‘The Critic’ Review: A Ferocious Ian McKellen Is Let Down by a Script Favoring Histrionics Over Depth

Angie Han
·5 min read
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The critic of The Critic is the type who might occasionally exist in real life, but seems to loom far larger in fictional tales by artists who evidently have little love for the profession. As played by Ian McKellen, Jimmy Erskine is an erudite brute. Whatever love he once held for the theater is less apparent these days than the savage delight he takes in ripping performers and productions to shreds, and the satisfaction he takes in the status and influence afforded him by his job.

The Critic, directed by Anand Tucker, is the story of how far he’ll go when that position is threatened. Given that the film is scripted by Patrick Marber (of Closer and Notes on a Scandal), it’s little surprise he’ll go very far indeed. And given that he’s performed by McKellen, it’s safe to bet on a ferocious lead turn. But if The Critic is successful in building up its antihero, it’s otherwise too muddled to say much about him, or the world he exists in.

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The trouble begins with an inconvenient death. In 1934, Jimmy is four decades into a respected career as The London Chronicle‘s theater critic. But when the paper’s owner passes away, stewardship is passed over to his son, the new Viscount Brooke (Mark Strong).

Where his father prioritized “strong opinions, strongly expressed,” the younger Brooke has other ideas. His Chronicle intends to dial down support of British fascism, and reposition itself as a family newspaper — one with little tolerance for what Jimmy’s editors delicately term his “proclivities,” which is to say the open secret of his homosexuality. Always one to chafe under authority, Jimmy quickly lands himself in enough trouble to prompt his dismissal.

Thus begin his elaborate machinations to get his job back. As a person, Jimmy is often aggravating; as a character, he’s usually compelling. Marber gifts his fellow writer the juiciest lines and the snappiest retorts. “You’ve been dishing it out for a decade, and now it’s going to stop,” scolds Nina (Gemma Arterton), an actress who’s been a particular target of his ire. His lips twist into wicked amusement as he fires back: “Why, are you retiring?” (Jimmy would have killed as a celebrity blogger in the Perez Hilton era.)

But his irreverence can take scarier turns, too. When he’s accosted one night by a gang of Blackshirts, Jimmy can’t resist mocking them in turn — to the palpable terror of his younger Black lover, Tom (Alfred Enoch), who knows full well that he’s an even bigger target for violence from state-sanctioned fascists than Jimmy is.

Jimmy has soul enough to soften when he speaks about those artists he truly admires, including Henry James and Oscar Wilde, or to reflect that his vitriolic critiques are his own way of battling the country’s lowering standards. He also thinks nothing of manipulating even those he claims to care about, and regards his collateral damage with a nonchalance bordering on glee.

Often, The Critic feels like an experiment in seeing how far it can push Jimmy before he’s forced to take anything really seriously — before he’s made to feel true guilt or fear. That McKellen makes his rare flashes of sincerity convincing only renders the emptiness we see the rest of the time more disturbing.

The cast across the board is strong. Jimmy plans to ensnare Brooke with help from Nina, whom he promises rave reviews in exchange. It’s a foul deal, but Arterton imbues the character with just the right mix of hopefulness and ruthlessness to make her acquiescence seem inevitable.

As the hapless target, Strong makes the most of his reserved character by seeming to do not much at all. By every outward appearance, Brooke is the perfect English gentleman, with his posh title and tidy grooming and impeccably stiff upper lip. Yet a certain catch in his voice or a glint in his eye betray the depths of his loneliness and insecurity, adding an unexpectedly affecting note of heartache.

But the principals are collectively underserved by a script that emphasizes histrionic drama over thoughtful character development, and conflates darkness with depth. As a narrative, The Critic is nearly as unsparing about humankind as Jimmy is about the plays he doesn’t like. The consequences of his actions spiral quickly out of his control, tearing through a tangle of interconnected relationships violently enough to claim lives. Meanwhile, the encroaching reach of fascism adds an element of danger beyond anything Jimmy could engineer on his own, drawing pointed parallels to our own troubled times.

In the face of its world-destroying potential, the characters’ frequently stated longings for immortality — in the form of a painting, a dynasty, a legendary career — seems not just misguided but futile. For all the mess Jimmy has made of their lives, none of it is likely to matter much in the end.

It should hurt to watch such a relentlessly ruthless piece of work. Yet its savagery feels blunted when nearly every character but Jimmy feels underwritten and nearly every relationship built on plot contrivance. The twists escalate by leaps and bounds, and pile up faster than we can react to them. Under such breathless pacing, the nastiness begins to feel less harrowing than absurdly overwrought, until even its ostentatiously ugly ending fails to rouse much feeling in any direction.

Perhaps The Critic would have done well to follow the rare bit of earnest advice Jimmy offers Nina. Asked how she might better reach his lofty standards, he launches into a speech about the pitfalls of doing too much and trying too hard, of making her efforts more visible than the emotions and ideas they’re meant to convey. “Less,” he concludes. “It is a dagger to the soul. But less is the only note.”

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