PETER RABY
Introduction
Putting together a collection of essays about a living writer carries a special
sense of excitement, even danger. Harold Pinter, at the age of seventy, is still
extremely active, and prominent, as a playwright, as the double bill of The
Room, his first play, and Celebration, his latest, at the Almeida Theatre in
spring 2000, demonstrated: he also directed both plays. His acting career
continues, for example with his role of Sir Thomas Bertram in Mansfield
Park. Later in the year, Remembrance of Things Past, a stage version of The
Proust Screenplay, was produced at the Royal National Theatre. Meanwhile,
there is a steady stream of productions of earlier plays, written over a period
of more than forty years, both in English and in translation, which ensures a
continuing refreshment and reappraisal of the whole range of Pinter’s work.
Pinter the dramatist is protean: his writing moulds itself apparently effortlessly
to the forms of radio and television, as well as to the stage, and several
plays have been successful in all three media. Major plays – major, in terms of
length – have been successfully adapted for film, and Pinter has had an
additional career as an outstanding screenwriter, perhaps most notably in
conjunction with Joseph Losey. He was a poet before he became a playwright,
and has written a novel and a substantial number of essays. His career as a
professional actor began in 1951, and as a director in 1959. The problem he
poses is both where to begin, and where to end.
Pinter is, by purely statistical reckoning, one of the most widely performed
and best-known dramatists in the contemporary world. He has also become
an academic subject. There is an active Pinter Society in the United States,
producing an annual Pinter Record. There are Pinter conferences, and an
increasingly formidable body of Pinter studies. British playwrights have
become more used to being part of the canon, a literary phenomenon of the
later twentieth century. In the 1960s, a search for the individually published
plays of Pinter and Stoppard in the main catalogue of Cambridge University
Library would draw a blank; they could be tracked down to the handwritten
supplementary catalogue: the clear assumption was that individual plays
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were ephemeral, and certainly not material for serious enquiry. Now that
drama and theatre have become recognised and valued areas of study, in spite
of occasional disparaging comments about ‘soft’ subjects by the relentlessly
philistine, Pinter is unequivocally a focus for a wide range of critical
approaches. Pinter’s presence on the syllabus of, for example, Advanced
Level Theatre Studies has meant that generations of English sixth-formers
have been introduced to his distinctive voice; and his plays are frequently and
widely performed in schools and universities, ensuring that he is very far from
being simply the province of older theatre-going generations. In Sir Peter
Hall’s recent Clark Lectures at Cambridge, on the idea of the mask, he
concluded by discussing the plays of Beckett and Pinter, in a series of reference
points that stretched, in terms of dramatic writing, from Aeschylus to
Shakespeare and Mozart. There seemed no incongruity, only continuity.
If Pinter was embraced warmly, and relatively early by academia, he has
been treated a little more erratically by theatre critics. The Birthday Party
foxed them in 1958, with the striking exception of Harold Hobson, who had
had the benefit of seeing The Room in Bristol. The Birthday Party was a new
kind of theatrical writing, posing challenges for director, actors and audiences;
though audiences at Cambridge and Oxford, uninfluenced by any
critical lead, responded positively. Over the years, the reviewers’ response
has adjusted, both to ‘early’ Pinter, and to successive shifts and developments
in his work. Even some of Pinter’s most fervent admirers have been wrongfooted
by specific later plays, which for different reasons have seemed uncharacteristic,
or out of key. Michael Billington, for example, examines, in The
Life and Work of Harold Pinter, why he himself was so hostile initially to
Betrayal, and suggests that he failed to realise at a first viewing that the play is
about, in Peter Hall’s phrase, self-betrayal. Pinter’s plays share the nature of
innovative work in not necessarily revealing themselves at first sight: a
dangerous trait in the ephemeral world of theatre, where first impressions
often dictate success or rapid failure. Critics, reviewers and academics constructed
a vocabulary to help us deal with the elusive quality in Pinter:
Pinteresque, the Pinter pause, comedy of menace. Pinter went on evolving,
ignoring the categories. If Betrayal seemed a sharp swerve of direction, the
overtly political plays such as One for the Road and Mountain Language
threw down another kind of gauntlet; then there is the different mode of A
Kind of Alaska, and the shift apparent in Ashes to Ashes; while Celebration
seemed to