Arguably, the most important dramatic writer in English in the second half of the 20th century is Harold Pinter. To close this season, the last under the direct stewardship of Artistic Director, Robert Woodruff and his associate Gideon Lester, the American Repertory Theatre has turned to Boston's senior director, David Wheeler. Wheeler, a founder of the Theatre Company of Boston, one of the seminal groups in the renaissance of local theatre, has done 14 plays by Pinter, three for the ART. For this production of the author's 1975 musing on the past and the future for poets, Wheeler has gotten TCB regular Paul Benedict to return to the Hub.to play Hirst, a well-to-do aging writer, a part originated by Ralph Richardson. As his foil, Spooner, he's brought in regional acting veteran, Max Wright , for the part originally done by John Geilgud. The two waltz through the dense language of the piece, perhaps achieving more than is actually there.
The two younger members of the cast are more recognizably "Pinteresque." A.R.T./MXAT student Henry David Clarke plays Hirst's flamboyant son, Foster, while actor/filmmaker Lewis D. Wheeler plays his rough companion, Briggs. The two take care of the old man with the author's usual combination of servility and superiority. They have a backstory, but, perhaps because of when the play was written, little is revealed. In actuality, very little is revealed about this quartet, who are all very clearly unreliable narrators, for themselves and each other.
The action, such as there is, plays out on an imposing set designed by J. Michael Griggs, a grand sitting room which is almost a temple to drink, which the two old men do almost constantly. It's been suggested that this work, written mid-career, is Pinter's response to Eliot's "The Wasteland." The situation is certainly bleak enough. But that's almost all it is. The piece is full of complex speeches which can fascinating to try and follow, but which ultimately lead nowhere. However, it doesn't seem a waste of time to listen, though the fact that nothing happens is ultimately disappointing.
There's just no play there. No character finished the piece further along on life's journey that he started. Hirst's final speech, which might be taken as summation, is mostly reiteration. Then the show's over. All the questions of social hierarchy, of the place of the poet, of day to day living are still up in the air. Spooner has a recurring line, "I've been here before." Half way through the evening, say the start of the second act, the audience may have the same impression, despite Wheeler's valiant attempt to keep things interesting.
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