Well, I think any critic/reviewer that tells people that sucks right off the bat.
yesyesyesyes. So do I. Which is why I flatly refused to review fiction for which I could find no resonance point.
Years back, when I was doing reviews for the Chronicle, I got sent galleys of the debut novel of a brand new acquaintance. I never mentioned this to her, BTW; so far as I know, she doesn't know now and since we're no longer friends and haven't been for 14 or so years, she doesn't need to.
And I loathed the book with a passion. The biggest issue I would have had to get around was that it was mystical Celtic fantasy: gnomes. Invisible elves. Great broadswords.
Well - okay. I am in the teeny minority of Tolkein-haters out there, but beyond that, this level of overdone magic (with fake-feminist overtones) makes my hair hurt. I read the thing, but by the time I'd reached page 50, my tum was in knots and there was no way I was going to be able to be fair about it. The fact that we shared an agent really put the tin cupola on it.
I sent it back to Pat and Alix and whimpered, and they passed it on to someone who loved the genre. And I always felt I'd done the only reasonable thing. Because just because I can't like the thing, what earthly right does that give me to tell the rest of the world they won't like it?