NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND
Critics in the pillory
TONY PALMER
So. The knives are out. I have good news for Kenneth Hurren, the well-known satirist and lesser known critic, who chides me for my re- marks about his ilk in this column some weeks ago. It was kind of him to write as he did, not- ing in particular the element of parody in my piece. After all, we critics must stick to- gether because no one else cares tuppence for anything that we write. Perhaps I should make it clear first of all that I am not an aggrieved author, as Mr Hurren suggests, nor an irate impresario nor a disgruntled actor. True, in my time, I have been an actor, an impresario and an author and have, in all these roles, received my• fair share of acclaim and abuse. Also, as some- one who, from time to time, directs rather indifferent films, I have been praised and damned with such extravagance that such criticism, emanating as it does mostly from ignorant and over-paid hacks, is—as it is for many of my creative (forgive the arrogance) colleagues—quite irrelevant. Second, I have no connection whatsoever with Child's Play. I have seen it—twice. I admire the acting but do not like the melodrama. At least, to be more honest, it is not to my taste. I find the direction unsubtle although, again, I admire its persistence. Alas I am not one of its misguided investors, I say alas because, despite Mr Hurren, it's still doing great busi- ness. As to Clive Barnes: Mr Hurren says that he is held in low esteem in New York theatrical circles. Possibly. But by whom? David Merrick once told me that Barnes was the only man he had ever feared in his life. Admittedly, he then roared with laughter but even that was tinged with bitterness. Stravinsky wrote his last public letter to admonish Barnes for his supposed misrepre- sentation of the Firebird ballet. On the other hand. Barnes is the only newspaper critic I have met who had any sense of per- spective about his job. Critics, he said, were the instantly forgettable writing the instantly forgotten. Noticeably, Mr Hurren did nothing to an- swer my central question as to who and what are the critics? By critics, I do not mean those men of letters whose carefully con- sidered essays can often illuminate our understanding of works of art by placing them in a social, moral or historical context. 1- confine my remarks to those whose job it is to provide a given number of words for a daily or weekly newspaper in return for a diminutive fee. Admittedly, there are very few such people whose copy deadline allows them the possibility of considered thought. (I doubt if anyone upon seeing Hamlet for the very first time could rattle off 600 words that would in any way be remotely instruc- tive.) Even those who have a little more time for consideration frequently show little signs of having done so. Harold Hobson has at various times during the last fifteen years described liteckett, Bond, Osborne, Anouilh and Stoppard as the great- est playwright of his age. Doubtless, he, Hob-
son, will deny this. I suggest he checks his back copy. Or take Mr Hurren, for example. Or maybe not, if you'd prefer; but since he's on everybody's lips . . . 'Agreeable though it is to have Yvonne Mitchell back in the theatre,' he wrote last week, 'it is distressing
to find her in this preposterous situation' (that of the play Children of the Wolf). Dis-
tressing to whom? Preposterous to whom?
Why, Mr Hurren, of course. So why not say so. And according to what standards?
Oedipus Rex sounds pretty preposterous to my old gran and 1 would say it was equally distressing to see the lovely Judi Dench in Twelfth Night dressed as a man pretending to be a woman. Or, to move sideways to opera, how about dying of consumption in full voice for an hour in La BoUnte?
Film criticism—and there's very little of that which can be taken seriously—has the unique distinction of being pre-eminent among the noble art of criticism; it has one virtue which none even of its other cousins has yet demonstrated. With one or two exceptions, it is totally ill-informed. I can only think of two film critics who have even been near a film studio, who are remotely acquainted with the technicalities involved, have any sympathy with the practical dif- ficulties or who could possibly be said to have dabbled in the art themselves.
I can think of no film director, or com- poser, or poet, or novelist of any stature who is ultimately affected by what any critic has to say. Of course they/we might suffer some immediate emotional elation or depres- sion depending upon their/our critical re- ception. But it's not for such as them that they/we do what we do. Maybe we listen to a few close friends for advice—the novelist might rely on his publisher/editor but only if he's a friend—but that's about the lot. The joke is that the critic imagines that anything he has to say will in any way influence or even stimulate the creator. Within my ac- quaintanceship, he does not.
His influence, if any, lies with the public, whomsoever they may be. Lies is probably the appropriate word since the truth or otherwise of any of the critic's assertions is usually of little "consequence. Whereas for the artist it is not the style that is import- ant but what is being said in that style, often for the critic it is not what is being said but the cleverness (I won't call it style)with which it is being expressed. Most critics are also the slaves of fashion. Some even like to think themselves the creators of such fash- ion. The consequence of this is the adula- tion of that which has immediate value, immediate relevance and immediate intelligi- bility. Mr Barnes's friend, Stravinsky, once said that it was only when he had become successful (i.e. fashionable with the critics) that his music was thought influential. For forty years, while the influence had actually been happening, the critics had been look- ing the other way. The same is true of Orson Welles in the cinema. or Joyce, or Debussy. Obviously, the critic like Mr Hurren has a role to play. I just wish he/they would remember occasionally that it's a bit part with no relevance to the central action which can be re-cast at the drop of a hat and no one would notice.
Previous page
