The play is Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett's classic of the not-all-that-absurd. In Act Two, Vladimir happens to call Estragon a "ceremonious ape." This leads to an incendiary exchange of insults.
"Punctilious pig!"
"Moron!"
"Vermin!"
"Abortion!"
"Morpion!"
"Sewer-rat!"
"Curate!"
"Cretin!"
Finally, Estragon wields the ultimate assault:
"Critic!"
That's too much for poor Vladimir. According to the stage directions, "he wilts, vanquished, and turns away."
Critics. Evil creatures. Obnoxious, dishonest, pretentious, egocentric, power-mad, opportunistic poseurs. Nobody loves us. Samuel Taylor Coleridge called us "murderers." It's a cruel world.
Readers sometimes used to corner me during intermissions in Los Angeles. If you're really so smart, so talented, so authoritative they invariably began with a sneer, how come you're not up there on the stage? How come you're not conducting, or playing an instrument or singing?
I always dreaded the question, but I was prepared with a bromide response. "You don't have to be able to lay an egg," I'd sigh, "to know if you've been served a rotten one."
I know - that's glib, cutesy, evasive. Still, it harbors at least a morsel of truth.
Most good critics have paid their professional dues. Contrary to popular myth, they need not resemble eunuchs in a harem. Chances are, they have studied music and/or followed the rather amorphous academic pursuit known as musicology. With luck, they may harbor some penchant for the art of writing. Presumably, they know how to express their opinions - no matter how controversial - in lucid prose. They may even argue their points with credible passion, and, most crucial, support those points with convincing evidence.
Chances are, a lot of critics can indeed play an instrument or wave a baton or sing a Lied at least with an elemental degree of competence. That doesn't mean, of course, that they'd want to do so in public, in front of critics.
Most good critics are musicians and journalists, not necessarily in that order In any case, most good critics have seen and heard a lot. They know the way, as Kenneth Tynan observed, even if they don't drive the car.
Note that the foregoing apologia bears a significant qualifying adjective: good. Not all critics are good - of course not. Not all conductors and fiddlers and tenors are good either. A smart reader understands a critic's strengths and weaknesses and knows whom to believe; knows that a review isn't gospel, recognizes a critic's prejudices and digests accordingly. Ultimately, one doesn't have to agree with a critic to trust a critic - or to be amused, stimulated, entertained, perhaps even enlightened.
Critic-haters, critic-bashers and critic-baiters have always whimpered about the eternal quest for objectivity. It's a silly quest, a futile ideal, an impossible dream. Check P. G. Wodehouse, the redoubtable creator of Jeeves. "Impersonal criticism," he declared, "is like an impersonal fist fight or an impersonal marriage, and as successful." B. H. Haggin seconded the motion: "The critic writes not what is true, but what is true for him."
Some readers like nothing better than to cite instances where critics contradict each other. There's nothing unusual or disreputable, however, about disagreement. Intelligent, informed adults disagree all the time, without endangering their credibility or inciting outrage. If an artist plays wrong notes, that, of course, is not a matter of debate. The importance of those wrong notes, on the other hand, must be a matter of subjective judgement. I'd rather hear an inspired master like Artur Rubinstein play "in the cracks" than hear some faceless hot-shot play perfectly but without insight, without feeling.
Just what does a critic - okay, what does this critic - do after the final cadence has faded? He doesn't hang around for the curtain calls; he can do his cheering or (perish the ignoble thought) his jeering in print. He likes to write while he's hot, as it were, and deadlines in this computer age tend to offer little leeway in any case. He understands that he owes the reader some basic information: the who-what-when-where-why-and-how file. He also knows that a decent review must be engaging, must have an enticing beginning (in newspaper talk, that's the "lede"), an expansive middle and, if possible, a logical, cumulative end. He appreciates that the reader deserves more than a road map. The reader wants to sense the flavor of the event.
What reader? For whom do we write, anyway? The answer changes from day to day, from journal to journal. It probably can be assumed that most people who follow reviews bring along a basic interest in the subject. Yet the degree of sophistication of the average reader of the Los Angeles Times, for example, may not be the same as that of a subscriber to a specialist periodical such as Opera magazine. When writing about great German conductors in the Times, I'd have to explain who Hans Knappertsbusch was; when writing for Opera magazine, I can skip the introduction.
There is, of course, no such thing as a universal standard in criticism. Still, there are relative standards. If a much-hyped superstar who earns zillions gives a lazy or perfunctory performance, he or she deserves harsh criticism. Expectations run high, and so do ticket prices. If a frightened, well-meaning novice performs badly in modest circumstances, he or she deserves a little protection. The criticism must still be negative - lies are never permitted - but the tone may be gentler. The punishment should fit the crime.
Ultimately, it is the critic's job to explain his or her expectations and to fill in the blanks. Take the hypothetical case of three critics attending the same apocryphal performance of Norma exposing Maria Callas at career twilight. Critic One reports that the soprano acted the role so convincingly - vocally and histrionically, with all manner of light and shade - that some wobbly top tones and awkward register breaks hardly mattered. This critic obviously values opera primarily as drama. Critic Two reports that the soprano sang the role so roughly - vocal resources stretched beyond the limit - that her undoubted dramatic skills could offer little compensation. This critic obviously values opera primarily as vocalism. Critic Three reports that the divine Maria Callas can do no wrong. Period. This critic obviously values star cults above art.
Critics One and Two are equally valid, though diametrically opposed. They heard and saw the same things from drastically different perspectives. Critic Three is categorically invalid. He's just a fan.
Sir Thomas Beecham, a master of alliteration as well as the baton, had no kind words for those of us who practice what must be the world's second-oldest profession. "The critical fraternity's members," he complained, "are quite hopeless - drooling, doleful, depressing, dropsical droops."
Nevertheless, all need not be lost. Our benediction comes courtesy of James Russell Lowell, himself an occasional practitioner. "The first attribute of a good critic," he said, "is a wise skepticism." The Fireside Poet defined a potential saving grace. Some of us must be wise, and even the most dropsical of droops can be skeptical. There is hope. Take that, Vladimir. Take that, Estragon.
