We don't make movies for critics, since they don't pay to see

Hear the rugged words of Charles Bronson, a man of the screen who spoke not with the polish of scholars but with the bluntness of truth: “We don’t make movies for critics, since they don’t pay to see them anyhow.” In this simple yet powerful statement lies a defiance that every creator, every laborer of the soul, must one day embrace. It is a reminder that the purpose of art is not to appease the few who judge from lofty towers, but to reach the many whose hearts beat in the darkened halls of the theater, who come with hope, coin, and longing for a story to stir their spirit.

The meaning of this saying is clear. Bronson rejects the tyranny of critics, those who weigh art by their private measures and often stand apart from the common people. He speaks instead for the true audience: the men and women who pay, who choose with their hard-earned wages to sit and be moved. To serve them is to serve the living pulse of society, for they are not bound by theories or ivory towers, but by the need for meaning, for escape, for courage. Thus Bronson reminds us that art belongs not to the critic’s pen, but to the people’s heart.

Consider the tale of Shakespeare, who in his day was not exalted as the untouchable genius we now proclaim, but often dismissed by the learned critics of his age. They mocked his plays as vulgar, too full of jokes for the groundlings, too bloody for the refined. Yet who filled the Globe Theatre? Not the critics, but the people—laborers, merchants, nobles alike—who paid to see the stories that mirrored their own lives in love and tragedy. Shakespeare, like Bronson, knew his duty: not to bow to critics, but to awaken the crowd. Today, centuries later, it is the critics who are forgotten, and the playwright who endures.

History offers another proof in the tale of the Impressionist painters. Monet, Renoir, Degas—all were scorned by the critics of their day. Their works were called childish, unfinished, even offensive. Yet when their art reached the people, it found resonance, and in time the people’s voice drowned out the critics. What the critics dismissed as folly became the new vision of beauty, a revolution of the eye. Here too Bronson’s wisdom speaks: the judgment of critics is fleeting, but the response of the people endures.

The lesson we must learn is this: do not create for the approval of the few who sit in judgment. Do not seek endlessly the praise of experts who hold no stake in your labor. Create for those whose lives you touch, whose days are lifted by your work, whose burdens are lightened by your craft. Whether in art, in labor, or in life, the true measure is not applause from the lofty, but gratitude from the many.

Practical action follows: if you are an artist, a maker, or even a worker in some humble trade, ask yourself—for whom do I labor? If your heart is shackled to the critic’s opinion, you will forever chase shadows. But if your heart is given to those you serve—the listener, the reader, the viewer, the neighbor—you will find a strength that endures even when critics scorn. Let your compass be the living needs of the people, not the fleeting frowns of those who risk nothing.

So let Bronson’s words resound: “We don’t make movies for critics, since they don’t pay to see them anyhow.” They are a call to courage, to independence, to loyalty to the true audience of life. May we, too, learn to live not for the empty praise of judges who stand apart, but for the joy, the comfort, the strength we bring to those who walk beside us. For in the end, it is not the critics who remember us, but the people whose lives we touched.