A Bad Year for English Dramatists

First Simon Gray popped his clogs, and now Harold Pinter is swearing and chain smoking in the sky. Not unexpected in either case, but still a pity.

I heard Pinter speak in 2005, having read a few of his plays and found them vaguely entertaining at best, puzzling, stiff and impenetrable at worst. He started the lecture by reading from his most recent play. As I sat there laughing and enjoying every second, I realised that on the page the scene he was reading must have been turgid as hell. (Beckett is like this as well, I find.)

"I must go see a production of one of Pinter's works," I thought to myself. But did I? Did I hell. I didn't even make it to the big West End revival of No Man's Land last autumn.

Maybe there will be a flurry of Pinter productions now he's shuffled off his mortal coil, and I'll be able to make good on my resolution. At least I got to hear the man himself while I still could.