I read a lot of opera reviews. It’s part of the job. And I need to say something that might ruffle a few feathers in the press seats: most opera criticism in Australia is too precious, too deferential, and too afraid of having an actual opinion.

There. I said it.

The problem with niceness

Look, I understand the ecosystem. Australia’s opera world is small. Everyone knows everyone. The soprano you pan today might be married to the conductor you’re interviewing next week. The company you criticise might be your publication’s advertiser.

But when every review reads like a diplomatic communiqué — “the production had some interesting moments” or “the soprano brought a distinctive interpretation to the role” — we’re not serving anyone. Not the companies, not the artists, and definitely not the audiences trying to decide whether to spend $200 on a Saturday night.

I’m not advocating for cruelty. There’s a real difference between being honest and being nasty. But I’ve read reviews of productions I attended that were clearly struggling — dropped cues, muddled staging, a lead who was audibly unwell — and the published review mentioned none of it. That’s not generosity. That’s dishonesty.

Who are we writing for?

This is the fundamental question, and I think too many critics have forgotten the answer. We’re writing for readers. For people who love opera or are thinking about loving opera. We’re not writing for the cast party.

When I was in the Opera Australia chorus, I read reviews obsessively. The ones that mattered — the ones that actually helped me grow as a performer — were the ones that were specific, honest, and grounded in genuine knowledge. Not the ones that sprinkled adjectives like confetti.

A good review should tell you what the production is, what it’s trying to do, whether it succeeds, and what the experience of watching it actually feels like. That last part is where most critics fall down. They can describe the set. They can list the cast. But can they make you feel what it was like to sit in that audience?

The accessibility gap

Here’s another thing that drives me nuts: the assumption that every reader knows what a coloratura passage is, or why a particular key change matters, or what it means when someone says a voice has “good squillo.” Technical language has its place, but when every second paragraph reads like a conservatorium lecture, you’re writing for the 500 people in Australia who already know everything about opera. Those people don’t need your review. They’ve already bought tickets.

The readers we should be chasing are the ones on the fence. The person who saw an aria on a TV ad and thought, “That was beautiful, maybe I should try this.” They Google “opera review Sydney” and land on a 900-word essay about tessitura and dramatic through-lines. They leave.

We can be knowledgeable without being exclusionary. We can explain things without talking down. I’ve seen brilliant food critics do this — they write about flavour profiles and technique but in a way that makes you hungry, not inadequate. Opera criticism needs that energy.

What good looks like

Some of the best opera writing I’ve read comes from people who aren’t traditional critics at all. Bloggers who describe the emotional experience honestly. Podcasters who aren’t afraid to say “I was bored in Act 2.” Even audience members on social media who post a raw, unfiltered reaction.

I’m not saying we should replace trained critics with random punters. But I am saying that the establishment critics could learn something from that directness.

For published criticism, I’d love to see more of this:

• Specific praise. Not “she sang beautifully” but “her pianissimo in the final phrase of ‘Un bel dì’ made the entire house hold its breath.”
• Honest criticism. Not vague hedging, but clear explanations of what didn’t work and why.
• Context. What was the company trying to do? How does this fit into their season? What constraints were they working with?
• Emotional honesty. Did you cry? Were you bored? Were you thrilled? Say so.

This isn’t about tearing people down

I want to be clear: I love this art form. I love the people who make it. I spent years making it myself. That’s exactly why I care about how we talk about it.

Opera in Australia faces real challenges — funding, audience development, relevance. Criticism that’s too gentle to be useful doesn’t help with any of those challenges. It just maintains a polite fiction that everything’s fine.

Everything’s not always fine. Sometimes the emperor has no clothes. And sometimes the emperor is wearing the most magnificent costume you’ve ever seen. A good critic should be willing to say both, clearly and without apology.

As the great Limelight Magazine often demonstrates, you can write about classical performance with both authority and accessibility. More of that, please. Less tiptoeing.