Critics

"Enron", the play that was so successful here, first in Chichester then in the West End, has flopped in New York. Why? Two reasons: the critics didn't like it; the American public didn't take to the idea that a British playwright could successfully write a play about the collapse of an American institution. Maybe this second reason had some connection with the first: maybe the critics too thought this but, without saying so, used other criticisms to bring the play down. In short there was something smelling of patriotism here and you know what Johnson said of the patriot: "patriotism is the last resort of the scoundrel".
New York critics, unlike our critics, have the power to close shows. Theatre-goers there read the reviews before attending shows and don't go if the shows are panned. One show I recall didn't last long when everyone this side of the Atlantic thought it would run and run: "Under Milk Wood" by Dylan Thomas. Thomas was popular in America; with some people he was/is revered. You'd have thought that play would go. But no. It closed after a week or so after it had received scathing reviews. Here in London it had received rave reviews. Donald Houston led the cast as the narrator and I heard that his disappointment was deeply felt. I wonder if he ever recovered from the shock he experienced; he seemed to disappear from the film and theatre world until he died some years ago.
Critics, especially the New York variety, can indirectly hurt writers and actors and directors to such an extent sometimes that tragedy results. Tennessee Williams tells in his autobiography of a playwright committing suicide after a play of his was "taken apart" by the critics.
In the film "Theatre of Blood" Vincent Price, in one of his best roles, plays an actor who has received so many bad reviews from critics, he sets out to murder them one by one. You New York critics, look out; there may lurk out there some deranged actor who wishes to seek revenge for calling his performance "the worst piece of acting I have ever seen".
When Noel Coward had a stinker from Kenneth Tynan, the author passed Tynan by in a restaurant close by where the play was running; he leaned over towards Tynan and called him a very naughty name. It began with the letter C.