The Critic and the Drama

In Short

This is a sharp, polemical examination of the relationship between dramatic art, the theater as an institution, and the critic. It dissects why certain plays resonate while others wither, argues that acting is a secondary, mimetic craft rather than a primary art, and critiques the provincial, overly optimistic state of American journalism in the early twentieth century. It remains a vital text because of the author’s refusal to indulge in sentimentality; he treats criticism as a muscular, intellectual endeavor that demands both vanity and rigorous, independent taste.

The Story

The argument opens by establishing the critic as an inevitable, if inherently vain, participant in the artistic process. The author positions the critic not as a passive observer, but as a "chaperone" to the "youthful lovers" that are art and the artist. He rejects any single, rigid theory of criticism, arguing that because every work of art is a distinct entity, the critic must possess a fluid, multifaceted approach. He suggests that while we must evaluate a playwright’s stated aim, we must also place that work within an "aesthetic genealogy," recognizing that art is not created in a vacuum but stands upon the shoulders of what has immediately preceded it.

From this foundation, the focus shifts to drama itself. The author asserts that drama is a democratic art—designed for the many—that paradoxically relies on an "aristocratic" sensibility for its highest validation. He challenges the common psychological theory that theater audiences behave as mindless, suggestible crowds. Instead, he argues that truly fine drama has the power to strip away the "crowd" mentality and force the spectator into a state of intense, lonely individualism. He strips away the romantic notion that the theater "holds the mirror up to nature," suggesting instead that it holds a distorting, carousel-like mirror up to the playwright’s own subjective vision.

The text then moves to the role of the actor, which the author treats with intentional provocation. He defines the actor as the product of "the miscegenation of an art and a trade," viewing histrionism as a secondary, derivative craft that merely "parrots" the emotions already conceived by the playwright. He dismisses the idea that acting is a "creative" art, arguing that the greatest actors are those who best translate the imagination of the dramatist without imposing their own. He acknowledges that his own aesthetic biases—such as an intolerance for physical characteristics that offend his sense of beauty—render his appraisal of acting inherently arbitrary, yet he maintains that this is the honest reality of the critical profession.

The narrative concludes with a scathing assessment of American dramatic criticism. He laments a culture of "unctuous laissez faire," where newspapers prioritize the financial success of a production over artistic merit. He mocks the "plush-covered provincialism" of critics who use sophisticated jargon to mask a shallow, suburban understanding of art. He argues that American critics are trapped by a national obsession with "work, growth, and prosperity," which discourages the nuance required for true aesthetic appreciation. Ultimately, he presents the critic as a solitary, somewhat sardonic figure who must defy the herd to protect the integrity of the theater.

How It Unfolds

The nature of the critic The author defines criticism as an act of "permanent and indeclinable egotism" and argues that the best critics are those who embrace this vanity rather than masking it with false modesty. He posits that a truly muscular mind is required to engage with art, as the critic must act as a foil to the "little minds" that misunderstand and cheapen artistic achievement.

The democratic paradox The book explores the tension between drama as a democratic, mass-market medium and its need for "aristocratic" validation. It suggests that while plays are written for the crowd, they are only rendered "great" when they are stripped of their collective, social nature and forced to speak to the individual unit.

The illusion of the stage The author critiques the reliance on stagecraft and "externals," arguing that these elements often fade into the background through familiarity. He maintains that the theater is not a place for "unexplored corners of imagination," but rather a space where audiences go to have their own familiar imaginative corners performed upon.

The secondary status of acting The argument positions the actor as a "child of miscegenation" between drama and the theater, suggesting that acting is a "freak art" that echoes the playwright’s vision. He suggests that the actor’s primary duty is to remain a clear vessel, as any attempt to be "creative" is a betrayal of the written text.

The failure of the American press The final section examines the "stagnant optimism" of American journalism, which treats the theater as a business rather than an art form. He concludes by observing that the American critic, if they desire to maintain an authentic, worldly perspective, is often forced to alienate themselves from the prevailing national ethos.

The People

The author, George Jean Nathan, serves as the central voice and primary "character," presenting himself as a seasoned, sardonic, and unapologetically elitist observer. He stands in opposition to the "blockhead" critics—the well-meaning but ultimately shallow writers who prioritize honesty over insight and sympathy over critical rigor. He invokes figures like Shakespeare, Molière, and Ibsen as the gold standard of dramatists whose work consistently forces the audience to transcend their own limitations. He also engages with thinkers such as Anatole France, Gordon Craig, and George Santayana, using their perspectives to reinforce his own arguments about the isolation of the artist in a democratic society. Finally, the "audience" exists as a collective entity that the author views with skepticism, challenging the reader to decide whether they wish to remain part of the "crowd" or emerge as the "individual" who can truly appreciate the art.

In Its Own Voice

The great critics are those who, recognizing the intrinsic, permanent and indeclinable egotism of the critical art, make no senseless effort to conceal it.

(The author defines the essential quality of a critic, insisting that authenticity is better than the performance of modesty.)

The fine drama or the fine piece of music does not make its auditor part of a crowd; it removes him, and every one else in the crowd, from the crowd, and makes him an individual.

(He differentiates between popular theater, which fosters group-think, and true art, which demands a solitary, internal response.)

The theatre is not a place to which one goes in search of the unexplored corners of one’s imagination; it is a place to which one goes in repeated search of the familiar corners of one’s imagination.

(He argues against the notion that audiences crave intellectual innovation, suggesting instead that they prefer the comfort of recognition.)

What It's Really About

At its core, this book is an inquiry into the nature of aesthetic truth in a commercialized world. It asks whether drama can ever be truly free of the pressures of the marketplace and whether the critic has a moral duty to act as a gatekeeper of taste. The author argues that art is a "democratic" object that requires an "aristocratic" eye to be properly understood. The fundamental tension of the work is the conflict between the "yokel" desire for simple, predictable emotion and the "cultivated" desire for a sophisticated, imaginative experience. It is a defense of the idea that, in a society obsessed with success and superficial positivity, the only honest stance for the intellectual is one of persistent, enlightened skepticism.

Why Read It Today

You should read this if you are interested in the history of theater criticism or if you are tired of the "stagnant optimism" often found in contemporary reviews. The book feels like a conversation with a brilliant, slightly grumpy, and entirely unbothered mentor who has seen every play in town and is bored by half of them. It is not an easy read; its prose is dense, occasionally archaic, and deliberately abrasive. You will encounter the author’s period-specific prejudices, particularly regarding physical appearance and his dismissive attitude toward the "yokel" public, which may feel jarring to modern sensibilities.

However, the experience of reading it is remarkably bracing. There is a sharp, precise pleasure in watching the author dismantle the "clichés" of theater—such as the over-reliance on stage sets or the worship of actors. What stays with you is his insistence on the critic's duty: not to be nice, not to be helpful to the industry, and certainly not to be "honest" in a way that simply promotes mediocrity, but to be an "adventure of an intelligence among emotions." It is a vital, if challenging, reminder that art requires as much courage to judge as it does to create.