The Critic review - beware the acid-tipped pen

The setting is the lively 1930s London theatre world, but any sense that The Critic will be a lighthearted thriller should soon be dispelled by a soundtrack featuring “Midnight and the Stars and You,” the song that Stanley Kubrick used to ominous effect in The Shining.

Here, the lover on his way to a midnight rendezvous is poison-pen drama critic Jimmy Erskine, who worships the theatre but saves his secret passion for nighttime prowls for rough trade. As played by Ian McKellen, Erskine is a magnificent bastard, gifted, witty, and treading a fine line with his conservative employer. 

His paper, newly inherited by a Viscount Brooke (Mark Strong), is losing readers to the flashier Daily Mail. When Brooke – and Erskine’s colleagues – warn him to rein in his nasty reviews, his boozy expense-account lunches, and his illicit social life, our acerbic hero waves them off. McKellen’s dynamic performance, an endearing mix of malice and defiance, suggests that Jimmy can’t stop, won’t stop.

And why should he? On yet another opening night, Erskine sharpens his quill and delivers brutal judgement against all who would bring down his beloved art. “I have a duty,” Erskine declares, “To entertain the audience.” And boy, does he.

Surely Erskine (and McKellen) are miles more fun than his latest assignment: a turgid production of John Webster’s The White Devil starring a less-than-forceful leading lady, Miss Nina Land (Gemma Arterton, excellent). The critic’s verdict: “Vamping and shrieking, she attempts Vittoria with all the grace of a startled mule. Not a single moment of stillness or subtlety.” Ouch!

Worse, nearly everyone in the audience agrees – except for the actress’ longtime secret admirer, who is, of course, the unhappily married Viscount Brooke. When Miss Land confronts Erskine over his brutal reviews, the movie sparks into life: “You’ve compared me to livestock, creatures of the sea, and extinct birds,” Nina rails. “You’ve been dishing it out to me for a decade. Now, it is going to stop!” Erskine replies innocently, “Oh, are you retiring?”

At first they make a fine pair: A sensitive actress in need of good direction and a drama expert who needs to be heard. “The only note: Do less,” urges Erskine, who sees his protégée shine in her next role. But when his job is on the line, he pushes Nina into a blackmail revenge scheme with murderous results.

In this loose adaptation of the film critic Anthony Quinn's novel Curtain Cull, Britain’s between-the-wars era has a surface glamour – one can imagine David Suchet’s Hercule Poirot among the soigné opening night crowd. But beneath it lies an ice-cold heart. Working from playwright Patrick Marber's adaptation, director Anand Tucker (Hilary and Jackie, Red Riding: 1983) deftly weaves thriller and backstage romance plots, often filming his cast in tight, angled close-ups.

When no one’s telling the truth, the audience sees the lies in their eyes. Some characters lie to survive: Erskine and his young secretary-companion (Alfred Enoch, pictured above with McKellen) dodge police crackdowns on homosexuals as well as Mosleyite thugs. Others, like Viscount Brooke’s steely daughter, Cora (Romola Garai), twist their society’s hypocrisy toward their own ends. Wielding a mean cigarette holder, Cora drops casual anti-Semitic slurs despite being married to a Jewish man.

The beleaguered viscount emerges as a surprisingly sympathetic figure. He inherited his title and news empire relatively late in life, and Mark Strong’s subtle portrayal conveys the man’s private sense of unworthiness, both of his good fortune and Nina’s involvement with him. When the heartbroken Brooke exits the story, it’s a real loss. The film goes dark, as it must. "The critic must be cold and perfectly alone,” intones Erskine. “Only the great are remembered.”

Poor Nina yearns for immortality, too, or maybe simple appreciation. Even her mother (Lesley Manville) can’t manage to praise her acting: “You were very audible. Every syllable, clear as a bell.” (Note to self: a reviewer’s remarks about an actor’s appearance – even “You looked striking” – will be construed by sensitive performers as a slight on their talent.)

Jimmy Erskine wouldn’t care. Or if he did, he wouldn’t admit it. It’s testament to McKellen’s devious performance that we hang on his words as desperately as Nina does. In one delightful showdown, Nina quotes the critic back at him, and McKellen’s reaction suggests a housecat who hasn’t been stroked nearly enough – or a tiger ready to pounce.

Where does all the critic’s venom spring from? Quoting Webster, the most chilling of Jacobean dramatists, Erskine confesses: “My soul, like a ship in the black storm, is driven by I know not what.” To an art form, a society, that would sideline him for the silliest of reasons – sexuality, age – Erskine, and McKellen, hits back with virtuouso force. This is McKellen’s best.

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