Freeloading critics

Those freeloading critics
(and why is Donald Trump on TV?)

DAN ROTTENBERG

Our recent three-way debate about The Age of Arousal evoked gratitude from the Wilma Theater for stimulating discussion about its production and also a paradoxical response from our regular contributor Lewis Whittington (see Letters). On the one hand, Lew found the debate “terrific.” On the other hand, he’s disturbed by the prospect of all those freeloading critics taking up seats that might otherwise be filled by paying customers.

“Performers are not specimens under glass,” Lew writes; “they are trying to earn a living.” For that reason, he says, “never would I ask to take up a seat for my own academic amusement or to expect to attend extra performances gratis.”

By reminding us that performers can’t live on press clippings alone, Lew doubtless provides a valuable service. But his reaction begs a larger cosmic question: Why do people become performers or critics in the first place? Why do some creative people become theatrical producers and dance impresarios while others become investment bankers?

No answer fits everyone, of course. But as a general rule, I would submit that money is a relatively low priority for anyone who goes into the arts. Creativity is more important. So are attention and appreciation— which, let’s face it, everybody needs. A few of us (writers especially) dare to dream of immortality— that is, work that will survive after we die. The name of this game is gratifying our egos and expanding our minds through dialogue. These are commodities money can’t buy.

Ask yourself: Why is the billionaire real estate developer Donald Trump devoting so much time and energy to his TV show, “The Apprentice”? Why did Michael Smerconish give up his law practice to become a talk-radio host and newspaper columnist? I assure you: Money had nothing to do with it.

Bob Hope’s only vacation

It was said of that consummate audience junkie Bob Hope that he took only one vacation in his life: Early in his career Hope chartered a fishing boat for two weeks, only to return after five days. When his friends asked why he cut his vacation short, Hope replied: “Fish don’t applaud.”

Critics are similarly wired. When you’re burning to say something, money will do you little good. What you need most is an audience, which can’t be bought. Broad Street Review exists, in part, to provide an outlet for people with something to say and no place else to say it. Nobody gets rich writing for us, but they do reach an astute and sophisticated audience.

Whittington’s comments imply that critics don’t really contribute much of value— that we’re simply in it for our own “academic amusement.” God knows our business has its stage groupies and freeloaders. And goodness knows one of the reasons I started Broad Street Review was to avail myself of Philadelphia’s rich cultural life.

A moment in a Chestnut Street movie house

But two things need to be said about a critic’s life. First, in any given field there is a law of diminishing returns. During my 12 years as a film critic (1971-83) I was greatly envied by my friends, but the novelty of the job quickly wore off, especially when you consider that at least 80% of commercial films are terrible. At the end of my tenure I found myself one Friday morning in one of the old Chestnut Street movie houses, watching some dreadful action flick with perhaps a dozen other customers. Finally I stood up and announced, “I’m being paid to watch this film, but what the hell are the rest of you doing here?”

Similarly, many years ago my great-aunt Ruth Bergman came home from a Broadway show one night in a state of rapture. “I just adore the theater,” she told my grandfather (her brother-in-law) on that occasion. “I could go to the theater every night and never tire of it.”

My grandfather, Marc Rottenberg, was, among other things, a sworn enemy of hyperbole. “I tell you what,” he replied. “If you can go to the theater every night for the next two weeks, I’ll pay for your tickets. But if you quit before those two weeks are up, you pay for the tickets.” Ruth took him up on his offer, only to quit after four nights. Try the two-week test yourself sometime and you’ll understand why.

What newspapers can’t (and won’t) do

Second and more important, critics do contribute something of value, even when their reviews are negative. Imagine performing in a hit show or writing a best-selling book yet receiving no intelligent feedback whatsoever. From my experience at Broad Street Review, most local arts companies are not inundated with critics asking to see their show. On the contrary, critics are inundated with requests from all those arts companies hoping someone will come and write about them— favorable, unfavorable, whatever. For them, the bottom line is not selling tickets but learning whether (or how) they’ve enriched someone’s life.

Print media generally limit themselves to a single review of any production— because they lack the space as well as, let’s face it, the interest. At an on-line medium like Broad Street Review, our space is unlimited, and so are our technological capabilities, so we can do things differently. When you read Dan Coren’s music reviews, you can hear the musical passage he’s discussing. When you read Melissa Roth’s critique of the final segment of “The Sopranos,” you can watch the scene she’s talking about. Our only real impediment is my own technological backwardness as a lifelong print person. As I get more up to speed, we’ll do more of this sort of innovation.

And, yes, wherever possible we encourage multiple “dueling reviews” of plays and concerts. Any arts organization willing to furnish press tickets can elicit two, three or more reviews in Broad Street Review— assuming the critics are willing to attend and sufficiently inspired to write something. (Like my great-aunt Ruth, some nights many critics would just as soon spend a quiet evening at home.) Arts groups take a big gamble when they invite critics. But isn’t taking a gamble what art is all about?



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