I think this is a pretty kick-ass performance in a medium that does its best to flatten and embarass live musicians. But perhaps you expect me to say this thing.
I haven't spoken much about the olden days, mostly because I don't remember them but also because, as blogs are already always narcissistic, you gotta be kinda careful. So I'll make it snappy. When I was young and thought playwriting was that next shit, it was almost entirely because of this man. Pinter was the first writer I thought was "mine," in that irrational and essential way that we claim the work of people who change our minds and provide directions. My one decent play (followed by two miserable pieces of shit) is so indebted to Pinter as to be a cover version, in Brooklyn accents. I was young and am entirely proud that I ripped off the right guy. Pinter is the motherfucking man. (I also tried to use Pinter to get over, proposing to the theater department that I direct a production of The Birthday Party, a plan designed solely to generate the chance to cast a girl I had a crush on. Never happened.)Posted by Sasha at October 17, 2005 08:30 PM | TrackBack