「THE CRITIC 」
45+ • PUBLIC • OPEN - APPLY!
ABOUT:
The moment you walk into an arts establishment, the whole of Paris begins to quake with nerves. Your name passes the lips of actors, directors, and writers in much the same way that one talks of nightmares and disaster – soft, whispered, but brimming with fear.
You’re everywhere and nowhere, always watching, thinking, choosing your words carefully. And always, always, enjoying the work you critique. It’s why you put up with the letters of complaint, with the dirty looks at industry parties, with being kicked out of some new bistro for words that you felt were true, but may have been just a little too sharp. You know your stuff though, after so many years of offering opinions about every kind of art under the sun. And most importantly, under all of the intimidation, you care about creativity, you really do. You didn’t just gain the power to make or break a career from sheer snark – though that’s always ready to hand.
You’re too confident in yourself to soften, to become sycophantic to those whose work you critique, but it’s been a while since anyone looked at you, really looked at you, without contempt. A little common understanding would not go amiss, but for now you’re content to hope for one of those elusive shows, novels, paintings, or films to set your brain alight, to fill you with life as they always do.
CONNECTIONS:
The Hostess: Your ex-wife. Since your divorce, you’ve both attempted to tactfully avoid each other, but these days it seems like she’s everywhere, an ever-present theatrical ghost. The natural consequence of sharing many interests, you suppose. One of these days, some party somewhere will make it difficult to dart out of the way at just the right moment, to spare you both embarrassment. What will happen when that moment arrives? Fireworks of some kind. With the two of you involved, anything less would simply be disappointing.
The Benefactor: As someone who has occupied many an expensive, uncomfortable theatre seat, it’s difficult for you not to seethe with frustration at how deeply, deeply ludicrous you feel their ideas are. Well, most of them. Every once in a while, something pops out that may just be near brilliance. You’re amused by them, even as their staggering lack of creative instinct makes you want to hang your head in your hands.
The Angel: You’re no stranger to their charms within Le Ciel. They have a spark to them that excites you. You’ve even wondered if they have aspirations away from the world of the club, but with someone so mysterious, you feel you can never be sure.
Possible faceclaims: Jeremy Irons, Bill Nighy, Naveen Andrews, suggest more!
The Critic is open.