In the history of theatrical criticism, few reviews are as celebrated as a legendary two-word takedown. This masterpiece of wit targeted the 1951 Broadway play, I Am a Camera. The play, written by John Van Druten, adapted Christopher Isherwood’s novel Goodbye to Berlin. However, the production itself is often overshadowed by the concise critique it inspired: “No Leica.” This simple, devastating pun has echoed through the decades. Furthermore, its true origin has become a fascinating literary mystery, with credit being given to a long list of cultural heavyweights.
The genius of the review lies in its clever wordplay. Leica, a renowned German camera manufacturer, sounds phonetically similar to the phrase “like-a.” The play’s title, I Am a Camera, created the perfect setup for this linguistic jab. Consequently, the review wittily implies, “I am a camera, but I don’t like it.” This brilliant economy of language cemented its place in the annals of criticism. It delivered a powerful verdict with unparalleled brevity, something many critics strive for but rarely achieve.
The Mystery of Authorship
For years, the question of who penned this famous line has sparked debate. The list of potential authors reads like a who’s who of mid-century wit. Drama critic Walter Kerr is perhaps the most frequently credited person. However, others attribute the line to humorist Jean Kerr, his wife. The legendary Dorothy Parker, known for her sharp tongue, is another popular candidate. The names don’t stop there; critics like Caroline Lejeune and Kenneth Tynan have also been suggested. This wide range of attributions demonstrates how a memorable quip can become a piece of cultural folklore, detached from its original creator.
Unraveling the Evidence
Despite the rampant speculation, historical records point toward one individual. The evidence strongly suggests that American humorist and radio personality Goodman Ace was the true originator. The key to solving this mystery lies in contemporary documentation from the time of the play’s debut. Specifically, the earliest known attribution appeared just weeks after the play opened on November 29, 1951. This timing is crucial for establishing a credible claim, separating it from the many that would follow years or even decades later.
Indeed, columnist Walter Winchell explicitly credited Ace in his column on December 12, 1951. Winchell referred to “No Leica” as Goodman Ace’s “capsule criticism.” This nearly immediate attribution provides the strongest evidence in the entire case. Subsequently, in March 1952, Reader’s Digest reprinted Winchell’s piece. This publication brought the quip, and Ace’s connection to it, to a much wider national audience. Source
Interestingly, the pun itself was not entirely new. The comedic potential of the Leica brand name had been recognized before the play even existed. For example, a 1937 issue of Sales Management magazine featured the line, “If you Leica me like I Leica you.” The following year, a photography magazine published a humorous lexicon defining “Leica” as a dialect for “like a.” These examples show that the wordplay was already in circulation. However, Goodman Ace Papers – University of Wisconsin-Madison Libraries’s genius was applying this existing pun so perfectly to theatrical criticism.
Debunking the Common Myths
Over time, many false attributions have clouded the story. The most persistent one names Walter Kerr as the author. Yet, this claim falls apart under scrutiny. Kerr’s actual review of I Am a Camera for the New York Herald Tribune was largely positive. He praised Julie Harris’s lead performance and found much to admire in the production. The famous two-word slam is nowhere to be found in his writing. In fact, the first known attribution to Kerr did not appear until 1983 in Diana Rigg’s book No Turn Unstoned, over thirty years after the play premiered.
Other attributions are similarly flawed. The British critic Caroline Lejeune is often credited with a variation, “Me no Leica.” However, this attribution first appeared in 1969, a full 18 years after the fact. Claims that Dorothy Parker, Kenneth Tynan, or Jean Kerr were responsible also lack any contemporary evidence. These attributions began to surface in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s, long after the original review was published. The pattern shows a clear tendency to assign clever remarks to already famous wits, regardless of historical accuracy.
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How a Quip Becomes a Legend
The journey of the “No Leica” review illustrates how cultural memory is formed and sometimes flawed. An anonymous or lesser-known creator’s work can be reassigned to a more famous personality. People are more likely to believe a sharp line came from a known master of wit like Dorothy Parker Society – Biography and Works or Walter Kerr. As the story was retold in magazines, books, and articles over the years, authors often repeated the most famous name associated with it, rather than the one with the best evidence.
In conclusion, while the legend has many authors, the history points to one. The contemporary account from Walter Winchell provides the most compelling case for Goodman Ace. The “No Leica” review remains a perfect example of concise and powerful criticism. Its story serves as a valuable lesson in attribution. Moreover, it reminds us that sometimes the most enduring legends are born from a simple, clever play on words.