Anthony Lane

A friend of mine (thanks mate) first drew my attention to Anthony Lane, a film critic for “The New Yorker”, when he sent me a link to his review, Lane’s and not my friend’s, of the Spiderman sequel. I have been reading him regularly ever since because the New Yorker is one of those magazines that makes its money through whatever means, but it is not by charging people to read their stuff online. None of this subscription and premium content nonsense here. Indeed, not even any pesky registrations and watch this advertisement kind of stuff.

I read the best of reviewers, usually from the NY times and Salon, but Lane brings a sense of freshness to reviewing that has made me approach his writing with the enthusiasm of rereading “Uncle Fred in springtime”. And after I read a lengthy tribute by him to Wodehouse, that revealed him to be right on top of the list of Plum fans, I have liked his writing even more. Wodehouse fans are right-minded people.

Lane combines an impeccable sense of film criticism with a great sense of humour in near perfect writing. I specially enjoy the humour. This is not just the sort of thing that critics bring to a review when they gleefully trash a lemon. It is weaved consistently and beautifully into the writing. Just sample the opening of his latest review of “ Sin city”.
“Here is something that we never thought to see. Something that exists beyond the bounds of logic: a scary Elijah Wood. Presumably, the actor looked around, seeking a film that would dispel the ripe aroma of Frodo Baggins, happened upon “Sin City,” and found the role of Kevin—a mute, bespectacled type who removes the heads of young women and dines upon the rest of them. Wood is ominously good at the stillness of this maniac, which only doubles the shock. It’s like discovering that Gandalf used to lure young hobbits into a shed and show them his special wand”.

It is hard to put things in a niftier way. If you can read only one critic, it should be Lane, who can be read in "The current cinema” (along with David Denby). Although, if you are reading this, clearly you are the sort of person who has the time to read all the reviews in the world.

His writings from the New Yorker are also available in a book called "Nobody's perfect"