Periodically, critics on this paper argue the merits of the star-rating system applied to our cinema, theatre, art and music reviews. And it’s true that the five-star system has become all but ubiquitous in the media – a virtual esperanto of critical assessment.
Some hate the stars, denouncing them as a dumb, consumer-ist gimmick which robs criticism of its subtlety; you don’t get stars in the august Times Literary Supplement. But I’ve always been on the other side of this debate. I never worried about stars: the prose underneath them will always do its work. And in any case, for a popular artform like cinema, stars can be a good thing: they stop a critic from retreating into supercilious evasion, and force him or her to make a judgment.
But now I’ve discovered the star system isn’t always fit for purpose. Recently, I took my first Uber cab ride. The sheer novelty had me chatting cordially away to the driver, and at the end of the pleasant journey – because Uber drivers and customers can review each others’ performances – we ceremonially awarded each other the top score: five stars! It was a strangely moving and uplifting moment.
But afterwards I felt that this simplistic rating didn’t do justice to the nuance and piquancy of a system in which you are both the critic and the criticised. So maybe black cabs can seize back the initiative by introducing a system whereby drivers and punters offer each other long, TLS-style essays. With no stars.
The dad fad
This weekend it is Father’s Day – or, as it has never been known, Fathering Sunday. I’m not sure what I’m going to get. It’ll be a nice surprise. Perhaps my wife and son will get me one of the classic Father’s Day gifts, perhaps a Colin Montgomerie golf club pen set, or a tour of Lord’s cricket ground, in ironic tribute to my lack of interest in sport. Or a crate of red wine, with labels reading “extraordinary wine for an extraordinary dad” – or maybe it’ll be a helicopter pilot lesson.
What I very much hope it won’t be is anything marketed by the ageist and offensive term “dad rock” or “dad-lit”: work by perfectly well-respected artists such as, say, Paul Weller, whose grey hairs are now facetiously held against them. The “dad-” prefix has now become corroded into a smirk: sadly, it means something that thinks it’s hip but is in fact embarrassing, like a dad dancing to Come on Eileen at a wedding reception. At least “mummy-porn” has some kind of currency due to Fifty Shades of Grey. But let’s reclaim “dad” and stop it being a term of ironic marketing abuse.
The smartphone halt
We in the prosperous, digitally connected west are living through a narcissism epidemic. Increasingly, our leisure is filtered through tablets and smartphones, and everything is subordinate to social media. Each mention of your name is like the ding! sound on an old-fashioned pinball machine, stimulating your attention and ratcheting up your score.
So maybe the news from Belgium was inevitable. As a marketing stunt, a mobile phone company in Antwerp painted white lines on the main shopping street, and dubbed it the “text walking lane” reserved for those walking along with their eyes glued to their smartphones: texting, checking Twitter, Instagram, etc. The hoax was taken entirely seriously, with some tweeters reportedly walking punctiliously within the lines.
Should this be introduced here in the UK? I’m not sure. However, there should be stringent penalties for pavement-users who suddenly do the annoying “smartphone halt”. Startled or thrilled by something they’ve just seen on their phones, they stop dramatically stock still, staring at the little screen, and everyone has to walk around them. A £50 fine is proportionate.
