalf of future audiences. Someday, historians and culture-curious Googlers will look to our reviews for context.

So much of day-to-day existence is ephemeral — the meals we eat, the theatre we watch, the books we read — but critics help crystallize the quotidian into lasting, ravishing proof of life having been lived.

So it goes. Early in the second week, Jones and Kumar send us to the movies, allowing us to pick between “MaXXXine” (bad) or “Horizon: An American Saga — Chapter 1” (worse) for our reviews.

Over a crumbling conference table at the O’Neill, we test out zingers on each other — one particularly cutting “Horizon” review refers to Kevin Costner as a directionless seven-year-old. My “MaXXXine” review implores audiences to attend another movie, any movie, hell, even “Minions 4,” instead of Ti West’s dire recent addition to the “X” series.

By the time the critics leave the O’Neill, we’re a tight-knit group of writers ready to re-enter the world of freelancing and deadlines. We have a group chat; we plan trips to each other’s towns.

Steps from the ocean, ice cream cones in hand, the critics begin to argue. What’s the appropriate name for a group of reviewers? Are we a deadline? A rating? A freelance?

Jacob Aloi, an arts reporter at Minnesota Public Radio, decides the appropriate term for a group of critics is a “panning” and no one fights him on it. Our laughs echo over the ocean, disappearing into the midsummer haze. Nothing has ever felt so perfect.