Rex Reed didn't just review movies; he performed criticism. His death at 87 closes a chapter in American cultural life when critics commanded their own spotlight, wielded genuine influence, and could make or break careers with a perfectly placed barb. Reed, who died Tuesday at his Manhattan home, represented something we've largely abandoned: the critic as celebrity, complete with feuds, favorites, and a persona as carefully cultivated as any Hollywood star's.
The last of the gladiators
Reed emerged in the 1960s when film criticism was becoming a blood sport. Alongside Pauline Kael and Andrew Sarris, he helped transform movie reviewing from genteel appreciation into intellectual combat. But where Kael brought theory and Sarris brought auteurism, Reed brought pure, unfiltered personality. He fawned over Old Hollywood glamour while eviscerating what he saw as modern cinema's vulgarity. His reviews read like gossip columns with better vocabulary.
This approach made him both influential and infamous. Frank Sinatra wanted to punch him. Nora Ephron marveled at his ability to extract devastating quotes. Studios feared him, stars courted him, and readers couldn't look away. In an era before Rotten Tomatoes reduced criticism to percentages, Reed's opinion could shift box office receipts and dinner party conversations alike.
The Instagram effect
Today's film criticism exists in a fundamentally different ecosystem. Social media has democratized opinion-making while simultaneously flattening it. Everyone's a critic, but nobody's Rex Reed. The closest we get are YouTube personalities and TikTok reviewers, but their influence feels diffuse, algorithmic, less consequential. They build communities, not cults of personality.
The shift isn't entirely negative. Modern criticism is more diverse, less beholden to coastal gatekeepers, more responsive to audience tastes. But something has been lost in the transition. Reed's caustic wit and unapologetic elitism would be canceled within hours on Twitter. His feuds would be reduced to screenshot fodder. His decades-long championing of certain stars and savage dismissal of others would be impossible in an era demanding constant ideological consistency.
Our take
Reed's death feels like the final curtain on criticism as performance art. Whether that's cause for mourning or celebration depends on your tolerance for cultural gatekeeping dressed in wit and malice. But in our age of aggregated opinions and five-star ratings, there's something almost quaint about a time when one person's taste could matter so much. Reed didn't just review films; he created drama around the act of reviewing them. In our more democratic but less theatrical media landscape, we'll likely never see his kind again.
