Without attempting to enthrone Albee alongside anyone (though I personally admire him above all other Americans now writing for the stage), or to hail Virginia Woolf as a classic of the modern theatre (which I have no doubt it will become), I would only state that, in my experience, a more honest or moral (in the true sense) playwright does not exist—unless it be Samuel Beckett. To blame Albee for the "sickness" of his subject matter is like blaming the world's ashcans on the creator of Nagg and Nell—which has been done [Schneider is referring to an essay by Richard Schechner; see excerpt above]. And if what Albee is doing is giving us a "sentimentalized" view of ourselves rather than one as harshly and starkly unsentimental as any I know, why didn't those theatre party ladies buy it up ahead of time as they do all those other technicolor postcards which pass for plays? Or is Albee not rather dedicated to smashing that rosy view, shocking us with the truth of our present-day behavior and thought, striving to purge us into an actual confrontation with reality? Anyone who has read any portion of any play he has ever written surely must sense the depth of his purpose and recognize, to some extent, the power of the talent which is at his disposal; certainly no intelligent, aware individual today can fail to recognize somewhere in Albee's characters and moods the stirring of his own viscera, the shadow of his own self-knowledge.
If the child in Virginia Woolf is merely a "gimmick," then so is the wild duck, the cherry orchard, that streetcar with the special name, even our old elusive friend Godot. But Albee's play is not about the child—just as Godot is not about Godot but about the waiting for him—but about the people who have had to create him as a "beanbag" or crutch for their own insufficiencies and failures, and now are left to find their own way, if there is to be a way, free of him. If truth and illusion are not exactly original themes, any more than they were for O'Neill, the test is not what but how and how specifically the writer illuminates the immediacy of human life. If Albee's particular choice is more lacking in plot than our editor wishes, its reality is based upon a classic simplicity, a contemporary feeling unmatched in our theatre, a musical economy—in spite of its length—and an ability to hold and shatter his audience.
This is a free excerpt of 416 words. There are 661 words (approx.
2 pages at 300 words per page) in the full critical essay.
Read the rest of this Criticism with our Albee, Edward 1928–: Critical Essay by Alan Schneider Access Pass.
