The Critic: TIFF 2023: A Biting Glimpse Into the Lavish Sphere of 20th-Century Arts Criticism

There’s something entirely enthralling about an art form critiquing those of its own. It suddenly becomes a capsule, the medium: something akin to a meta-narrative; biting, yes, yet unquestionably assured. This theme’s most recent embodiment arrives in the form of a sharp-edged historical drama, admonishing the oft-pretentious tendencies of the critics of the medium. This is the latest from Anand Tucker, an effort glistening with lavish allure that conceals a wickedness within. This is The Critic: a scathing historical thriller, oscillating between roots in grime and excess, in which the pen is sharper than the knife, and dark secrets run abound as the velvet curtain falls. 

The Critic is anchored by the man who plays its lead, Sir Ian McKellan. His gravelled voice adds gravitas, and his ability to portray true wickedness, it seems, ages like wine. His character, Jimmy Erskine, may be the film’s protagonist, but in no way can he be deemed a hero—at least, not through the lens of anyone but himself. Criticism, particularly of the theatre, is that to which he’s dedicated his life; yet though his notoriety remains enough to accrue notice from the public, his name alone is insufficient to hold tenure. Despite his talent, his attitude—pompous, holier-than-thou; argumentative for the sake of social alienation; condescending, biting, both in words and on the page—has come close to costing him his job, and at the film’s commence, he’s threatened: shape up, he’s told, or a firing will ensue. 

Yet when the world is intent on beating one down—personality, deemed fractious; sexuality, unaccepted by authorities, and violence, inflicted physically by such—it’s nigh-impossible to maintain, or even want to hold, any semblance of optimism. Still, a glimmer of light arises in the unexpected arrival of Nina Land (Gemma Arterton), a rising actress who, despite her crushing under Erskine’s pen during her opening, has long held him in high regard—and makes no secret of such, intending to thaw the critic’s heart and make, of her inspiration, a friend. So begins a twisted game of cat-and-mouse, in which innocence begins to pull at ill intent, and malice intertwines with mentorship as the pair display vulnerability and trust: at least, to a degree. Nina, eternal optimist, offers her heart. Displays sheer benevolence. Allows Erskine, pained, bleeding, hardened by the world’s contempt…to crush it in his own two hands. 

There’s a lavish display to Tucker’s world: expected, given the theatrical grandeur displayed throughout the period, which the production design, the costuming, emulate to an exquisite degree. One is swiftly whisked back through decades, situated unequivocally into the early 20th century to the point where one can almost smell the ashy cigarette, feel the drip of ink-spilled droplets off the shuttered roof. There’s a calculation to his world, a coldness, contributing to the atmosphere: gray palates, dark shadows, a consistent moody downpour that accentuates the despair, the shiftiness, the gloom. This atmospheric paradox—elegance and egregiousness, grandeur and gloom—acts as both ‘grounder’ and ‘exacerbation,’ providing rationale for, and mirroring of, Erskine’s motivations and behaviour. It’s wholly remarkable, the manner in which the setting is so painlessly leveraged to deepen understanding, solidify tone, and provide reflection for both plot and character, and for that, Tucker—alongside writer Marber, cinematographer Higgs, and production designer Suren—should certainly be lauded. 

Yet despite the steadfast setting, a subpar McKellan performance, paired with an underbaked B-stories and wholly-exaggerated twists and turns, struggle to summate the film to much more than mere melodrama. There’s such a wealth to be gleaned from the Land-Erskine dynamic, and so much trust that must be built between them, that every other thread is swiftly cast to the wayside. Accentuating characters become caricatures: the nervous mother, the beaming beau, the devoted assistant. The exploration of sexuality in a 20th-century aristocratic landscape—a conversation that begs for nuance, focus—is portrayed in a single scene of violence, then cast off without any further mention: a decision that is both maddening and indelicate. Though the stakes throughout are certainly wicked—defamation, a life’s dream torn away, and, eventually, a climactic murder—never is the audience provided with sufficient motivation to properly understand their weight. That’s not to say that the film fails to captivate; no, far from it. Still, neither does it properly impart the impact so intended by its extensively-tailored twists, resulting in an effort that, though admirably risky, displays an uneven finality.

That said, when viewed through the lens of any artist, any critic in their own right, there is certainly much that can be found to love. When examining its metatextuality, the film becomes a biting satire, a comedic tragedy: a grand delight for the mind, the senses. Tucker has constructed a lavish sphere of angst, art, and sheer captivation, and though it may, at times, dip into exaggerated melodrama, the emphatic nature of it all, combined with the stellar moodiness of the atmosphere, results in a product that must cultivate, if not true excellence, at least some semblance of respect.

SCORE: 6.2/10

★★★☆☆