Mamet, David (Vol. 15)
David Mamet's funny, haunting "A Life in the Theatre" … is entirely a matter of conversations between two actors—a young one, John …, and an older one, Robert…. They meet when they are rehearsing together for a show, and over the course of the evening we follow the growth of their friendship…. [Collaterally, we follow their careers through] fingernail parodies of various hack scenes from every conceivable kind of hack play the two actors have appeared in…. Mr. Mamet has exposed the character of Robert—a sympathetic exposure, to be sure—and under all the pomposities and nonsense we see the nervous, touchy, tentative, and very lonely older man who must rely on the conventions and the lore of "the boards" to give him some inner dignity and confidence. (pp. 115-16)
Mr. Mamet has written—in gentle ridicule; in jokes, broad and tiny; and in comedy, high and low—a love letter to the theatre. It is quite a feat, and he has pulled it off. (p. 116)
Edith Oliver, "Actor Variations," in The New Yorker (© 1977 by The New Yorker Magazine, Inc.), Vol. LIII, No. 37, October 31, 1977, pp. 115-16.∗
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I disliked [A Life in the Theatre]. But I soon realized that my annoyance was not induced by the fact that it was a trifle (talented artists are permitted their piffle) but by the gush with which it has been received by most of the press—celebrated as if it were the best of Mamet.
It is composed of glimpses of two actors, preparing back-stage for performances and, on stage, acting bits from plays they appear in at various times. The "life in the theatre" consists of the display of such gags as an actor "going up" on (forgetting) his lines or trying to hide the accident of a missing zipper. We also hear the older actor talking inspired nonsense (except when his momentary embarrassment makes him honestly profane), while the younger one is either duly respectful or justifiably exasperated by the arty homilies. (p. 504)
What we see is not a life in the theatre (not even a reasonable caricature of it) but a cliché that exists for the most part in the minds of those "out front" who know the theatre chiefly through anecdotal hearsay. "Ephemera, ephemera," the veteran actor murmurs wistfully. Ephemera indeed. Very little of this has anything to do with the pain, the pleasure, the glamour, the fun or follies of theatrical life. It is all an inside joke of which the real absurdity is the sophomoric response it has produced. But that is not Mamet's fault. I look forward eagerly to his future work…. (pp. 504-05)...
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David Mamet's disappointing comedy "The Water Engine" … is a sendup of radio drama in the thirties and at the same time an attempt to recapture the spirit and mood of the period…. Mr. Mamet has supplied any number of shrewd atmospheric touches to the broadcast: a sound-effects man works busily in a booth upstage left, the actors casually double and triple their roles, and there are commercial breaks and organ "stings." And the broadcast episode itself is carefully set in its time and place….
Yet Mr. Mamet's play is a synthetic that doesn't work. Its ponderous irony … and its foolishness are poor substitutes for his usual original humor or his usual subtle tension. Or, indeed, for authenticity. These radio actors pantomime stage business and play to one another; real radio actors play only to the microphone, and they rarely raise their eyes from the script or change their expressions (I speak as a veteran of radio)—it is all done with voices. (p. 69)
Edith Oliver, "Watered Down," in The New Yorker (© 1978 by The New Yorker Magazine, Inc.), Vol. LIII, No. 48, January 19, 1978, pp. 69-70.
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[A Life in the Theatre is Mamet's] least characteristic play. Ordinarily he works from an oblique angle of vision, in flat tones. Life is all surface flamboyance, sight gags and gimmickry, lush language and posturing—in short, closer to a Feydeau farce than to the Beckett-like minimalism to which Mamet more typically aspires…. At its best, Life is a mildly amusing diversion; at its more frequent worst, it is a tedious, offensively banal caricature of what daily life in the theater is actually like.
The sheer awkwardness of the play surprised me, since Mamet is the most technically proficient of the new writers. In The Water Engine he manages skillfully to juxtapose a 1930s radio play about an idealistic young inventor pursued by the evil forces of corporate greed with the inane chatter of a "Century of Progress" tour guide—and, in addition, intercuts ominous injunctions from a chain letter, which the actors take turns in reading out. Where the transitions in Life are amateurishly abrupt or nonexistent, in The Water Engine Mamet … interweaves his triangulated tale with such dexterity that we're absorbed into the intricate shifts of time, place, and mood. Initially, that is. Once we catch on to the alternations in rhythm, the play's fascination rapidly evaporates…. Eventually anger takes over instead—that so much is being put at the service of so little. Mamet has subtitled the play...
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David Mamet strikes me as one of the more curious figures in the American theater. Two works by the young playwright, Sexual Perversity in Chicago and Duck Variations, I thought very promising. But everything else of his—and he has been sedulously turning out new stuff as well as ransacking old drawers—I found slightly or vastly disappointing. Now, The Woods hits the nadir. Two youthful lovers have set up housekeeping in the young man's family's summer house at the onset of a symbolic autumn; they are babes in the woods all right, but less lost than the playwright himself in the underbrush of literary trendiness….
Mamet's writing is so sketchy and aimless that one cannot be quite sure how [his two characters] were intended….
As usual, Mamet seems to mean his play to be about language—language that under its banalities or eccentricities conceals desperate urgencies. This is the sort of thing that almost every contemporary playwright has toyed with, and that Mamet often lumberingly toils over. Yet his words stubbornly refuse to reverberate or hint at disturbed depths, whether he flattens them out to echolalia or tries to heighten them into quasi-poetry, or even kicks them sideways into a weirdness that is supposed to tease us with its mystery. None of these strategies works…. (p. 75)
John Simon, "Permanents and Transients," in New York...
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In several of his plays, most notably in American Buffalo, Mamet has demonstrated genuine dramatic gifts. He possesses a tender sensibility and a keen sense of the stage. His plays shift in focus and in aim, as if they were meant not so much to interest or entertain us as to discover who he is: Mamet appears to be seeking his theme, his artistic identity. It is a quest which inspires sympathy. (p. 581)
[The Woods] is all literally "true to life"—which is exactly what troubles me. Innumerable love affairs everywhere may be similarly graphed, even to the point of the nervously inconsequential fragments of speech with which the lovers communicate. The play implies that, especially in the matter of love, we are all in the "woods." The phenomena of nature itself surround and wrap us in an impenetrable dark mystery, unresponsive to reasoned explanation.
This sentiment in itself may be banal, but that does not preclude its serving as material, even the essence, of sound drama. How many vital truths about life are there anyway? But the "realism" here dispels the larger dimension sought for. In language and behavior the characters are too concrete and superficially recognizable to take wing. We fail to learn anything beyond their immediate and unexceptional situation. They are not transfigured by any special insight, psychological or intuitive. The obvious symbolism—the maze of the lonely wooded landscape in...
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David Mamet's A Life in the Theatre offers a decidedly unglamorous view of the show business world. It emphasises not the ecstatic moments of applause, nor the passionate relationships of those caught up in that world, but the mundane routine of the acting profession. The play's title is surprisingly literal. It is a way of life that the drama seeks to evoke, and it concentrates exclusively upon the theatre, showing almost no concern for anything that takes place beyond the stage door.
The play is written as a series of extremely short, separate scenes linked only by the two characters, both actors, who appear in them all….
There is no storyline to join the different incidents and conversations together, but what the play lacks in plot it partly makes up for in atmosphere….
The image of theatre that the play projects is inevitably limited and distorted by the fact that it is written as a two-character drama. The final result, though a valuable corrective to the 'no business like show business' idea, is no more wholly satisfying or complete, and ironically the concentration upon stage mishaps tends ultimately to reinforce the mythological glamour of theatre, not destroy it. The impression of flawless perfection and feted achievement may be undermined, but it is only replaced with an impression of delightful gaiety and exhilarating unpredictability.
Nevertheless, the play...
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The making of Mamet's America is founded upon a verbal busyness, glib, deft, quick; the parenthetical asides that lace his dialogue (destined, undoubtedly, to become as celebrated as Pinter's pauses) suggest minds that abhor verbal vacuums, that operate, at all levels, on the energy of language itself…. Because so much of the activity of his characters is prescribed by their speech, it is often fruitless to analyze their "psychology": like the victors of Dos Passos' U.S.A., like Jay Gatsby, like the unenlightened of a Hemingway novel, they behave as their language directs them to behave, with unquestioning faith in its values. (pp. 2-3)
The similarities are striking … between Mamet and the early Pinter. Both are what we might call magic realists. Both are drawn to situations of uneasy, sometimes claustrophobic intimacy between two or three characters, among whom there is an unacknowledged sparring for power. In both, speech has an air of phonographic accuracy, with all its repetitions, ellipses, and illogicalities intact, acquiring both on the page and in performance an often comically surreal intensity. But the drama enacted by the characters of, say, The Caretaker, is enacted behind the refuge of speech: they venture out nakedly before each other at the cost, as they realize, of their safety and freedom. Mamet's characters, on the other hand, are their language; they exist insofar as—and to the extent...
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["Reunion"] is about the reunion, after twenty-one years, of a father and his daughter in his apartment in Boston…. Needless to say (for this is Mamet), the humor—and there is plenty of it—is as true as the emotion. By the time the play is over, two lives have been laid bare before us…. Time after time, the conversation plunges into depths, and time after time the father brings it back to the surface, realizing, after another reminiscent anecdote that comes to nothing, that all they have is the present and that they must go on from there. The ending is moving and right for this most moving play…. Mr. Mamet's ear for the small rhythms and patterns of the speech of working people and his sense of the subtle inflections of emotion in his characters is unerring. In its spare language and in the pressure of silence between the words, "Reunion," like "Duck Variations," is a poem for two voices—and a distinguished and remarkable one….
["The Sanctity of Marriage"] eluded me, and it was not a matter of its not quite working, either; with Mamet, it's all or nothing. In "Dark Pony"—just as brief, and a charmer—a father …, [driving his little girl] home in the middle of the night, tells her a familiar, scary, comforting story about an Indian brave and his pony, which is ultimately so reassuring that she has almost drowsed off by the time they turn in to their own road. Mood is all, and mood is maintained....
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[Reunion] consists of two wretched curtain raisers of about 10 minutes apiece, which finally raise the (figurative) curtain on a 45-minute play that, though appreciably better, is still nothing on which a curtain especially needs to rise. In The Sanctity of Marriage, a few feeble comments on the evanescence of conjugal love are implied; it is all rather as if a couple of pages from a mediocre but full-length play were ripped out and served up as an autonomous and astonishing whole. The only astonishing thing here is the impudence.
Dark Pony is a children's play…. The eponymous pony turns out otherwise than expected. That might be enough for a postprandial joke, but it is lean fare for a play, particularly given the flavorless language.
Finally, Reunion concerns an unhappily married daughter's seeking out her feckless and lonely father…. They have little to give beyond frequently disconcerting platitudes, but keep staggering toward a relationship. This could be touching—if only Mamet had more insight into heads and hearts instead of merely gluing his ears in arrested development to people's mouths.
Mamet, moreover, instead of building on [his] aptitude [for capturing speech patterns accurately], has pared away at it. He began by at least placing his characters in somewhat unusual or piquant situations before all that leveling literalness set in; now he surrounds them...
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