The Homecoming
There always seemed to be a current of dark humor coursing through the work of Harold Pinter–until about 15 years ago, that is, when he turned his attention to more overtly political parables, brief but horrifying tracts that could fit on a scant few pages. His 1988 12-page police-state drama Mountain Language is a prime example of a Pinter play dominated by horror, however absurd. But in 1965, when The Homecoming premiered in London, Pinter’s work still had a gleeful menace, derived largely from the banal way in which he presented evil: mordantly amoral, the play is reminiscent of Richard III exulting over wooing the widow of the man he’s just murdered. Funny in the grotesque way that Kafka is funny, The Homecoming features characters who make the absolute worst of a bad situation.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
In December The Homecoming was appearing on more than a few of those lists of the 20th century’s greatest plays. And it does have all the hallmarks of Pinter’s best work–a sense of dread in words not spoken, profound irony, layer upon layer of ambiguity, a caustic wit. But it’s not his subtlest piece, with a bilious tone that recalls Pinter’s contemporaries Joe Orton and Edward Albee as much as it does such understated Pinter masterpieces as Betrayal, The Collection, and Old Times. Like Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? this piece deals with the family unit and with academics and their wives. It also plays like an archetypal nightmare–the story of the prodigal son gone horribly awry.
“They’re my family,” Teddy tells Ruth. “They’re not ogres.”
Famous Door’s revival, directed by Gary Griffin, is the fourth production of The Homecoming I’ve seen; the others are the 1973 Peter Hall film starring Ian Holm and Vivien Merchant; a riveting Steppenwolf revival about ten years ago featuring Alan Wilder, Tom Irwin, and Jim True at his manic best; and a dreadfully flat-footed Berlin production in English about a year and a half ago, performed by a company with the preposterous name of Friends of Italian Opera, in homage to the mobsters’ congregation in Billy Wilder’s Some Like It Hot.
