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Playwright David Mamet believes that academics and theater critics have mistakenly beatified Tennessee Williams.
by Bill Marx
Boston, MA - December 15, 2005 -
Playwright David Mamet argued in a 2003 "Guardian" article that Tony Curtis was a greater actor than Laurence Olivier. Now, after
really disliking a London production of "The Night of the Iguana," Mamet
proclaims that academic and theater critics have mistakenly beatified Tennessee
Williams. It may be time to call in a handler.
The irony is that scathing attacks
on Williams have been made by the very academics and reviewers Mamet condemns
in
the piece as "the educationally
overburdened." Williams's artistic stature has been challenged for decades.
The 1962 premiere of "The Night of the Iguana" kicked off a prolonged
period of drubbing, typified by the headline for Richard Gilman's 1963 review
of "The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore": "Mistuh Williams,
He Dead." The lambasting helped propel Williams into a self-destructive
descent into drugs and alcohol. Aside from the unquestioned successes of "The
Glass Menagerie" and "A Streetcar Named Desire," Williams's scripts
were infrequently produced in the '80s and '90s.
That has changed of late, with
companies large and small staging Williams's lesser known scripts, looking for
neglected gems. In New England this season, for example, Hartford Stage, as
part of an ongoing commitment to presenting the plays of Williams, is staging
his comedy "A Lovely Sunday for Creve
Coeur." The SpeakEasy Stage Company is producing "Five by Tenn," an
evening of one-act plays. From the shows I have seen, prospects for sainthood
are dicey. There have been no astonishing rediscoveries, though poking around
in corners of Williams's oeuvre has encouraged a deeper appreciation of his
achievement, its strengths and weaknesses.
Mamet will have none of any reevaluation,
however, asserting that Williams was washed up by the time he hit middle age
because writing good plays "requires
the courage of youth still inspired by rejection and as yet unperverted by success." So
much for Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, who were writing masterpieces
into old age, as well as such decent middle-aged achievers as Shakespeare, Shaw,
Ibsen, Pirandello, etc.
Mamet admits that "The Night of the Iguana" has dramatic poetry,
but that doesn't matter. According to him, Williams fails to write dialogue that
advances "the intention of the character." If a stage character doesn't "want
something from someone else" then the play is no good. In "The Night
of the Iguana," says Mamet, "nothing happens," "folks show
up, declare their particular brand of unhappiness and life goes on." If
that is the standard, Beckett certainly is overrated. Mamet has a point about
dramatists who self-indulgently let their characters gas on. But he is wrong
about "Iguana." Gilman puts it well: the play posits "that there
is a need for courage and for the acceptance of mortal frailty in ourselves
and others."
Mamet's article says less about an out-of-control Williams cult than about
the course of his own stage career. His theater work since 1984's "Glengarry Glen Ross" has been mostly mediocre. Now approaching 60, Mamet is a major
dramatist turned minor film director, a disappointing case himself of the artistic
perversion brought on by success.
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