Critics are entitled to a better class of criticism than the pathetic stuff they are getting these days from disgruntled dramatists. Snoo Wilson told Radio 4 that the bad reviews of his cumbersome play, Moonshine, at the Hampstead Theatre were caused by the critics' hostility to the Hampstead management; any play there, he said, would have been given the same treatment.
In his book, Acting Up (Faber ?9.99), David Hare says that the critics praised Via Dolorosa to compensate for the horrible things they said about his previous play, The Judas Kiss. "Critics always balance their review of a current work against the memory of whether they have overpraised or underpraised your previous one." You wouldn't think, from these idiotic notions, that these are men who can present powerful arguments in imaginative form on the stage.
Out of 14 reviews of Moonshine in Theatre Record, six mention the Hampstead management, mainly to wonder why artistic director Jenny Topper-described as "sparky" by Charles Spencer and "admirable" by Sheridan Morley-had accepted such a bad script. Of Hare's last five plays, Skylight (1995), Amy's View (1997), Via Dolorosa (1998) and The Blue Room (1998), four won rather admiring notices; while The Judas Kiss was panned because it said nothing new about Oscar Wilde.
Hare is on equally shaky ground when he reports that he and Stephen Schiff, screenwriter and former critic, "groped" for examples of critics who have made the transition to creativity. They did not grope as far back as Bernard Shaw, Max Beerbohm, Alexander Woollcott and George S Kaufman. They were ignorant of Herbert Kretzmer who, while theatre critic of the Daily Express, wrote the lyrics and book for the musical Our Man Crichton and the lyrics for The Four Musketeers at Drury Lane. Later, while television critic of the Daily Mail, he wrote the lyrics of Les Mis?rables, the most successful musical of all time. Other television critics, such as Dennis Potter and Clive James, have produced notable creative work.
Frank Marcus, critic of the Sunday Telegraph, wrote The Killing of Sister George and many other plays. Francis King, who succeeded him, is an excellent novelist. John Gross, who came next, is an eminent literary figure. Sheridan Morley is No?l Coward's and John Gielgud's biographer and has proved himself as a director. Michael Billington and Michael Coveney are highly- regarded biographers. Charles Spencer is a novelist. Milton Shulman wrote children's books, a crime novel and a film. Nicholas de Jongh wrote a history of gay theatre. John Peter's Vladimir's Carrot is an acclaimed analysis of modern drama. The list goes on.
The degree of creativity may be challenged in some cases, but it would be a poor groper who could not touch on something of interest. The fact is that everybody is a critic. No one shuts a book, leaves a cinema or theatre, or turns off the television without knowing, in the broadest sense, whether they have had a good time or not. Professional critics usually become so by accident, but thereafter we cannot simply say, "Go and see it" or "Don't waste your money." We offer explanations: "The show is bad because..." We essay descriptions: "Maggie Smith says 'this haddock is disgusting' with concentrated loathing..." We like making discoveries: "Last night a star was born..." We reminisce: "No one says 'haddock' these days like Maggie Smith." We chart our responses and share our emotions and deliver them up for display within a certain time and at a certain length.
I find it very odd to be told that I must not criticise a play because I have not been professionally involved in the theatre, when the dramatist, quite rightly, may criticise every institution from parliament to parenthood without having had direct experience of anything other than playwriting and, possibly, dishwashing.
When the late John Osborne stood in for Alan Brien on the Sunday Telegraph, he huffed and puffed about critics and said: "Imagine the situation in any other trade... Hirelings are engaged who glory in their technical ignorance... They are then encouraged to deprive you of your living and threaten your future and your children's daily sliced bread."
But in that same article, he went on to review two plays. He thought the Jeanetta Cochrane Theatre (in which they were staged) a hideous building, while the plays themselves, a double bill by Marguerite Duras, were "unspeakably French portentous, theatrically inert and rendered into almost impossible English." Thus, at one stroke, he endangered the livelihood of the architect of the theatre, the baguettes of the dramatist's children, the long-term future of the translator and the short-term future of the actors.
Oscar Levant played the piano and the cynic with the heart of gold in several Hollywood musicals in the 1940s. He was a manic-depressive, insomniac, hypochondriac. He was also a great piano-player and a friend of George Gershwin and, therefore, considered to be an authority on the Broadway musical. On one occasion he was sent tickets for a show he did not particularly want to see. The producer was insistent, however, and Levant went. When the curtain fell, Levant tried to sneak out of the theatre by a side door, but the producer dragged him backstage to the star's dressing room. Trying to crouch unobserved in a corner, Levant was accosted by the star's husband who said: "What do you think of the show, Mr Levant?"
"You don't want my opinion," said Levant modestly, desperately.
"Of course I do," said the husband who had invested heavily in the show. "I value your opinion. So what do you think of the show?"
"I think the show is lousy," said Levant.
"And what's your opinion of my wife's performance?"
"Worst I've ever seen," said Levant.
"Who are you to say such things?" demanded the angry husband.
"Who do you have to be?" asked Levant.
