★★
London, 1934. The Daily Chronicle’s acidic theater critic torments a popular but cripplingly insecure actress through a sequence of gleefully vitriolic critiques. His name is Ian McKellen, her name is Gemma Arterton. Together, they elevate an otherwise mediocre effort from the Leap Year director Anand Tucker. Them, and a handful of extremely nasty beards in a script by Patrick Marber, making their long-awaited return to the cinema. Or The critic The line is strong, however, the larger whole doesn’t have half the zest and flavor.
Jimmy Erskine is not just a theater critic. Blessed with a verbose gift for vocabulary, Erskine has been a mainstay of the Chronicle for four decades and the favorite of its unbridled right-wing editor. Additionally, Erskine is also a raging and unapologetic homosexual at a time when to be one was to be a first-rate criminal. This does not bother the great writer himself. No way. Indeed, Erskine’s apparent indifference affords him the luxury of living with his lover – and secretary – Tom (Alfred Enoch), while seasoning their relationship with regular sex with a park prostitute. Erskine is known to like it “rough”.
It’s not entirely clear why Erskine attacks Arterton’s Nina Land so fervently, whose stage presence seems to warrant neither popular adoration nor critical castigation. For her part, Nina only cares about Erskine’s judgment. After all, it was reading his thoughts on the art of theater that inspired Nina to perform on stage. But here and now, Nina no longer finds joy in such reading. “Over the past ten years,” she laments, “you have compared me to livestock, sea creatures and an extinct bird.” This, following a particularly grisly hatchet job, in which Erskine mocks Nina as a “wet blanket” with a “fat ass”.
It is in exploring the relationship between star and critic that Tucker finds his film most compelling. Nina’s desperate need to please intensifies with each new review, but the Chronicle’s negativity appears to have little impact on her commercial success and the flow of roles offered to her. By consulting Erskine – itself a curious manifestation of a conversation that rarely occurs in real life – Nina discovers the root of his negativity. Erskine apparently does not hate Nina, but experiences deep disappointment whenever she fails to meet his demanding expectations. Woe to those who don’t fit Erskine’s image of a very special little England.
And yet, by exploring this dichotomy, The critic himself disappoints. Too soon, open questions are abandoned. It is understood here that the actors seek the approval of the critic, but that the reverse of the dichotomy remains intact. Why does Jimmy write? Is it pure pleasure or revenge for a career he couldn’t sustain. Alas, too quickly, the conversation gives way to something more soupy. This is the remainder of a plot from Anthony Quinn’s novel – Curtain Call – on which the film is based. An increasingly moribund story of blackmail, subterfuge and suicide. Marber portends thrills but falls back on the gentler dramas. As morbid melodies burst from a score of pressed piano keys, it’s hard not to miss the higher-pitched crackle of the opening third.
Unfazed, McKellen maintains his side of bubbliness throughout, devouring the dramaturgical opportunity to embrace Erskine’s increasingly smelly proclivities. Arterton, too, thrives in performative ostentation while Nina sinks into increasingly rapid despair. Tucker is less likely to capitalize on the potential of his wider set, with Lesley Manville, Romola Garai and Mark Strong all underutilized. To that end, it’s a two-handed instrument that crosses over into chamber play without really getting to the heart of either one.
T.S.