Fine critical condition ... Leon Ockenden and Robin Whiting in Nicholas de Jongh's Plague Over England. Photograph: Tristram Kenton
It's no secret that, among theatre-makers, the most hated critic in the country is probably the Evening Standard's Nicholas de Jongh. This might be because De Jongh has been known to fall asleep during the shows that he is meant to be reviewing. But more fundamentally, I suspect, it is because when the scabrous scribe decides to stick the knife in, he does it with a relish bordering on the sadistic. So how on earth would everyone react when it was revealed that he had written his own play, to be staged at the Finborough?
It seems that the initial expectations for the play were low, and hopes for a critical drubbing rode high. The West End Whingers were so prepared for the show to be bad that, in emulation of the great critic himself, they had bought nightgowns and nightcaps in order to drift off in the cosy warmth of the theatre. And over on whatsonstage's message board, one commenter wrote: "I hope De Jongh gets savaged, and hopefully the critics will use deeply personal, irrelevant criticism (DJ's personal style)."
However, Ms X argued: "I never thought it would get bad reviews - surely the critics were always going to protect their own to some extent". And this potential conflict of interest has not been lost on some of De Jongh's fellow writers either. In his blog, Michael Coveney says that the opening night of the play "was stormed by colleagues hoping against hope that the thing was halfway decent, for we all like Nick just as some people in the theatre loathe him." And he observes that before the show, three critics "were even sharing a table with him in the bar area". This is hardly the kind of thing to inspire confidence in the objectivity of their judgement.
So it is perhaps not surprising that the subsequent notices have (with the odd notable exception) been very positive. What is more unexpected, however, is the compassionate response that De Jongh has elicited from those who have, in the past, been on the receiving end of his vitriol.
David Eldridge describes the "disconcerting" pang of sympathy he felt for De Jongh after reading the Guardian's interview with him. Eldridge goes on to explain how they had met each other once, seated at the same table at the Olivier awards. After an evening of ignoring him entirely, Eldridge finally overcame his aversion and spoke to him only to discover that he seemed "a bit odd certainly, but also a fully paid up member of the human race (which he never does in his reviews)."
Yet this divide that appears to exist between artists and critics is not as wide as might be expected. De Jongh is certainly not the first to dabble with a little artistic expression. Ken Tynan did it and, as Michael Billington points out, so did George Bernard Shaw. Even today, Lyn Gardner writes children's books, Brian Logan performs, and a few years ago, the FT's Ian Shuttleworth created a one-man show for the Edinburgh fringe.
In the literary world, it is common to see a novelist publish a book one week and then review someone else's the next. And surely the experience that is gained from creating something can only inform one's understanding of the work of others? So perhaps De Jongh is to be applauded - if not for what he has created, then for the fact that he tried in the first place.
