‘I filed my copy from Waterloo station loos’: the Guardian’s theatre critics assess The Critic
the Guardian cannot compare: a supermarket sandwich wolfed down before the bell, a frantic filing of copy after the curtain goes down (from a bench by the loos at Waterloo station on one occasion), or eating biscuits at my laptop into the small hours if it is a morning deadline.
But then, Erskine is an acid-tongued anachronism, part of a dying “old guard” even in the 1930s of the film. His portrait still contains a kernel of historical truth, though: Erskine is part of a bygone era when a single, revered critic held godlike sway over public opinion. His real-life counterparts were many, from Kenneth Tynan to “Butcher of Broadway” Frank Rich, whose most scabrous notices could close a show.
Those imperious emperor-critics are no more, their unilateral power diluted by the growth of the internet, with its mix of theatre vloggers, TikTokers, and other online critical voices who represent different ways of reviewing a show. And isn’t this a good thing? All of it makes criticism broader, less monolithic, although the power of some negative newspaper reviews can still dent ticket sales.
Erskine is a cartoonish archetype of the evil critic, a Mephistophelean figure who is having his portrait drawn for “immortality” (the shadow of Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray looms large) and more than a little reminiscent of Addison DeWitt, the manipulative theatre critic in All About Eve. But how evil is he before Nina Land (Gemma Arterton), an actor desperate for his validation, pursues him for praise?
We’d certainly consider him a dinosaur nowadays for his personal digs about Nina’s body and his bitching tone. That wouldn’t (and shouldn’t) be allowed. But in essence, there is bald honesty to his savagings of her wooden over-acting. She sees it as cruelty, he as rigour. The love-hate relationship between some actors/writers/directors and critics is well captured.
Critics might be seen as charlatans or the devil incarnate until they write a glowing review, and then they become gimlet-eyed truth-tellers. As exaggerated as Erskine is, there is a ruthless honesty to his write-ups at the start of the film which is admirable, and essential for a critic. He has an absolute love of his craft, too. “Theatre is life itself,” he says, and I see his obsessive passion reflected in the best critics