SOURCE: Gill, A. A. “Harold Pauses, Antonia Is Silent.” Spectator 277, no. 8776 (28 September 1996): 31.

In the following review, Gill asserts that Pinter's Ashes to Ashes ultimately does not make sense.

On first nights, the Ivy—that communal greenroom for the boulevard arts—always has a particular atmosphere. Last Wednesday, there was a definite frisson, a froideur. The room was minding its p's and q's, sotto voce. As I sat down, I saw why. There, two tables away in a corner, was Harold Pinter—a theatrical lion at the watering-hole. Pinter is not one of those one-encore Wizard of Oz lions; not a ‘you-were-wonderful-darling-sing-us-a-medley-of-your-hit-sensations’. Pinter is the real thing—a dramatic classic—and he comes with his own unique atmosphere, like cerebral aftershave. He had also come with Lady Antonia.

As the waiter approached bearing champagne, I thought how uncomfortable it must be to serve Harold Pinter—the bloke who wrote...