Directors who turn into big babies and shut out criticism stop

Hear the words of Richard King, sharp as a sword and honest as the voice of conscience: “Directors who turn into big babies and shut out criticism stop learning.” Though he speaks of directors, his words are not bound to the realm of film alone. They resound across all crafts, all disciplines, all callings where pride may harden the heart. For to close one’s ears to criticism is to shut the gates of wisdom, and to stop learning is to begin the slow death of the spirit.

The image of the “big baby” is no insult alone; it is a parable. For the infant wails when contradicted, refuses to hear, demands constant affirmation. In an adult, such behavior is ruin. The leader who craves only praise becomes blind to his own faults, deaf to the counsel of others, and soon stagnant in his art. King reminds us that mastery is never final—there is always more to learn, always higher to climb. Only the humble, who welcome correction, ascend to true greatness.

History itself testifies. Think of Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome, who though crowned with absolute power, kept by his side tutors and advisors whose words he treasured, even when harsh. His Meditations reveal a man constantly correcting himself, learning from both friend and foe. Contrast him with emperors like Nero, who silenced all voices of dissent. Nero, feeding only on flattery, grew monstrous and blind, and his rule ended in fire and ruin. Thus, the tale is clear: those who welcome criticism grow wiser, those who shut it out collapse beneath their own arrogance.

The world of art offers the same lesson. Consider Orson Welles, whose Citizen Kane was hailed as a triumph, yet who in later years resisted criticism, clinging to his own vision without balance. His brilliance was undoubted, but his refusal to adapt left many of his later projects unfinished, consumed by ego and mistrust. In contrast, directors such as Akira Kurosawa or Ingmar Bergman listened, adapted, and collaborated, allowing their craft to deepen with age. Their humility kept their artistry alive, while pride stifled others.

King’s words strike at a truth that applies to all: to stop learning is to stop living. For what is life if not a continual education? The sculptor learns from the stone, the farmer from the soil, the teacher from the student, the leader from the people. Criticism, though sharp, is the whetstone that sharpens the blade of skill. Without it, the edge dulls, and the work loses its power. The wise do not resent correction; they treasure it, for in it lies the mirror that reveals what pride hides.

The lesson is clear: welcome correction, however bitter it may taste. Do not be like the “big baby” who craves comfort and rejects truth. Instead, be like the warrior who accepts the discipline of the master, or the sailor who listens to the wind. Criticism is not your enemy, but your teacher; it is the doorway through which growth enters. Guard yourself against the poison of flattery, for it soothes but does not strengthen.

Practical action lies before us. When corrected, resist the urge to defend yourself—pause, listen, and reflect. Ask whether truth hides within the rebuke. Surround yourself not with flatterers but with those who will speak honestly, even at the risk of offending. And in your own work, seek feedback not as judgment, but as nourishment. For each word of correction, if heeded, becomes a seed of wisdom that will bear fruit in time.

Thus, Richard King’s words endure as a timeless teaching: those who shut out criticism stop learning. To remain teachable is the path to mastery, to wisdom, and to life itself. Let every generation remember this: that humility is the soil in which greatness grows, and that only the open ear and open heart may continue to ascend the mountain of knowledge.