To the Editor:
Thanks to Alfred Chester for the truth [“Edward Albee: Red Herrings & White Whales,” April]—non-capitalized, non-symbolic, uni-level and precise.—about Edward Albee and the school of American drama he represents. . . . I would quarrel only with his tribute to Albee’s qualities as an entertainer, a concession which seems excessively generous. Is Albee witty, “dramatic,” etc., or does he only seem so . . . by comparison with the mediocrity that is squirted into an insensitive audience’s ear already scarred by previous dosages of the same? Whose fault is it—pandering producers’, vulgar publics’, undemanding critics’—that American playwrights today seem to feel that the only equipment required for their profession is a willingness to spill their guts all over the stage? (Even the most trifling import from England, on the other hand, indicates that over there, in the motherland of the tongue, writers still seem to feel that a gift for language, at least, is indispensable to the practice of their craft.) One may grant Albee an ear for lifelike dialogue, but even then one cannot be sure—and I suggest this in all earnestness—that he didn’t simply tape a lot of this stuff . . . and then proceed to organize it in an (inadequately) edited version. If he didn’t, I suppose that the suspicion could be construed as a compliment, but it isn’t really. Does mechanistic reproduction qualify as art? . . . Lady Macbeth, after all, didn’t talk like the lady next door, and neither of the Macbeths, for that matter, were one whit less objectionable as possible next-door neighbors than the psychopaths that Albee has assembled on the stage at the Billy Rose. Still, one’s heart goes out to those Elizabethan creations because to this day—lifelike dialogue or no—they have size! . . .
My guess is that Virginia Woolfs amazing . . . popularity lies in the fact that most of the audience finds itself happily unable to identify with Albee’s characters. He provides them with an evening of escape and relaxation, like an Agatha Christie. . . If his stuff isn’t very funny, at least it isn’t depressing; and it is divertingly sensational—a painless peepshow. Nor, reassuringly, is it long-hair Art (though it is pretentious enough so that over after-theater coffee one can discuss it as if it were) . . .
Margery Silver
Roslyn Heights, New York
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To the Editor:
Alfred Chester seems to have missed the point about Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? All through the play, the characters play games of alliteration like “Get the Guests,” “Hump the Hostess,” and “Bringing Up Baby.” This brings up the question of what game Albee is playing. Who are George and Martha really supposed to be? A little reflection shows us that they are Jason and Medea of Greek legend.
Albee’s theme . . . is the diminishing differences between the sexes today, or the increasing masculinity of the female, etc. The sterility of the characters, far from being obscure or incidental, is essential to it. His device for bringing out the point of diminishing sexual differences is the reversal of the legendary roles of Jason and Medea.
Medea was, of course, a princess in a small kingdom, and Martha, daughter of the college president in a college community, is also a “princess.” In the legend there is antagonism between Jason and Medea’s father. . . Medea married him despite this. George is in an analogous position at the start of the play. Martha’s father has prevented his success, but from this point on, the male and female roles are reversed. It is Martha who attempts adultery; . . . but though in the legend Medea . . . has the power to restore sexual vigor, in the play Martha, the masculine woman, in her “Walpurgisnacht” seems to do the opposite.
Medea’s revenge, as told in the legend, takes two forms. First she sends a beautiful gown to Jason’s would-be bride which magically bursts into flame when put on. Second, in an effort to hurt Jason as much as possible, she murders their children. George, similarly, in this role reversal, has two actions to perform. In the third act . . . he presents a bouquet of snapdragons to Nick (dragons evoke the thought of fire), and hurls them one by one at Nick and Honey in an effort to destroy them morally. And at the climax of the play he murders his and Martha’s (non-existent) offspring.
The classical unities of time and place, the small cast, the dialogues, the off-stage murder, pointing to a Greek tradition, all seem to have gone unnoticed by the critics. Albee’s play is a beautiful transposition of the Greek legend and a timely comment on our society.
Anthony and Dolores Filandro
Brooklyn, New York
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To the Editor:
To begin a critical article on a major work of theater by saying that “it is a truth universally acknowledged that no self-respecting piece of writing, if it wishes to be taken seriously, dare appear in public nowadays without three or four levels of meaning” is fairly typical of Alfred Chester’s technique. He constantly makes statements which only he seems to understand and then backs them up with phrases like “universally acknowledged” or “universally accepted” or “well-known.”
Literature has always been more than a simple recounting of a narrative, and from earliest times when the first critic found meaning beyond I that easily grasped by simple minds, I the accusation has been made of “reading things into the work.” No reader that I know of shouts “Eureka” or “Aha!” as he reads. . . Nor does any approach it, as Mr. Chester suggests, like the Times crossword puzzle. . . .
What I object to, more than anything else, is Mr. Chester’s technique. Under the guise of assisting those who haven’t seen the play, he offers a version of the story that seems to have no relation to the original. The critical technique here is to set up a straw man (or a straw play) and then tear it apart. It doesn’t seem terribly important to Mr. Chester that the play he has recounted is a long way from the play that Mr. Albee wrote. . . . The rest of Mr. Chester’s technique is equally spurious. He excerpts little sections of dialogue . . . which of course could be done by anyone with a copy of the book in his hand. He takes these sections out of context and then draws all sorts of conclusions from them.
Contrary to Mr. Chester’s . . . assumption that the play is a mass of symbols and allegories, it is, like all works of art in the theater . . . a dialogue between living human beings that contains . . . certain universal truths that help us understand the dilemma of our times. . . . Albee shows us what—in real life—always lies just beneath the surface. . . .
Though Mr. Chester’s final paragraph . . . proceeds from a series of syllogisms and non sequiturs, it does not even follow his own premise. The artist never functions as a judge, and Mr. Albee is the first to recognize this. He is, like all artists . . . sharper in his perception . . . more understanding in his commentary, more talented than his critics in the presentation of his work. I fully expected Mr. Chester to complain that Martha and George having been named Martha and George, were probably representative of Martha and George Washington. . . .
The critical process is not one of deciding what you want to say about a work of art and then recounting the work of art to fit your preconceived conclusions. . . I believe the red herrings are Mr. Chester’s, and the white whales—Mr. Albee’s.
Lee R. Bobker
New York City
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