Gurney, A(lbert) R(amsdell), Jr.
A(lbert) R(amsdell) Gurney, Jr. 1930–
(Has also written under pseudonym of Pete Gurney) American dramatist, novelist, and scriptwriter.
Gurney's dramas depict the lives of America's upper-middle class and are often compared with the stories of John Cheever. Born into an affluent family in Buffalo, New York, Gurney writes satirically of his background, simultaneously defending and exposing the WASP culture. He wrote his first one-act play, Love in Buffalo (1958), while attending the Yale School of Drama and continued to compose one-act dramas throughout the 1960s. Gurney's first full-length play, Scenes from American Life (1970), consists of a series of episodes tracing Buffalo's social elite from the 1930s to the near future. Gurney achieved his first solid commercial success with The Dining Room (1981). Inspired by Thorton Wilder's The Long Christmas Dinner, Gurney's play examines upper-middle class life through a number of vignettes set within a dining room. Explaining the source of his subject matter, Gurney reveals, "I'm looking back over my shoulder with some fondness and bemusement—and sometimes amazement—at the strange ways I lived."
(See also Contemporary Authors, Vols. 77-80.)
I don't know whether A. R. Gurney, Jr.'s "Scenes From American Life" can really be called a theatre piece…. But whatever it is called it is mostly a lovely entertainment, gently satirical and nostalgic…. [It] is a cozy, perceptive view of America, past and present, that in its own way untangles the leaves, flowers, underbrush and weeds of our culture to show the roots of this country.
In more than a dozen quick scenes, Mr. Gurney draws line sketches of Buffalo life over the past forty years:… antisemitism at the country club; shopping trips to New York; choosing between a coming out party and a college education; an encounter group; tennis sociology; well-meaning ladies fighting the elm blight; church sermons.
Some of these scenes are shorter than others, some more like cartoons than others. The characters often run through many of them though there is no real continuity. The time settings are interwoven so that a Second World War scene may be followed by a Depression sequence and then a reference to McCarthyism.
There are also looks into the future and these are the weakest. In an effort to be relevant as well as nostalgic, Gurney describes a future of military dictatorship and it is inconsistent with the tone and writing level of everything else, not to mention being trite and irrelevent to his "play's" personality. Satire, after all, is based on fact while future projection is fiction, and...
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["Scenes from American Life"] is both satire and valedictory. It is a cluster of scenes—some of them as brief as sketches—about the lives of the well-connected and the well-to-do in Buffalo between the early thirties and what is probably the middle eighties, by which time the country has been taken over by the military and we have become a Fascist state. It must be said at once that the author's underlying pessimism and apocalyptic outlook in no way dim his wit and his sense of fun; along with the comedy there is sadness, and even tragedy, shown or implied, in "Scenes from American Life," but the play is never bleak, and heaven knows it is never dull. (pp. 95-6)
[Mr. Gurney] is himself from Buffalo, and he seems almost to have chosen his scenes at random while rooting through his memories rather than to have made them up, and then to have arranged them according to some private scheme of his own. The form of the play is elusive, to say the least. As we shuttle back and forth in time, there are comic scenes and pathetic ones and harsh ones. (p. 96)
Edith Oliver, in a review of "Scenes from American Life," in The New Yorker, Vol. XLVII, No. 7, April 3, 1971, pp. 95-6.
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Until I went to see Children … I had no idea how conditioned I had become to modern play-writing. During the first couple of scenes four characters appeared: a Mother, her daughter, her son and the son's wife. Their relationships were made quite clear and they conversed about a straightforward situation … in a realistic setting…. Then the Mother suddenly made a remark about erosion: in time, she said, the garden and then the house would slide into the sea.
'Aha!' I thought to myself. 'I've got it! These are not real people at all, nor is that a real house. This is a Symbolic Play, and the people and the house represent the Condition of Presentday America.' But the play continued, the characters went on behaving like real people, and the subject of erosion was not brought up again. Shortly the conversation turned towards Sex…. 'Aha!' I thought again…. But no. The play continued, the situation developed, and, although there was a little cuddling between the brother and his wife (his wife?), hardly a button was unfastened.
'Well,' I thought, 'there's only one course open now…. [Someone] is suddenly going to stop in mid-speech and say, "I'm sorry. I simply can't go on with this. It's a load of crap," whereupon the stage manager will come on and remonstrate. And then the whole thing is going to turn into a discussion about Watergate, or Northern Ireland, or Racialism, or Property Speculation...
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You might take ["The Gospel According to Joe"] for yet another vulgarization of the Christ story. Well, you would be wrong. Yes, A. R. Gurney Jr. superimposes the story of Jesus on post-modern times. Joseph (a quondam salesman of storm windows) and Mary (a worker in a day care center) are sequestered in the barn of "a dude commune" where the infant Jesus is born. And thenceforth the little book consists of one calculated anachronism after another, sometimes with metaphorical confusion…. But Gurney is no more concerned with the Bible per se than George Orwell in "Animal Farm" was concerned with zoology. Gurney's search is for earthly, not spiritual illumination. To this end, he narrates the Gospel, through Joseph, as a commentary on the human family. The effect is warm, wry and as inconclusive as man's future.
Martin Levin, in a review of "The Gospel According to Joe," in The New York Times Book Review, May 26, 1974, p. 18.
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A. R. Gurney's ["Children"] means to be about the childhood relationships that are never outgrown—those between siblings, those between child and parents. It is an excellent subject but Gurney has explored it only in an illustrative way and even then, he's wandered. This play spends most of its time dealing with another subject—one without the dramatic possibilities of childhood, one more bland: that subject is emotional repression among WASPs….
[The play's] house is meant to be a symbol of upper middle class WASP roots. It is being bequeathed by a widow to her grown children on the occasion of her imminent remarriage. That occasion is coincidental with the 4th of July weekend, though it is no coincidence. For their declarations of independence, or lack of it, are at stake this weekend.
The mother's independence is related to her remarriage; her son's is related to outgrowing jockhood; her divorced daughter's independence will be declared if she can finally live with the man she has long loved, but of whom the family always disapproved.
It is the play's scheme to have all these dreams dashed by the conditioning of family relationships but in the process of introducing social color, Gurney instead blames their unhappiness on a general WASP way of life he feels is emotionally repressive.
I think this is because he is more relaxed writing on subjects than for people. The scenes...
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A young wife turns to her husband and says, "Here I am in your mother's outfit, you're in your father's bathrobe, and we're living in your family's house." In A. R. Gurney Jr.'s ["Children"] …, the family—rich, rule-bound and very WASPish—is a sustaining but also a stunting force.
Though the children now have children, no one has matured, just as values have frozen on this conservative landscape, a grand house on a New England island, where everyone has always spent summers together….
"Children" begins brightly: grown-up children wryly bicker, and their mother futilely tries to maintain her equilibrium. There is a universality in the interwoven anxieties and grievances. These concerns are endemic to this family and, as audiences will note, they are endemic to other families as well.
Mr. Gurney has a great deal to say about the strictures of close family bonds, the loss of individualism and gamesmanship and cleanliness as a way of life, and, up to a point, he says it very well.
The play falters with the return home—and the nonappearance on stage—of a prodigal son, the misanthropoic Pokey. Pokey is not only the catalyst, he is also the most fascinating character in "Children"—an abrasive, willful creature who is seeking identity outside the family. The others are gradually revealed as self-defeating, mutually enervating and even foolish.
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The Virginia Quarterly Review
This thoroughly enjoyable novel [Entertaining Strangers] is a devastatingly funny and highly sophisticated dissection of the academic life. It will be an enlightening revelation to those who naïvely think that pure sweetness and light prevail behind the ivy towers of a University. Despite their scholarly insights and cultural references, professors are shown to be subject to all the human frailties of bad character, excessive ambition, and destructive jealousy. The hilarious description of a typical faculty meeting is itself worth the entire price of the book.
A review of "Entertaining Strangers," in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Vol. 53, No. 4 (Autumn, 1977), p. 142.
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That stimulating writer A. R. Gurney Jr. has come up with The Dining Room, in which an elegant, old-fashioned (though not genuinely antique) dining room serves as the real and symbolic setting for countless, not directly related lives—or, rather, telltale fragments of them—forming a passing parade of Wasp America—preppie, post-preppie, and anti-preppie—from its heyday to its present, precariously eked-out survival. The dining room is the scene of much more than merely eating—of assorted fun, sadness, contentment, and rebellion—as a modus vivendi goes from viable to friable.
One problem here may be excessive trickiness. In Thornton Wilder's The Long Christmas Dinner, from which this play seems to derive, there is, although stylized and accelerated, a consecutive progression and confinement to one family. Gurney, however, jumps back and forth in time, around in place (this only seems to be the same dining room), and ever onward with new dramatis personae. Moreover, we get double exposure, as one unrelated episode slowly dissolves into another. (pp. 81-2)
There is no denying that Gurney has been in better form before—notably in the not dissimilar Scenes From American Life—yet even at his second best he is observant, thoughtful, and, when most unflinchingly satirical, still unabatedly humane. (p. 82)
John Simon, "Malle de Guare," in...
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The central character of Gurney's [The Dining Room] is the setting. It is a well-appointed dining room, old style, one that conjures formal family meals and all that that implies in both negative and positive senses. The room represents not a particular home or family, but a host of such dining rooms peopled by families in varying degrees of stability or disintegration…. In the opening sequence, the father, a stickler for routine, offers his idea of personal and political propriety as substantive truth, but does so against the discordant voice of his very respectful son whose teacher has just told him that there is something called a Depression going on out there. What the play shows is the way "out there" enters the dining room, disrupts the family structure, renders the room obsolete, reveals the canker on the rose. It is a world in which adultery, homosexuality, heavy drinking, parental bullying, youthful rebellion are recognized but not acknowledged, kept in their place which is certainly not in the dining room.
Since Gurney has adapted a John Cheever story for PBS and since Children (1974), one of his most accomplished plays, was suggested by a Cheever story, some reviewers have seen Gurney as operating in Cheever territory. So he does, but it is Gurney country, to. The analogy is most useful if it draws Cheever admirers to Gurney, for the two writers share not simply the same geographical and psychological areas,...
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[The Dining Room] dramatizes the domestic crises that usually afflict families during lunch and dinner. The problem is that neither the crises nor the families are particularly interesting; the play seems more an exercise in WASP sociology than an act of theatrical imagination.
To be fair, the playwright is less interested in dramatic confrontations than in depicting, through a technique of kaleidoscopic time warps, the manners and morals of a dying aristocratic class. The play is full of convincing nostalgia for the passing of a decent old world, and tolerant resignation (less convincing) over what is coming to replace it. "Some Irish fellow or Jewish gentleman will be sitting in that chair—and your grandson will be back at the plough," remarks one crustacean before remembering to add, "and that won't be such a bad thing either." It is the noblesse oblige of Renoir's Grand Illusion, where the aristocratic French officer ends up sacrificing his life for Jewish and working-class comrades, though he feels much more kinship with his noble German counterpart. I was more persuaded by another scene in which a young Amherst student, "studying the eating habits of various vanishing cultures—the WASPs of Northeastern United States," is thrown out of the room by his Aunt Harriet, who threatens to "cut off his anthropological balls."
Much more affectionately, Gurney is also studying the eating habits of...
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Some plays are too small for the theater, for television, for anything except the author's memory, his heart, and a bureau drawer. Such a one is A. R. Gurney Jr.'s What I Did Last Summer …, an amiable, not unintelligent, intermittently amusing, but finally utterly tepid miniature that only those bursting at the seams with goodwill can clasp to their bosoms or bursting seams.
It is a memory play about the author's fourteenth summer at an aestival colony on the Canadian side of Lake Erie near Buffalo, the site of other Gurneyana. Charlie's father is in the Pacific (the time is 1945); his mother, Grace, is harried and lonely and has had a tiny affair…. Charlie, seeking gainful employment, wanders onto the property of Anna Trumbull, nicknamed the Pig Woman, who is part Indian and semi-out-cast. She is an artist manqué—which, as Bonny explains, is an art teacher with no students—and a bourgeois-despising eccentric….
If you are not exactly ravished by the story so far, don't expect much more from the actual play. Gurney is a civilized writer who manages to navigate a reasonably steady course between period oddities and conversational bromides, between bits of Pirandellianizing and an occasional sharply perceived, brightly rendered incident or verbal exchange. The proceedings never sink into dreariness, but they never rise above mild poignancy or modest zestfulness. When, at the end, the...
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Even though A. R. Gurney, Jr.'s "What I Did Last Summer" is non-vintage Gurney and doesn't take off on its own, there is considerable pleasure in it. The play … is set in a beach resort on Lake Erie during the final summer of the Second World War, and it tells the story (among several stories) of a fourteen-year-old boy named Charlie—the "I" of the title—who escapes the resort, his family, and his summer Latin homework to become the hired boy and eventually the disciple of an elderly art teacher named Anna Trumbull, herself a former summer colonial. (p. 104)
In form, "What I Did" is composed of small, self-contained incidents, as were such vintage Gurney plays as "The Dining Room" and "Scenes from American Life," and most of the incidents are enertaining and believable enough. One trouble may lie (I'm not sure of this myself) in the character of Anna, on whom so much of the action hinges. She seems synthetic, made up, too "right" in her opinions on social matters and the environment, to say nothing of realizing potential. At one point, she tells Charlie that they can go out and look at the stars or go inside and read the poems of—And under my breath I said, "Not Yeats," one second before she said, "William Butler Yeats." (p. 106)
Edith Oliver, in a review of "What I Did Last Summer," in The New Yorker, Vol. LIX, No. 1, February 21, 1983, pp. 104, 106.
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Shaw, as he himself put it, wrote "plays pleasant and unpleasant"; Anouilh, in his own words, produced "black plays" and "rosy plays." A. R. Gurney Jr. … should also devise some such hortatory distinction; his black or unpleasant plays are much more interesting than his pleasant or rosy ones (which, by the way, is not true of Shaw or Anouilh). The Middle Ages, which ought to be designated "ever-so-slightly-shocking pink," is subtitled instead "A New Comedy," which is a misnomer….
The play covers a near quarter century in the lives of four persons. The pivot is Barney, the charming ne'er-do-well elder son of Charles Rusher, the urbane president and patriarch of said club, who is being buried in the first scene but who, in characteristic Gurney playwriting fashion, returns in all but the last one (which, chronologically, follows on the first) to enact the gradual humanization of a benevolent Wasp despot by his son, his daughter-in-law, and changing times….
[In The Middle Ages] Gurney shies away from true and troubling psychological and social issues (although he does throw in some facile liberal-going-on-radical window dressing), he is obliged to write situation comedy and turn the entire play into an extended coitus interruptus that, alas, belongs on television….
There are, as always in Gurney, some droll situations and a sufficiency of funny lines; still, in the shadow of...
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[The action in "The Middle Ages"], like the action of most of Mr. Gurney's plays, is a matter of small scenes, usually funny yet with a bittersweet undercurrent, and it tells the story of the enduring, seemingly hopeless love between a man named Barney and a woman named Eleanor….
The play, of course, reflects many circumstances outside the club, and becomes a kind of indirect social history of these last forty eruptive years. The mood is comic throughout, even when the most sober matters are touched on, and the ending is highly satisfactory….
When I saw it last spring, I knew I liked it as much as Mr. Gurney's "The Dining Room," but I didn't realize until the second time around that it cuts even more deeply into emotions and is, if anything, even funnier.
Edith Oliver, in a review of "The Middle Ages," in The New Yorker, Vol. LIX, No. 7, April 4, 1983, p. 100.
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A. R. Gurney Jr. has a wonderful name for the kind of work he does, an unmistakably American name from its initials to its "Jr." What Gurney does is write the most thoroughly American middlebrow plays of any of our dramatists; if "middlebrow" is too strong a word, I'll call him the poet laureate of middle-consciousness.
I use that term to indicate both that his plays fall in the center of the technical and thematic spectrums of American drama and that they never rise much above a modest level of wit and perceptiveness, or ever fall much below it. Moreover, in a theater increasingly dominated by writers from minority religious and ethnic backgrounds, Gurney speaks for, or to, or with the voice of what is still our largest population bloc. Gurney is a WASP—he has rather excessively been called the John Cheever of the theater—who celebrates the cultural and moral virtues of his heritage (specifically in its Eastern, more or less educated and more or less upper-class aspects), mourns their decline and pokes fun at their present perversions.
He doesn't do any of these things with notable force or invention, true, but neither is he often flaccid or wholly derivative. His plays are usually about ordinary people to whom nothing extreme or spectacular happens; structurally, they combine traditional naturalism with some mildly avant-garde (or, more accurately, erstwhile avant-garde) techniques.
None of the...
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Do we really need an updated, edulcorated, and cutesy stage version of The Aspern Papers? A. R. Gurney Jr. evidently thought so, for that is what he gave us with The Golden Age. Tom, a young part-time teacher and would-be writer, infiltrates the Upper East Side brownstone that Mrs. Isabel Hastings Hoyt shares with her mousy granddaughter, Virginia…. As Tom … starts to write a book about the Golden Age—the age of his beloved F. Scott Fitzgerald—he becomes convinced that Mrs. Hoyt was Fitzgerald's mistress and the model for Daisy, and that the (as he sees it) important missing sexual chapter of The Great Gatsby must be, in manuscript form, somewhere in this house….
It is all awesomely precious and coy and shaggy-doggy, with unbelievable characters and plot, and cheap tricks the foremost of which is the black notebook that may or may not contain the Gatsby chapter and that Tom is always on the verge of securing only to be foiled and foiled again in best comic-strip, or TV-serial fashion.
Everything here is slippery, reversible, double-bottomed—even the tone keeps changing—and the game is not witty enough to be worth the candle. (p. 93)
John Simon, "Brass, at Best," in New York Magazine, Vol. 17, No. 17, April 23, 1984, pp. 93-4.∗
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In the program accompanying "The Golden Age,"… we learn that the play was "suggested" by Henry James's novella "The Aspern Papers," but "suggest" is perhaps too passive a term for what is to be observed onstage. The greater part of the amusement we gain from the play comes from the author's own evident amusement in working out parallels to—and divagations from—the enchanting original work. Author and audience are like so many agreeable, well-bred guests at a party in some big house in the country; outside, it is rainy and cold, and we have gathered by the library fire to compose a game that will while away a couple of hours between luncheon and teatime. What fun to construct a new toy out of James's old one! Well, yes and no, and in the end I fear it is mostly no—the Master remains so vigorous a presence that the fun falters and the game quails and shrivels in the very act of being carried out. The three characters who set the toy plot spinning at first threaten to seem merely impertinent, but little by little they dissolve into irrelevance; when a patrician dowager picks up a shotgun and commands a young scamp to strip to the skin, we are closer to Jules Feiffer than we are to James.
The setting of "The Aspern Papers" is a dusky, moldering house in nineteenth-century Venice; the setting of "The Golden Age" is a brownstone in contemporary Manhattan. The owner of the house is Isabel Hastings Hoyt, the aforementioned dowager. She...
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