IF HAROLD PINTER REPRESENTS THE PEAK of the post-war English drama, then that drama is not good enough. Good as he is, he nevertheless lacks that quality of greatness we so ardently desire in great plays that move us deeply. And in the phrase, "great plays that move us deeply," I have probably betrayed my own shortcomings in my response to Pinter as well as what in my opinion are his deficiencies. There can be no doubt that Pinter is the most accomplished dramatist writing in English for the Theater of the Absurd. His nearest rival is Edward Albee, who, like Pinter, can write a play with beautifully ambiguous overtones of meaning—The Sandbox, for instance—and who is very skillful in his use of the vernacular, but sometimes, unlike Pinter, lets the words flow on in a flood. Pinter, as a playwright of the absurd, invariably prefers the tense, symbolic manner of Samuel Beckett. The tight economy of his writing emphasizes the tension in the situations of his plays. A large part of his accomplishment is his ability to persuade us that he is presenting a life-like situation in traditionally realistic terms; that is, until we are jolted into an awareness of utter absurdity. Isolated elements in his plays are intensely realistic; the combination of elements is utterly absurd.
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