TH~ AHTIST-flGURE IN TEN"'ESSEE WILLlAMS' LATER PLAYS:
A CONTEXTlJAL APPROACH
by
A:\\IADOLl HrSSIHJ
Maitrise es l.eltres, Univcr~ity ofOullgadougoll, 19X4
D.E.A., Paul ValeT)' University Montpcllicr, 1985, 19~6
Dodor:ll 3c Cycle, Paul Valery University, Monlpellier Ill, 1988
Submitlcd in pal1ial fulfillmcnt of the
requirements for the degree or
Doctor of Philosophy
1996

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Approved by
First Reader
D~lVid A. Wagenknecl'n. D.PhiL
Professor of English
/
-
, /
;'~;,~ //>. / :{'1~
Second Reader
"Bunoll L. Cooper, Ph, D.
7
Professor of English

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I ,.....ould not have completed this dissl.:rtation without the support of various
reoplc, and I wish to acknowkdge their ctTort here. My (ifsl thoughts go to my aJvisors,
Professor David Wa£cnknecht, Professor Scott Shcrshow, and Prolessor Burton Cooper.
Yours it was to grapple with me through the various stages of my dissertation. I owe you
my sincere gratitude. I am also thankl'ul to a number of faculty members or 13oston
University, namely, Professors Nina Silbcr, Emily Dalgamo, .lames Siernan, Marylin
Halter, Shir1cy Wajda, Floyd Harbour and Susan Mizfuchi. You helped me through the
program, and I deeply appreciate it.
I have special thanks ',ll" my family and friends, especially Mounira A. l3issiri,
Haoua I3. Bissiri, anu Amadou Ouedruogo. You have endured my long absence and
showed so much understanding. Whik in I3(l~ton, I made great friends whom I will
always remember. My special gralilUdc goes to Christophcr Walsh, his girlfriend Maria
Uriartc and his family in Hartford, Connecticut, Dr. Marie-Ange Somdah and his wife,
Karyn Dennis, Chery' 8001s, Joseph Kounkorgo, Desire Houngues, Dr. Victor Manfredi,
and my roommate !\\kinwumi Ogundiran. You were always there when I needed you. I
greatly appreciate your support.
For allowing me [0 use Tennessee Williams' unpublished manuscripts in their
possession, I am grateful to the Theater Collel:tion Library or Hmvard University and the
Special Collections or Delaware Univi.:rsity Library. Special thtlOks to
Ms. L. Rebecca
Johnson Melvin, !\\ssismnt Librarian at Delaware Univcrsity Library.
To all those who contributed to the success 01" my training and stay in 80S Ion, I
give my heartfelt thanks.
"

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THE ARTIST-FIGURE IN TENNESSEE WILLIAMS' LATER PLAYS: A
CONTEXTUAL APPROACH
(Order No.
)
AMADOU BISSIRI
Boston University, Graduate School, 1996
Mn)or Professor: David Wngenknecht, Professor or English
ABSTRACT
During Ihe last 20 yeurs of his car~er, Tennessee Williams t.:realed in his plays a
signilicant number of artist-figures. In his lifetime, and to some extent up 10 the present,
both this subject matter and the aesthetics or his representation of it have appeared to
many as proof of a loss of creativity, displaying a tendency to rehash ,md indulge
uncontrolled dramatizations of his neuroses. This study argues that while the later artist-
JigUfCS share charactl:ristics with {heir predecessors in Williams' carly plays, they are
meaningful specitically with reference to the author's experience as a dramatist in the
sixties and seventies.
In looking at thl~ theatriL:all:ontext 01" Williams' praetice in these two decades, this
study n;lics on Pierre ilourdicu's theory of the artistic world as a field of struggle and
power. It establishes an interaction hdwCCIl Willi<lms' po[[wyaI of the lmer artist-figure
and his mm experience. Williarns' own figural position within the theatrical field, his
perccptilll1 of "dlC:ltcr people," and his disillusionment with his art consequent to its loss
of cachet, oriented his practice,
informing the image of the nrtist-(igure as a victim, a
"sp<Jcclcss" <!Od doomed individual. In chapler I, I investigate the sertings of the artists'
lives as destructive nrtistie environmenls which rencel Williams' own. In chapter 2, 1
study their untagonists, those artistic agents who. in large measure, determine the
v

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meaning of their art ;Inc practice in commercial culture. The basic argumcnt in chapter 3
is that when <.Irlislic practice loses personal signi1ic<.lfiee for the artis\\·jigures, mostly
because it is controlled by others, it tends also to become <.Ill <.Illlagollistie force.
The artist-figure in Williams' latc \\.....ork figures the playwright's own subjection to
commcrci;lJ agents. His artists represent his indictment of the commercial theater
(Broadway) that during his lifetime largely detcnnined
the value of his <Jrt and his
reputation. But. 1 suggest. Williams' Own fiction about commercial the<.lter, namely his
unrestrained (though understandable) perception of Broadway as the normative thc<.ltricnl
st<lgC. played a signiJicant role in his practice and plight. Ultimately, this study contends
that the significance ,If Williams' portrayal of the artist-figure lies hoth in The author's
personal sense of his pr(l.:tic.: and in the context of the theatricl:l1 culture, both of which
were in deep turmoil during his later carecr.
VI

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Table or Contents
Acknowledgements
IV
\\'
Tllblc or Con'ents
VII
Introduction
Chapter I. The Anistic Conte:<t or the Artisl ic-rigurc: Images or Entrapment
and Destrul.:Lion
9
I. I. The Theatrical Context or Williams' Later Career
12
I. 2. Scning in the Plays or thc Sixties: Tm·...ard Closure
28
I. J. Selting in the Plays of the Sl.:vcnties: Toward Open Spal.:cs
47
Cbapter 11. facing the f7on;es ol"the Anistic World
73
11. I. The Anisl Agilinsl Production Agents
76
11. I. I. Managers and Producers: Locale and Financial Imperatives
76
ll. 1. 2. The Direl.:Lors: Getling a Play to Work on the Stage
92
IJ. I . ..J. A Hero in the Midst ol"the Jungle
96
11. 2. Competition Among Ani~·;I.s: New- and Old-Wave ~ITects
101
11. 2 I. bl.:ing the Parasitism of the Younger Artisls
103
11. 2. 2. The AnisL as Dcstruclive Agem
107
11. 2. 3. AI.:\\S or Proressional.lealousy
113
11. 3. Audience and Critics: Appro..,ers as Antagonists of the Anist-tigure
121
11.3. I. Making or Breaking the Anist: Aspects or the Approwrs'
Power
122
11. 3. 2. Commcrl.:ialism, Anistic Taste, Crilical Practice, and the
Artist's Plight
127
Chupter Ill. The Artist-f7igures and their Art: Des1ruclivc Relations
148
Ill. l. An as a Tool: Images of Failure
152
Ill. 2. An as itselra Destructive Foree
169
Ill. J. Artistic Sins and Apologies: The Anisl-ligure's Failure
177
VII

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Conclusion
196
Notcs
202
Works Citcd
219
Curriculum Vitae
240
VIII

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INTRODUCTION
ror most critics (popular ami :JcaJemic) the apex of TCl1nessce Williams' reputation
and genius as a dramatist lieS" with his plays of the 1940s and 1950s. His numerOllS plays
or the sixties iinu seventies tend to be ignored by most people, because almost all of them
were commercial failures. In this sense, the plight of Williams' laler plays is taken to be
rcpn:scnlative: they illustrate "hourgeois" ideology, which perceives comlllcn:i,d success
as "intrinsically a guaranlt::e of value," failure as an "irrevocable condemnation," and "a
\\\\iTilcr without :J publie [as] a writer without talent."] Dramuturgically his later plays '.lfe
assumed to be inferior to, say, The Glass Menagerie (1945), A S/reetcar Named Desire
(1947), and Caf on (/ !Jot Tin Roql( 1955), or simply as proof of his "decline."
Several theories compete in accollnting for the perception of his later plays as
dramaturgical failures. Their common idea is that these plays are too autohiogrilphieal,
rehashes l)( old themes <lIld characters, filled \\vith uJlhelievable and unsympatbetie
ch'Jraetcrs, and they show a general loss of
control of the dramatic mcdium. 2 That
Williams' later plays are autohiographiL:D.] is incontestable; this subject-matter is intrinsic
to his writing--for that reason, he cnl1s it organic. But as Alan Cheslcr aptly pC1ints out, we
must not lorget that none of his later plays is "more autohiographicnl or more personnl
than The Glass Afcnagerie" (1980 56). Therefore, qualifying WilliilfilS' Inter themes nlld
dramatic treatments as rehashes nod uncontrolled, and his ehanleters as unbelievable, may
mClln little more thal1 the assumption that in the sixties and seventies, Williams intended
to write plays in the vein or The Glass AIcJlugcric or Car On (I Ho! Tin Roqf It 5ho\\vs on
the part of his detractors a particular preocup<ltion with Willinms' neuroses, his personal
prohlems with drugs and alcohol, illld hetrays a fhilure, first, to look at his later plays as
produds of ncw 8rtistic contexts that saw the rbe of new dramatic practices and

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2
experiences, and, second, [0 acknowledge any change in Williams' OWll prm;tices.
Signilli,;antly, Ihe theme of the artist~figure that runs through his entire work can be
studied in such a way as to illuminate nul. only the shifts in his thematic concerns, his
chDra<.:tcrizatJon and his dramaturgy in the Iatl:f plays, but also his evolving sense of
reality ilself.
To be sure, Williams' later artist-figmes have not been neglected hy critics. Fur
some. like Gcorge Nicscn,J who has privileged a purely textual upproach, and thereby
prccltldcd either n subjective ()[ cultural dimension, \\\\'illiams' portrayal or (he arlisl-ligure
has followed a purely intellectual evolution. Nicsen takes Sudden!.v Last S'I/mlner (195R)
as the shifting point and arglles that "In the earlier plays the artist cannot deal with reality,
excl:pt by escaping, usually through death. In the Imer plays.. the artist endures the
im[1llssible bind. He is never reconciled, certainly, but he survives" (1977 465). or The
Two-Characfer flay (1967). which he considt:rs the n:presenlalive later play about the
mti~t-ligure. Niesen suys that it is "Williams' most intelleetually realistic statement
concerning the ar{jst's untenable and isolated position in a modem eullure" (4Sg).
Through the artisl's survival in tlic later plnys. he maintains, Williams dramatized "a cri
de (;OCllr, a plCll for survival and for a place to be somebody ... in a hostile environment"
(465).
While Niesen's study makes an interesting paint, it remains problematic. First. he
gels entangled with In (he !Jar ofu Tokyn !101e! (1969). in which lhe artist dies before the
lights go oul. His e.xpJanulion Ihat this is an cxeeption. an "abeml.lion," is obviously
llnsalisl~\\clory. Second. ill stressing the surviv.d motif ;105 the locus of the meaning of
\\Villiams' later artist-figure. it seems that he remains insensitive to the deep irony behind
such sllrvivals, whieh ill any e.\\se Joes nol apply to all the later artisls. While inJeed

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3
some artists in the later plays·.ns weJl as in the earlier ones--survive, it seems to me that
the plight of the later ones is better described by notions or endurance and a Sisyphean
cxislcllce. 4 Third, when Nicsen barely acknowledges any link between Clare and relice
in The Two-Character Play and Williams himsc1t: one is left wondering how distinct
Williams' own life in the 'GOs and '70s could have been from the "modern culture" that he
supposedly was castigating through these characters.
For relicia H. Londre,s loo, there is no doubt that in The T)'l'o-Clwracfer Flay
Wj/Jial1lS "makes a personal statement abl1ut the artist in society" (185). HO""'cvcr, by this
she asserts what appears as a basic tenet of the more subjeo..:tive and psychological
approach to Williams' artist-figures in his later plays. Por the scholars of this group, the
artis[~figures .1re, to quote Forster Hirsch, just "thinly Jisguisi,;u sclf-portraits."6 Signi
FalkL-one of Williums' harshes[ crities--says that Williclnls simply used the artist-figure
to indulge in boring rehashes of archetypal Egures and lhemes, and in "unabashed
confessions" (128). Describing Mrs. Goforth in The Milk Troin (1963) as creJted in the
traditilln 01" Princess' in SlVeel Bird of Yuuth (1959), F<dk asserts that WilliJms used her
as an opporlunity to explore his "obsession with sexuality," and to "veil[ his antagonism
tow<lrds females" (127), ,'\\bont the slrain of "undisguised self-revelation" (129) that she
secs running from The ,)~lajJsfick Tragedy (1966) la Vieux Carn} (1977) she contends that
Williams wrole lhose pbys only to "make money" (128), while at the same time
revealing, through the artists, "his tortured state of mind and a dogged determirmtiul1 to
continue in Ihe face of despair" (128). Thus Ji.lr her,
Mark the painter in fn the Bar
l.:l11bodics Williams' "own deep suffering," his "case" (137). In Clare and Feliee in The
Two-Character Play, who for her represent "two halves of...hermaphrodite eharaders,"
she s"es WiJliams "talking to himself" (144).

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4
Ruby Cohn8 and Alhert
Kalsun<l ofll:r two significant variations of the
psychnl\\\\gical appr<lt\\ch, centcring on the author as inwntor. In her overall perception of
Williams' laler plays, Cohl1 slands ul the opposite extreme from Falk. For h~r, Willi,m1s
Orft:fCd a new focus on the artist-figure by investigating his rdation to his art, by probing
"the cosl (If creation" (343). In The Two-Charm.'fcJ' Play, for instance, sk believes that
Williams re.... ~<lls "a new self-consciousness about his art" by emphasizing the artisr's
"existential loneliness" in "a fragmented world" (339). In Clnthcs for lJ Summer Hot!!1
(I Sll:W), she contends that through the relationship belween Zclda and Scott. Williams
Sl,lted the "price ofi.lrtistic creation as a human betrayal" (34:)).
Kalson shares mueh with Cohn anJ Falk. Focusing on III (he Bar (~l (/ Tokyo
1Jr//cI, he points oul that the portrayal of Mark as a "dying artist" evinces "a continuing
preoccupation with the relationship and interdependence of lire and art" (6]) '>vlIieh he
traces :lS far buek as 1 Rise in Flame, Cried the Phom;x lI941). Yel he perceives a
significant shift in the sense that the artist's relation to his art becomes a deadly one,
Knlsoll secs this as expressing "Willial11s' disillusionment \\vith the artist as lire-force"
(65) anJ more problenwtic:llly cxpluins that Williams heeame "introspcl'1i"e and too
personal" (66).
Similarly arguing from the point of view of change, Christopher Bigsby,10 like
Kabon, underlines the importance of the relationship netween life lllld an in WiHiams'
later plays. Bigsby too focuses on the extent to which Williams' neuroses anJ "his self-
infiicred 'l"voullds" sh8Jled his vision or life and aJTeeted "the qunlity l)f his work" (149).
HO\\vever, he also reaches for a perspective l.1rger than Williams' neuroses. Bigsby's
con..:crn supposedly takes into account "the culture ill which lWil1iamsllivcd" (149), yet
hc does so only thinly, referring here and there 10 phenomena or tCvents like lhe Vietnam

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5
War (which h~ claims was \\'<lrgcl)' unnoticed by Wi\\\\iams), or even morc vaguely lu the
larger American society.
Undoubtedly each of these interpretive points of VIC\\V, some of which I
completely sympathize with, illuminates aspeets of the artist-figure in \\ViUiams' Inter
plays. Williams indeed continued to write about his old concerns; he remained personal
in the 19605 and 19705, and as Bigsby puts it, "tbe plight of the writer and the question
of the nature of reality l110ved to the forefronr" of his work (1984 131). Yet one remains
ullsatisfied, because by remaining abstract, by trcJting the figure or Williams as if he
Viere ,1 living monad. or again, by obsessively focusing on Williams' neuroses, these
analyses miss much of the insight Ihat we might goin by looking at Williams' praetices
and at his portrayals of the llrtist-figure as historically and culturally determined.
The artist-figure in Williams' later plays appe,lrS JS a victim: II dying, powerless
and fallen llrtist. I \\V3nt to llrgue that this image of lhe artist-figure v.'as more than the
product or Williams' paranoid and neurotic lantasies of the] %Os. It assumed a referential
meaning as a self-portrayal of Ihe author in the new and complex theatrical world. In
other words. while the artist-figure is a self-portrait revealing Williams' l11entnl state, it
nl50 tells much more ahout the author's position, dispositions, and struggles within the
llJ60s and 19705 dramatic \\vorld, wherc he
found himself ill a position of relative
subordination and m'lrginality. Also, if aspects of the dranlnlurgy in the later plays sound
old
eehoes--whieh
in
itself is
not without
significJ-nec--others
reveal
how
the
experimental theater in the 1960s, and the theakr of images ilnd minority theater in the
1970s.
informed his writing. Elucidating his porlrnit of the nrlisl-Jigure, we must
therefore go beyond Williams' own mediated-·paranoid and neurotic--perceptions,

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6
however unavoidable, and cnc()mp'}'~s more historical and tilngihle facls in (he theatrical
conlc,xl of his pr'lcticc.
The present study seeks. not compnralively but contextually, 10 estnblish 3nd
investigate thl' sense of o~icctivc condilion that oriented Willial1l:-i' practice. For this
reason. Pierre BounJieu's (1993) sense of the artistic context of practice ;1:; a field proves
useful. Writing takes place within a complex interaction between the author as "agent"
and tlll.: cultural/historical con1L';.;! whose expectations s/hc meets or J'nlHtraLcS,11 Taking
Ihis description further, Bourdieu defines the artistic comext oflilcrary 'Nark and praetice
as n. field of competition and s!rategies. 1l is an arena of struggle between the forces
(writers, prodlll.:erS, critics, de.) that make it up: struggle to control the field and to
determine the legitimate mode of perception nnd appredation of lhe artistic. "The
struggle for forms ... is the life :::md movement of the artistic field" (1993 266). The artistic
object evinces the eharacteristil;s-~aesthetil.:and otherwisl'--or lhe peculiar lield or whidl
it is the product, and or the interc.-;[s. position. and dispositions of the agents who
materially genenl!C it. Fundam.:nlally, then. this study is concerned with the intcraction
between \\Villiams' actual situation in the theatrical tield and his portrayal of the artist-
figure, in n kind of homological dynamic.
In chapter I, settings and spaces will he key notions. lind 1 will elaborate on them
in the appropriulc place. Focllsing on the importance of artistic setting within the plays, I
will argue that WilJi::lms' dramatic lre:l\\ll1ent of space reveals the artist-figures' social
sellings as artistil.: spaces. ,md present the extent to whidl these spaces shape their sense
or reality. The central theme is that of entrapment and destruction. Relcrentially, this
theme indicnles the awhor's O\\vn experience or the sixties and seventies theatrical world.
Thc relation betw('cn SP:lc<; in the plays and the author's own ligural position is erucial.

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7
In chapter two, 1 will probe the artist-fig\\lre'~ antagm1istic relations with other
occupants of the nrtistic setting (producers, actors, directors, audience nnd critics).
Basically, the artist'.s rdation to these J.gcnts
is as a victim. By asserting their own
reasons for existence, their own perception and appreciation of their power and agendas,
each of the agents participates in the destruction of fhe <Irtist-figure. How does Williams
dramatically capture the aJ1ist's antagonism with other agents? What are the motivations
of each of these agents? And how can Williams' own struggle with similar agents in his
nclua\\ experience contribute to our unJerstumling or the artist-figure's'? These arc the
central questions that I \\vill try to answer in chapter 2.
Chapler lhrec f;JellSeS on the artist-figures' individual relation \\vith their art--that
is, thc way pracliee involvcs the artist and his/her art in a reciprocal relation. The central
argument is that the artist's relationship with art becomes self·destruetiv~ essentially
because the context of practice (the subject of chapters one anu two). destabilizes or alters
the meaning of art and practice. On the other hand, art ilself has its inherent destructive
potcnti<ll, and the artist-figures themselves are not without blame in their predicament. To
get at the dramatization of these specific destructive relations, I will investigate aspects of
the artists' practice, and especially, the different ways in which they <H1ernpt to use arl
fUrll.:tionalJy as forms of self-protection.
Overall, the treatment of the artist-figure eVDlves over the two decades that
concern us, offering variations on the themes of victimization and artistic experience. I
will argue lhat in this too, there is clear parallel with the changes in Williams' trajectory
and position in the theatrical world as he entered the 197Us, getting closer (0 his death in
1983. Wc must lake Williams seriously when he writes in his memoirs (l975) that "[ am
quite through with the kind of play that established my early and popular reput<ltion,"12

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8
but wc should .also recognize the limits of the shift. Williams did not change his view or
life }ll.: still perceived the world as a rluce or cruelty :md doom. What chunged wus that
his referent narrowed, his mood became grimmer, and at the same lime his dramatic
technique evolvcu. He engaged a new and dj/rerell! subject matter !hat he explored, as
Esthcr Jackson has shown, through old and new dramatic devices. 13 The truth of
WiJliams' lakr plays lies at the jllllctioll of his life caught behvcen the reality of his
personal and artistic situation and his sC)'listic quests. all
in the midst of a changin~
theatrical world.

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CIIAPTER I
TIlE ARTISTIC CONTEXT OF THE ARTIST-FIGURE: IMAGES OF ENTRAPMENT
AND DESTRUCTION
Yes, we--;i!llive in a house 011 fin:,
110 lire deparlment tu call, no way OUI,
just upstairs window to look out while
the tire burns the house wilh us trapped,
locked ill it...
(The Milk Tmill Vac_I" Nol SlOP "ere AllyllJorc 107)
9

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10
Setting in WiJJinms' plays is uhva)'s a ccntr:..tl dramaturgicnl lkvicc with both a
dramatic and n cultural/historical significance. There is :J distinction between setting nnd
space, and both of them will concern mc. Setting has a gcographicnl llnd social
dimension, always
involving a place, people. and action. It "covers," as Richard Gill
explains apropos of t~lC novel, "the [llnecs in which characters arc presented; the social
context of characters, sueh os their families, friends and dass; the customs, bclids and
rules of bchavior or their SllCiety; the scenes that arc th~ background or the situation lor
the events ofrhe novel; and the toto! nlmosphcrc, mood or feel that is created hy these."1
Ovcrnll, setting connotes a sense or physicality, whereas spacc is a "wider poetic notion,"
both including and trans(;cnding the geographical.~ Insofar as it subsumes selling nnd has
a larger s~opc, spa~e or spatiality IS a key concept for us herc. And as I will lIse it, it
in\\Tdves the following
senses: the literal theatrical space (thc stage set wnsiden::d
technically), the space or selling within the plots of the plays, 311
J.\\1.il 'arns' tigural space
.\\9-~chuPolJJ'
aL the time he wrotc his plays.
'6rz,"v.:
/~
v
' .
r: "1
....
Studying two of \\\\,'iUiams' plays that, to man ; re 'lr'~lcs,
~ n Loney
_-
0
ro",~
lie rh
l ! ' ' ' ~
..
insists on "their value as poetic records of America in tl '\\ gJl()f"J)Jhe Great
:!:J
rcssion--
o;l
2}].Jr
•
..)
~
~
Menagerie-~and in the aftermath or World War II--5'(r cpr."3 Indcc~ The Glass
rl'~~
t
HfJ&"t
..
lV/l!l7ugerie (1945), the family house runctions poetically as all 0
. c correlative to the
social nnd emotional states of the tbmily. and as a window into the southern cultural and
social rertli'}' or the 1940s. In A Slr!!!!lCar (1947), the musie thaL seeps in from off-stage
indicates an ongoing socialliLc (I3igsby 199248), and the train that takes Blanche to New
Orleans and which later aets as an aeeomplice to Stanley Kowalski, alk)\\\\'ing him to enter
the house unhenrJ and, at the sam..: time, announcing his r<lpe of I3I<1nchc. is a very
powerful seLting element. symbolic of the industrial North. I3ut whether or not WilIiams'
protagonists evolve in recognizable sociul milieus, their objectivl.: contexts are a

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1I
determining force ana. exerl a destructive power on them. For Williams, this is a way of
stJting the cruelty oChre.
In his plays of the sixties and seventies, lh~ social spaces or settings of the
protagonists renmin central, but they acquire a peculiar contextual referent. Literally or
metaphorically, the later protagonist's social space evokes an artistic world, an image of
the author's own figural artistic world of the lim.:. Typically, the protagonist's artistic
world is a world of continement, destruction and death. We see this, as in The Two-
Characrel' Play, in the form of lhe "environment function ling] as the primary antagonist
in the play."4 With vnrying degrees of emphasis, most of the ploys that c()ncern us verify
this observation. Handling the settings with the idea of destructive antagonism ill his
mind, WiJliams often uses a dramatiL~ mode that characteristically lranscends simple
re:l1ism and even his traditional poetic realism. In the manner of the postmodernists' use
of the epic and other techniques to enhance their representation of the reaL~ he employed
gothic, expressionistic, absurd, surrealistic, environmentaL and other such thcatriel.ll
devices to heighten the dramatization or the artist's social (artistic) setting.
Investigating Williams' porlrayal or the artist-figure's existential SIXlCC, my larger
argument is that the objective reality or structure that forms the
social context of the
;Jrlis{-flgun:'s life h,JS a bearing all his/her pen::eplion and practice. Beyond this, my
concern is with the genesis of Williams' own practice. Linking the notion of space to the
'beater, Marranca stresses the fact that it "inlluences lhenter, not only in writing but in
design" (1984 71). J want to argue that the sense of space that orientcdl ' Williams' artistic
inwginatioll and influenced his practice in his later plays h<ls to do with his experience in
the theatrical world. ThcrcJore, we need to understand the theatrical context of the sixties
and seventies.

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12
I. 1. The Theatrical Contcxt of Williams' Later Career.
As cultural products, Williams' plays establish ;J substantial p1ir( of their meaning
in lhe theatrical context of their creation. \\Vhat is morc, by lhe theatrical nature of his art,
his plays display a .~\\:nsitivity to the changes inherent in or that impinged on the objedive
I::ondilion of tbeir existence. H1:~ southern backgw\\.md7 ,md the conservMism of pos\\-\\var
Amnica or the )940s and 1950s (Bigsby 199238-39) contrihuted much-~lhi:matically,
aestheTically, and crilieally--to the meaning of his earlier plays. His concern with social
misfits and outca.sts, pOrlr::l)'ed with pSydlOlogic[jJ realism ,md strokes of grotesqueness,
made much sell se to audiences living in a world seared by violence and intolerance of all
sorls (for inS(J.llce, McCarthyisl11). During his Inter caret:r, ~vith the onsel of cultural and
social llph~avals, a new horde or contextual impcfil(ives
arose, shaping
his sense ()f
real ity, ;md Lherefore his practice. r want to h1Y om the geneml configuration of the ne\\\\!
rcalLt)' that partiudarly int"(Jrlned his later plays, some or its relevant characteristics, and
WilkllllS' position in it. With [his I hope to approach the tield in Bourdieu's sense:
This field is neither a vague social bao.::kground nor even a milieu Ql'liSliqu.: like n universe of
po.::r.'ional rclati,lIls between ~lltislS and \\HilerS (perspetlivc adup\\L:d by those who study
'inflllel1ttS'). It is \\\\ '1cri(ahk Ul~('1em: where, in ilc',;mdancc with ils particular l?ws, there;
,1I:cuJllulale~ a particulor fOlm of eapital 'lIld where rdatiom of force or a particular lype are
e~<:rted. This universe is the rlllcc or entirely sp<:eitie slruf;gles, notably concerning thl;;: question
t1fknowing who is p:m of Ihe universe, who i~ a real writer and who i~ llOt (163-164)
The tield is defincd rdi:l\\iol1ally. Its <lutonomy is relntive becaw:ie it is no1 outside
exlcrJ1;;\\1 inJ1Ul:ll\\:es, for in~tallce, the lield econolTIy (Bourdieu 1993 164). Within it, the
artist's positioll is constantly I:volving. The spl:cilic positiun that he or she holds at any
given time depends on till: deg;ree of his or her legitimacy or power, and this in turn
affects lite way he or she perceives him~ or herself and his or hcr relation 10 others.
Artislic praclicc ilsdr is th~tcby shaped rdationally. As I wm show later in chapler 2, a
practitioner's strategies for maintaining or acquiring recognition and power are of

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paramount importance. The lield of Williams' artistic pructice in the sixties and seventies
was the theatrical world in (he peculiar "vay tl1<lt he expcrienced it.
IntrLldueing the last chapter or his historical survey of American theater, G. B.
Wilson 'writes that "The [\\VCllly years from 1960 to 1980 arc immensely difficult tll
undersGlnd."H There is much (ruth in [his. Closely !"ullowing or reacting to the upheavals
ill the general culture, American theater Jnd drama witnessed lmpamlleled changes.
Theater Jctivity spread from Broadw;Jy to Ofr..l3roach....ay, and then la Off..Off-Bro<ld\\vay,
and Beyond Broadway. At tho.: various levels of performancc, venues. and dramaturgy,
tremendous changes occurred.
There arOse new theater groups, Llrganizatiolls,Q and
practitioners olltsidc Broadway and New York, that challenged the status of mainstream
theaLer and fostered enduring new forms or dramaturgy.
The specitic hackgrounds to the new alternative theater are various. Europcan
traditions of Ahsurdism, existcnLi,dislll, dC., fed the rehirth, in the late IifLies, of Off..
Broadway. Polilicul activisl1l bunched Blacks, Chicanos, students, leminis{s, etc., into
the practice or guerrilla tbeatcr; the rlastic ans, music and various forms of art-Ihcater
inspired such practitioners of Happenings as Juhn Cage and Michael Kirby; non .. Western
rituals and religions (nmive Americ<lll, Oricntal, African) largely inspired groups like the
Living The:uCf.)(I With di1feren! emphases, theatcr historians and analysts agn::c that by
Lhc ll1id .. l97tJs the American thcatrie<ll field hud evolved yet again. J I Though groups such
:15" La l\\·lama or the Perform:m(;e Group survived, a significant numher of the sixties
experimental groups disapreared with the waning or the anti..war and the civil rigbts
movcments. On the other ham!, new ones Cilme to the centcr stuge. Groups sueh as the
Circle Repertory Company, thc Manhal\\an Theoter Cluh {)f the Playwright [·iorizon, and
pJ,lywrights like Lallford Wilson, Terry Megan :..md Lee Breuer contributed mUL:h to the

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14
dynnmism und peculiarity of the seventies theatrical world. Various minority lhcatcrs~­
women. gays, blacks and Chicnno!'··also tlourishcd in Ihe seventies. Supplementing
resident companies in the regions and lhe c.xperimcntal groups, figures like Luiz Vnldcz.
I~d Bullin. Marsha Norman, D<lvid Wang. dc, conlrihu(l,;c! to the dccentralizLltion of
American thcnll:f from New York. This led Lo rcmnrkablc transformations of the notion of
theater in America. particularly wilh respect (0 the SWlus of Broadway.
In the midst or this IJ()istcrous crowd of new playwrights, the established OIH.:$, the
"hig old dads," as Zoltan Szilassyl2 calls the generation of Williams. Arthur Miller,
Lillian Ht:llmun, and Thornton Wilder. were (and some still are) :.lclive. But for Ihe most
p'lrt, whether or not they Iried to tune up, their voiccs were HO longer the cbrions l)f the
day.
The fact is that, as Szilassy puts it. a "kaleidoscope dram<lturgy" (l986 46)
clWfaCICrizcd tll..: sixties and seventies theater world. In the f:.lcC of Ihis. it may be
diflicule as Ruby Cohn contends, to "pigeonhole ccrt:Jin playwrights as typically
Broadway. olhers as Off.·Broadway, and still olhers as On:'Of!".. Broaclway."lJ YeL then: is
a basic construcl that. to most anulysts l4 .:md playwrights. stood lor a goveming objective
structure. Always clearly noticellble to those likc Alhee. Schechner, Mamet, Shepard. and
especially WiHiallls, who experienced the complex
Ihcutrical world, were two large
opposing theatricul or aesthdic sub~1ields: to use current lerminologies, profit theatcr
(Broadway or commerciallhe:llcr) and not~for"rrofit lhc:Jter (the alternati\\'e theaters). To
the l:xlcnl that thesr.: two pnlr.:s framed Williams' experience of thl' the:.J.trical world. I '\\viH
c1ahorate on them emphasizing their peculiar characteristics mos( reh:\\'ant 10 his practice.
Despite their individu..d emphases, the alternative theaters l5 or the sixties had
C\\,lmmon denominalors cl.:ntcring on a rejection of orthodox dramaturgy and ideology. By

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15
llCW thealer practitioners, 1 do not simply mean Off-Olr-Broadway groups, but ;}lso the
kind of lheatcr prucliccd Off-Broadway, 10 which \\Villiams W(l~ most sensitive. By and
large, orthodox llu:atcr means here Broadway thealer, realistic and commercial druma. On
the whok, theirs was
a new kino of (healer that, to pamphrasc Richard Schcchner,lt'
sought 10 destroy the assumptions of commercial theater. "The term 'orlhodo.\\:.'''
Schcchncr furrher argues. "suggesrs It rigidity, stuhbornness, inertin. and stupidity which I
lind inlhe cOl11l1lcrcialtheater that lakes all art as 'propcrty' ... [in the] reg[onallhL'<llerS that
see their jobs as pleasing the drugged l:onsciousness of the middle-classes; [in] those
university the,tlres that build monster ccntcrs so burdened with equipmcnt that their
studenls lose all toucll l)f the art or making" (1975 35). No ll1;lttcr the group they
belonged tu (if they belong 10 any), the new \\vrilers sought to redcllne Iheatrieal and
dramatic practice.
Led hy Edward A!hee, OJT..I3roadway of the early sixties l:Omprised artists
cummil1cd to artistk
rrecdum..-rreedom
frOIll
the psychologizing of the previous
dcJ:adcs ....and artistic innovation drawing on Europe;ms like Haruld Pinter dud BL:rlolt
Breehl, the Ahsurdist praetitioners (Samuel 8cekct1,
Eugcne loncsco, etc.), and the
c;xistenlllllislS (Sartre and Camus).17 In the seventies, Mamet nnd Shepard. among others.
\\....uuld continul.: this trend.
As its practitioners experimemcd wilh the idea of audience parricipHlioll and
immedia1e experience. alternative thealcr shattered traditional notions of space, dmmatie
l:llIguage and structure. As they took the lheatrkal even! to thl: street, or at least out of 1he
proscenium stage, and relied morc on improvis,ltion and action than un the wrinen tex\\.
acting. space. verhal language acquired a ncw status. On the lllher hum!. dcvl:loping Ill:\\\\'
uesthetics that Marram:<l labels "th~ater or Images," (19X4 78-98) and new polilics calling

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16
(.If ensemble style and more rrofessionnlisll1 (I3erkowitz 19~2 123), tht' seventies theater
groupsll! expanded the lwtion oJ'dramalurgy.
Above all, the practitioners or the new theater were against the commercialism
of l1rlhodox (heater, together with the imrlication of commercialism as la the meaning of
production, the dramatic experience or rlaywriting. Initially, OIT-Broadway was therefore
poor. Financial gain apreared as, so tu s[lcak, a sin. As Albec ollce said, "Off-Broadway
i:o; a losing economic rrorosi{jon. The <U':[OI"S arc not in it fur money. The rroducers are
not in it for money. The Off-I3rO<ldway lheaLef simply has to be suhsidized by the actors,
the producers, lhc playwrigbts" (Quoted in Berkowitz 1982 49). BecJuse of its specific
eeonomit:s, Off-Broadway at first did n0t and could nol atLract Broad\\....ay producer:::. The
"tirst major BroadwJy producer to venlUre OiT-Broadway, Kermi[
Bloomganlen,"
explains Berkowitz. "wailed unlil1961 to do so" (1982 26). Whelher they enmt' together
to put on single plays, formed artistic compnnies, or got support from devoted artistic
minded persoll<llities like Richard Barr for Alhec or Ellen Stunrt and .foe Cino. for almosl
everyhody els-e, their mnnifesto remained the same. It was a conuniLmcnL to "relcase
actors. directors, playv..Tights and dc,)igncrs from thc pressures forced on them by the hit-
or-t10P pattern of BroadwDy Land.! to provide for the puhlic a playhouse wiLhin the means
of everybody" (Berkowitz 198226).
In time, especially by the early 19705, the entire altcrnative thealer would yield 10
commercialism. Production costs would rise noticcably. On that strength, in lhe early
1980s. Joe Parr, a long-lime supporter of experimental theater. lamented with much
irony thaL "Off-BroadwJ)' used [p be the alLernallve theater. Now it's become the adjunct
(healer."I,) Blit [or the most part, OIT-Broadway was alnws{ always the nppropriate stage
for plays requirin~ small theaters, playwrights with modest budgets, and slJphistieated
audiences (13erkowilz 1982
26). From Albee to Mamet, most of the outstanding

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17
p1;lywrighls who started or came of age III the [imc hcnelited from it, and perhaps,
cspcciaJly from its sophisticated audience.
Up la thl: late fifties, it was still cas)' to identify the theatrical :.llIdience nnd critics.
since. on the whole, thentcr then was synonymous wilh Broadway. With the new
altcrnmivc theaters, there calne ncw audiences and critics. Given the origins or the
expcrimemal thcater, wc can estahlish their audience in general terms; negatively, as not
just the middle-class whose very cultural assumptions were under heavy attack, ano.
positively. us comprising all those who rejected lraditional theater, believed in the theater
as an illstnum:nL of social amI political change. or were simply eager to discover new
Iheatrica!l.:xperience alld acsthetics in new cnvironments. Thus, besidt:s, for instance, the
political activists, the rchellious youth, thc Chicano hlflllCrs who p:Jrtieip:Jkd in Valdez's
performanecs, we also had lhe aCrldemic communit), 111 wllcges and universities.
Furthermure. theatrical criticism enlarged its horizons. At first. cxperimcntal Lhcater
bartkd Broudw;ly crilil:s, wiLo thcrcfure tended \\(1 condeseenJ to or uvoid it. Illuminating
is the plight of Edward Albee and 1~llen Smart, rounder of Cafe La Mama. Negleetcd in
their early developmcnt by Americull produccrs. publishers and critics, thc)' wen: quickly
recognized by European critics (BerkO\\vitz 19R2 lOO). Often, alternativc lheaters did nol
scck Broadway criLkism bcclluse of their rejection or commercialism, or bL"causc (rlS i....
oftcn [he case with the avant·garde) thcy gencr,lled their own critics or found them in
academia. (Hence. as some have noted. academic criticism or conlempor:.lry thcater rose
\\Vi th the development of nol-lor-pru ti I thcuter.)lll
Also. as region:ll and Off-Off Broadway tlwaters became hit-providers for
Brundway--ur, which comes 10 the same thing. as Broad\\vay began 10 usc these theatrical
stages as les(ing ground for its pruduclions (Lkrkowitz 1982 171-179)--the mainstream
expanded. To paraphrase Mt:gan Terry (intcrvicwed later in 1987) Ihere wcre as many

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I~
theaters as there were Amcricas. 21 And with this fragmentation. the eritics anu Lludicnce
altered, Making it 10 Oroadwuy was no longer the only proof of success. and different
playwrights or thcatcr groups had their n.:spcctivc (individual or collective) agendas and
their spccilic audiclll..:c. So, the "Jjve or die" effect of critical judgment from New York no
longer hdd Lruc for cVl:rybody. The va[w; of plays could no\\\\' lie within relatively
autonomous fields. Of course, Broadway critics and lludience rcm,lined centrn] to the
theatrical culture.
Characteristic.lIly contrasting Broadway and Off-Broadway Willi.mls, like many
others, bdicvcd that seriolls thc<.llcr \\Va.~ dead on Bro<:l<.lway, dominated as it was by
commcn.;ialism, musicals and the l..:omie plays of genre writcrs such as Neil Simon. The
wml11ercialism of Broadway was nol new in the sixties or seventies, bur the fact remains
that it held much relevance tooP During these two decades,
it wilnessed new
developments, Andrew I-Iurris writes that 13roadway production costs inflated between
1960 and 1970.13 For Kennelh Tynan. writing in 1960, wmmercialtheatcr had fallen into
the hands of "salesmen, businessmen and gmnhlers," and
Williams himself was
participating in the game.24 1nterviewed in 1966, Audrey Wood hud this to say; "It would
cost $125,UOO to $130.000 to moum The Class Menager;e today, compared with a lil1le
more than $40.000 t'oventy years ago."25 I3y the cnd ofihe 70s, the 60's figures had more
than doubkd. In 1971 Britnev<I nl1eged that production cosls had risen too high for even
Ihe ril.:hcst dr<llllatisls likc Williams. 26
In reality, though plagued by commcn.:ialism, Broadv,-'ay never lost its prominence
or its magnL:{ism, for mnny, inl.:lucling Williams. Also, despite the fact that serious theater
was primarily to be found Off-Broadway and in regional thealers, it "'vas never altogether
ahsent on Broadway. By lhe early 19705, 13roodway had eo-opled the ahernutive theaters

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20
In the previous two decades, Williams' pluys were popular ([Jcrkowilz 1982 145-
147). Not so in the sixties or seventies. Some or the reasons will COln;crn me later Oil;
here, I wam In slress that having losl box-office appeal in the 19605 and 19705, Williams
parLil;ul~lrly felt the devilsltlling effect orOroadway. He sUlllmed up the plight of the artist
in i 975 by arguing that it was "much more difficult to write for the theater no\\\\' than 20
yenrs ago.")O Central to the diffieulty was, as he 5<\\W it, the commcrci<.llism that kept
producers from "taking risks" and made them "insist on all sorts of salcguards" (ibid.).
Overall, he fell tl1<l{ he had become a relatively powerless agent. and therefore a
rclativdy e:..lsy victim of the produetion forces. In 1963, describing the first debacle of
The kfilk Train on Broadway, he averred: "I was rushed into staging it by the schedules
of other people"31--pcoplc who, it appears, could have been any of his antagonists:
theater-owners, producers or directors. The passive voice in the quotation indicates his
rOG' j"l:1I
subordinate pr'sition in the power hiemrchy. His sense or powerl6€S-11cSS
gr ....~... 'r the
L'/ .
~.
years. Interviewed by Lee Keith in 1970. he took a historicllI Pl~pecti\\'fU'BJ1t:J pli
(st ",:af'
d~
d
Everytime--n!most everytil11e. at :e:l~( in ten yenrs--! had a play ~~road\\\\'5~rf.W::R~I' aver
write a Broadway play again. There. you can be su damned yulner.
. 'Bu~'iI¥"~ou start i
rite
agnilt. when you've writtell something that has putential, there are p
s (Conversa .
8).
q."
t.....
•) J
, .
Williallls is a lillk disingenuous here lor, despite his denials, he
'
r~ to
ays saw
Broadway productions as the measure of slIceess.
However, this ralher moving
cOlllcssion spells the truth of his predicament. In 1975, he remembered with some pride a
victory over producer Roger Stevens who wanted Tallulnh 8ankhead not Hermione
BadJeley in the role ofMrs, Goforth: "I stood my ground against the mighty Stevens and
insisled 1hal Hermione Baddcley remain in the sl<:lrring role. You see. I still had some
clOUl in those days ... " (Memoirs 196). Again, the choice or word and the <:lctivc voice
indicatl: WiIJiam!i' disposition. ThOllgh we should not always lake his statcments at face
valuc (he was prone to paranoia and often userJ self-pity stratcgically), whnt he is

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21
exprCSSl11g here in terms of the effect of commercialism on the pln)'wright hnd larger
resonance.
The L'llect of commerci<llism on playwriting amI Olher theatrical matters has been
widely noticed. In J%0, KenncLh Tynan (1961 370) lamented Broadway's clTect on
drammic tasteS. For his part, Arvid Sponberg
recently wrote that "as the costs of
production have risen, Broadway's ability to respond (0 artistic innovations and chnnging
audience [ILlsle?] has diminis)](.:d,"3? In his most recent study of Broadway. Andrew
Harris endorses the conclusions reached by critic Richard Norvick who traced the career
pmtcrn of writers such as D<lvid Mamcl and Sam Shcpard: "Youn~ writers who started
their career oil-Broadway or ill the regions changed their style as they approached
working on [~ro<ldway" (1994 I09). In other words, Broadway l1lste commands a specilic
drumaturgy that at this level we can simply identify as realistic, cOlllcdic. This would
explain Ncil Simon's unparalleled rate or .success in the history or Americ<ln tncater
(Hnrris 112). Swayed by !hc criticism or his single-minded commitment lO wbat some
call "g'lg-infcslcd" comedy. Simon Jltcmpted a
Il\\~W and more "seriolls" gcnrc in the
1980s with his
Brighton Beach Trilogy (Brig/mm Beach Memoirs, Biloxi Blues. and
Bro(/dway BO/lnd). But then, he s;Jrdy remained in the range of Broadway critical taste
(Harris 116). In any case, these were not his biggest hits. Raymond Willimns reminds us
that Ihough thc mnrket of commercial art is "sensitivc to innovations, and must in part of
its production promote Ihem, the great bulk of market produclions is solidly nased on
known forms and minor variants of known forms.")) In other words, the commercial
market is eonserv;:l1ive.
More than anybody else, Williams learned this throughout his later career. As
Broadway influenced playwriting. so (00 did it inlluence critie<ll practice. For Williams,
much of what he heard from critics was that his plays were not for I3roadway. I will

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return to this and investigate the grounds on whidl Broadway npprovers eontinunlly
rejecLed his later plu)'s. For now, I will say th<l! thcy simply meant thut they could not
<lcccpt his plays acsthetically. If this testifies to ehunges in Williarns' dramaturgy. it may
indicalc as well something problclTIulic with Broadway eri[ics' commercialism, with the
n::configuralion of the critical world.
Notwithsl:lllding the vicissitudes of its developmcnt, Broadway never ceased to
dominate American cu]mrc (Harris 137-138). For most thealrical agenls (producers,
critics and playwrights) it remained the placc of ulLirnate consecration, the pedcstal
favomble to aCljuiring nationwide attention (BerkO'vitz 1982
180-181).
But the
Broad\\','ay audience had changcd. The general bclief until the I960s is that the "l3roadway
audience hus always bccn almosl exclusively white, middle-class and middle aged"
(Bcrkmvitz 1982168). This wns m<linSlream Amcrica. Though the middle-class is, by its
vcry position in the sociul hierarchy, an amhiguous class characterized by a profound
sense or mohility,14 its cultural assumptions and tastc remained identifiable, Writing in
1986, u reviev.'er of Williams' S'!apsfick Tragedy (19G5) perceptively argued Iba! the
problem of American artists with Ihe Broad\\..'ay audience has largely been a question of
idcntity:
To playwrights of pre'lious gl:l1l:ralions, the customer was a]w<lY:> a known quantity, but few
dmmatisls today l1<lve a clear ide'l <tbout whallhis miJdk-;lgcd bch~moth is or huw tu I\\:cd it. llnd
tbis ullCfn:ainty issues jn a Loss of confidence, an erosion of idl:ntily, an ~xaggeralion of
milnncr..J5
In the sixties, lhis middle-class <ludienec or Broadwny began to shrink (Derkowilz
1982 168), and as Bro:ldv•.'<ly leaders hegan, espccially ill thc 19705", to look for ways to
attract new <ludienccs--the other portions of the populatinn--the identity of its audicnce
bL:carne even more compollnded, fluid. Andrew HlIrris touches on a pcrtinent aspect of
the ellmp1cxity whcn he distinguishL:s beLween "those who came Lo Lhe 'heater ready la

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23
umkrSland L:very inside joke and catch every innuendo und those who were morc or less
uninitiated" (92). Supposedly, the initiated are the critics and the new audience, and the
less initiated would encompass the bulk of middle-aged Americans \\....ho go to Broadway
seeking entertainment or simply us a W;Iy of assuming their subjective identity as
members or that class.
Ir Broadway remained for Williams where he thought he could find "the success.
the flwe notices, the plc<lsing of hig masses of people" (Converm/ion 1961 96), the
crucial prohlem remained that taking his new plays there, he had to cope with an audience
that, to quote Harris analyzing Albcc's dirticultics, had been "brought up with a penchant
la pigeonhole nol only works of art but also llle most intimate experiences of their daily
li ves" (87). Our disl,;ussiOl1 or Willi,l111s' difficulties with his aL1di~nce lllust encompass the
more essentinl cultural question of taste. By lhe 1970s, to most analysts3(> and playwrights
including WiIliams himscll~ the technological and popular ~ultllre hmi made it even lllore
diflieuh to eater ror audience taste. Popular taste had become more complex,37 cven
though perhaps less sophisticated. WilliUlI1S expressed this bluntly by saying that "TV has
made more lllld more an assault on people's sensihilities."]8 For all these reasons,
eomhined with the intrinsic relative conservatism of the eommcrcial market and despite
[he Broadway audience's urpurcnt cornpkxity, its taste remained rerresentative of thc
populnr audience at any given time. Throughout the sixties and scventies. the plays by
Williams that delighted it ,vere his ellrlier ones, so these were the ones that producers
frequently revived. Moreover, revivals "vere something of a fashion in their own right.
A55essing the state of the theater in the late sixties, Spoto writes that in the season of
19GG, "more than onc third of' the .'lixty-nine new productions on Broadway werc reviv'.lls,
and [played I to a considerable critical Declaim" (296). Revivnls reDeCled the t,;raving of

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24
lJroadway audiences tor certain prcdictnblc types of pln)'s and proJucers' readiness to
<'::ilsh on Ihnl.
Like the audience. Broadway critics changed in some respects in the sixties and
seventies. They had hecome panil:ulurly powerful. The crilj(.;'s power is a double-edged
\\\\'L'upon which on both the positive [Ind negative sides can manifest itself at the various
levels o!' their relations to the playwright, lhe audience, rmd the ],lrger theatrical culture
(l'..dmer 1-17; Booth 19-45). By COnlrasl 10 academic critics,39 or reviewers involved in
the non-profit theater, critics in the commercial theater \\Nield a far more detennining
power.40 On onc level, {]l\\:ir tie with the populur, large circulation press justifies lheir
pOwt:r. Appearing, in the popular media alongside thcir reviews, and \\..... ilh the same powcr,
arc olher popular press materials such as gossip colullllls, lull page ads, interviews, illH.l to
quote McC<lnn, "v<lpid and simplistic criticism" (xxx). Together with rcviews, they
constitute the weapons of popular critics ill their own struggle for authority. 13y the mid-
60s, as a result of bankruptcies or mergers, many dailies disappeared, but (he big ones
(especially Tire New Yurk Times and Time) survived and continued to cnjoy much
authority (l3erkowitz 1982 168). 11 Whoevcr rcviewcd Broadway for The New York Times
could single handed!y make or break a show" (lbid), On allO[her level, though audicnce
and critics tend to function reciprocally, in the commercial theater, thc "audience is far
more frequently guided by the critic, and nOl infrequcntly dominated by him, than j:-; true
for other performing arts" (Booth 19).
COllHllerei<llism ~lceollnts for a large par! or the popular critics' power in the
~ixtics and sevcmies. Harold Clurman SpC'IKS of a pervasivc "manner of thinking about
art~-espec;ally the theater~-ill 1cllns of cash receipts, publicity, prizes, awards, interviews,
which arc all cquated with excellcncc."41 Irthe 1960s saw the rise in importnnee uflhe
media as a cultural <luthority,42 much of this authority has to do with economics: "The

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25
underlying mcssul;c ofthc media .in late twentieth-century American practice seems to me
In come down to the onc inescapahle motive or the nmrkctplacc ideology: everything can
he made into a commodity alld sold tor profit.",n Bonnic MalTanca interprets the rdation
ndwecn experimental Iheater in the seventies and the media in lhc same vein: "the
economics or producing, theater (mllch or it hig,hly fcchnolog,ical and expensive) have
made contemporary thl.:a!cr court public praise which huilds 3uJiencc, and grant
possihilities (foundations me highly inllucnced by (he press) which help [n finance new
works" (19g4 130-131). The heightening of commercialism significantly increased the
power of newspapers. Tu a large extent, Wil1iams felt himself to be a vidim or Ihis
Inarkelplacl: ideo!og,y. I-le C;Jl1le la perceive the critic as tlll.! most feroeloLls heast of the
theater jungle (A1emnirs R5). When he said ill 1981 Ihal critics were "literally killing
writers" (Converso/ions 356), he meant the way critics contributed to alienate him from
popular recognition through their reviews, interviews, gossip, etc.
It is convenient now to take a larger view of \\Villiams' position and allitudc in the
lheatrieal world orthe sixties. In Decl.:lnbcr 1%1, Williams vented his anger against Time
,Hagazil7l: aboLlt u statement that he had made earlil.:r la a certain Mr. Kupeinet. He said
Tillle Magazil1c ddiberatdy misinterpreted his "desire to rest ror a while and to work orr..
Broadway until I have n.:covercd my energies :.lfter this present work" fThe Nigh/ (~l[he
Iguana] as meaning that he wankJ la quit Broadway (Converso/ions 93). Only a few
months after the denial, he had this to say: "I intend la work Orr-Broadway from now
on ... I've gone through too maIlY or these Broadway stage plays" (Conversotions 1962
1(1). This time it Was in earnest, or so it appears. In 1969, asked about the new direction
of his writing. he allswl.:rcd: "I bdieve lhat a new form. if I continue (0 work in the
theater, will come out of it. I shall certainly never work in a long play form fur Broadway

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26
again. I want to do something quite different. I'm interested in the prcscnlational lorm of
thealer. where everything is vcry free ;;nd diflcrent, where
you have total license."·l~
Typically. he kept wavering between I3roadway--commerci,ll {heater, the outlet to
popul;.J.rily~-und OIT-l3roadway--cxpcrimentnl theater, the guarantee of Jltislic freedom.
This expressed u deeper uncertainty within himself ubout his rlDeC in the new theatrical
world, or simply a feeling or loss in it.
Despite his ndmir;.J.tion for Off-Broadway, he had never agreed la prc::oenting his
plu)'s there in the sixti~'s. hut in the sevcnlies, he developed stronger sympulhy for the
altcrnnliw stage, <It least to a certain point, agn.:eing to rroducc his plays Off-Orr-
Broadway ulld even writing [1lays with it speeilicully in mind. Also he developed a
rmrticular sympathy for regional theater, for its intimacy and other qualities also. In 1979
he said: "A rcgional thcatcr usually isn't too large. Thcy have excellent equirmenl. And
the peorle involved arc more enthusiastic, and the critics not as jaded" (Conversations
31 H-319). On the other h'.lI1d, as GlCllll Luney rightly puts it, WiUiams' relation with
13rnadway was a "hittersweel ussoeiation" (191D 86) lhroughout his later career. Refusing
lO co-opt its aesthetics, he nevertheless kept trying to produce on its .~tage. He dreaded the
ruin involved in I3ro:ldway productiuns, but [l,lund Broadw.ay irresistible.
In 1975. he
wrote: "I shall not nuy myself nor permit myself 10 be flayed by the anxieties, the tension,
or purliciruting in a trmlsmutation of a written play to u Broadway stage. Do I really
mean thut? I must always wait and see nowaduys" (Ml!moirs 247).
By the laic 70s, Williams had come to /Cd lIwt there was really no hope for him
unywhere in the lhealer world. On or On:OJT-BroaJwuy. he met with J~1ilurc. Regional
lheater was nUl very ausriciolls either. For instance, he relurned (0 ChiGlgo--the city thut
launched him in 1944 into cOllllllcreial theater with The Glas.\\' AIenagerie--to prepare
Clothes fur I3rouJway. He also SOLJghlthe serviee of Gary TUl.:ker who had, a Jew months

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27
earlier, successfully produced t\\Vo of his ollc-aclcrs in Atlama:a The results were nol so
good, but not bad enough to dissuade him from trying a Droadway production in 1980.
\\Vc know the oukomc. In his finul years, he reiterated whut, by then, hud become a
leitmotif, or better, some kind of a joke: "1 think, "ve been expelled li'orn America, and
I'm no longer in the mond 10 take it. I want to get together a repertory company with one
or [WO American actresses la go down to Austrnliu with mc--il'S sort oflikc Cusler's last
stand.''46
Always lucid about the spalial dinwllsioll of his plight, he wroLe in his memoirs:
"Most or you belong to something that offers <l stabilizing influence: a fJmily unit, a
defined social position, employment in an organization, a more secure habil of existence.
1 live like 0 gypsy. I'm a fugitive:. No place secms lenoble to me for long anymorc. nol
even my own skin" (1975 247). He never managed la find a stahilizing grip. This, rather
than, say, his homos(~xua1ity that the sixties liberality allowed him to feel comfortahle
with. gencr<lled his sense of uutsiderness and spacelessness. This feeling marked lhe
enJire last lWO decades of his li le, but, as wc will sce, in each decade be experienced it in
a peculiar \\'lay.
The sense of space in WiIJiams' later plays has a clear apocalyptic overtone, but
this was in no way singular to him in thal era. Syneehdoehieally, he echoes the cullures
uf those two decades. Behind the obvious apoealyptie47 strain in the plays of E. Albee,
Davit! Rahe, Salll Shepard or Marsha NormJn, wc lind an expression, all the one hand, of
the claustrophobia and decay charaewris[ie of the war-lam, violent ::Ind rebellious sixties,
and un the other. uf the spiritllJl aridity or moral bankmpley that marked the fragmented
and "me" generation of the scventies.4& The pel.:uli::lrity of Williams' case lies in the
CJllse. Fur him, it is thl.: theater world ilselrthat sloud as the determining renli[y. because
he felt a victim of it.

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28
The theatrical world or the \\9605 and 1970s with its peculiar configuration
(distinguishing between experimenloJ and commercial theater spaces), and Williams'
position in it, shaped his artistic practice. On one level. the treatmenl of space in his later
plays lIsually relics much on opposition <'IS the dominont structuring mode; more
genemlly. this functions on
the distinction belwcen cx[erior and
interior spaces.
However, this basic opposition occurs differently over Ihe two decades. While in his
sixties plays the sputial dynamic moves from exterior la interior .spaces leading 10 a
dosun.:. in his seventies plays the reverse obtains. The evolution 01" the artisl.figure's
circumstances follows Williams' own self-positioning in the theatrical world and his
correlative perception of it. Notwithstanding this hislorical distinction, dL:struction
remains the underlying spatial reality. Hence, the artist-protagonist is always space-
conscious, I will consider each decnde sepllrately, uut! focus On individual pl<lys.
I. L Setting in the IJlays or the Sixties: TOW1lrd Closure
Williams lived the 1960.'1 theatrical world as if it were il spatial entity that stood
opposed 10 the nnn-theatcr world. His struggle against being an outsider "'as a refusal to
quit the thenter world as most wanted him to do; it meant a desire to remain nClive in Ihe
thealer world, though he was never sure which specific field held a bcller prospect for
him, From this follows the sense that, in his plays of the sixtics, exterior spaces exist only
as potential di.lIlger. pointing to interior spaccs as the artist's "iueal" existential space, a
space untortunalL"ly also lilleu with the possibility of destruction and dealh.
Dragon COUnrl)J,4'! the enllecti vc name of eight of Willial11s' sixties plays, offers a
general and symbolic sensc of his perception and expericnce of the artistic world during
tbat decade. "Two." onc nr the two characters in I Can', Ima}!.int' Tomorrow describes
Dragon Country as the "uninhabitDhlc country which is inhabitcd. [the country] of

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29
t'ndurcd but un endurable pain [whereJ each onc is so absorbed, ch:<tlencd, blinded oy his
own journey across it, he sees, he looks fOf, no one else crawling ucross it with him"
(138). This is a country where "lhere's no choice anymorc"; it is <l country worse than the
Terra Incogllita of Camil10 Reol (1953). The violets that brcuk through the rocks in Terra
Illcognita would have no chance in Dragon Country. FJ ight is a characteristic mark of the
protagonist in Williams' earlier plays. For the artiS[-prolngonisls in the sixties pln)'s, it
ce;:\\scs to he an option. Evolving in their closed existential spaces. lhe artist-figures in the
sixties plays project a Sisyphcan image. waging a lost bal1Je with absurd endurance.
Thl.: sellings. within the plots and meant [0 be seen on the stage. convey
the
artist-figures' sense of entrapment and the consequence of this. How Williams handles
this. Lltld how his critics perceived it. will be of concern to me. In each of the plays under
consideration. Williams
developed a specific sense of spatial cxislence, insisting on
different
t~1eets of his own specific experiL'nce and perception of the moment.
Dramaturgically, hc continually experimented wilh various devices, drawing from his
OWll llcsthctic well ~1l1d borrowing mueh ri·om hoth past and contemporaneous practices.
Thentrically, he kept C:oing his plays on Broadway. par a bcller appreciation of the vuriety
of his experiences and changes. I will consider each pIn)' individually, taking a panoptic
view over the dcc:xk.
The Milk Train Dol',\\' Not Stup Here Anymnre (1963) is the first play in which he
put his new ideas into practice, I will cull it the transition play. It has a long and
notewlIrlhy history. Bnsd 011 a Slll)rl story called "Man Bring This Up Road" wrillen in
1953 (puhlished in 1959), the play tirst reached the stage in Ilaly in 1962. The 101l0w1ng
year Williarns brought it to 13roadwny. It failed, and then
his troubles with Broadway
hegan. 50 He took the plny scveral limes, following numerous rewrilings, to the singe:

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30
Abingdon (Virginia) in 1963,
Broadway in 1964, San Francisco in 1965, London in
1968. if failed everywhere it went During its protracted history, with nlmost each
revision, Williams hrought in his I1C\\.... concerns and explored new theatrical techniques.
To most critics. the death mood of the play·.a result of the passing away of his lover
Frank Mcrlo
and othcr friends and relativcs--darkcncd
the play.51 On the other hand,
Williams added the kabuki sl::.lgchands of Japanr.:sc theater alicr the 1962 production la
achieve, he helieved, scenic fluidity. The play constituled Willimlls' lirsl exploration uf
his pn.:dicument in the new 111cajrical world, when.: he now appeared anachronistil:, passe.
The protagonisl Mrs. Goforth is an ex-star in the lasl days of her life. She is nol
simply
onc of Williams' "southern wenehes,"51 but also an artist who hI'S passed her
prime and refuses to "go forth." Perceived in the new context of Williams' relmion with
the theatrical world, f\\1rs. Goforth's relation 10 the spal.:e of her villa and Ihe ways she uses
il are thought.provoking. Williarns has always sought 10 make space or "spacelessness"
and character inseparahlc. It would seem that he achieved Ihis UIl!ly in The Milk Train.
to
string or
interiors as opposed 10 exteriors. Geographically, the villas nre isolated on the mountain
lop, surrounded hy the se,l, accessible only by a sl113l1 path, and guarded hy a thug and
wild dogs. Sccnically. wc have differenl inleriors and extcriors: the verandah versus the
library. the lihrary versus tht: bedroom oflhc hlue villa. Philosophically or intcHeclUally,
Chris's bonk, Me{/nings Known and Unknown, establishes lhe knowahlc <lnd the

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31
unknowable ns ~patiully meaningful entities. Mrs. Gol\\mh's emphasis on the distinction
hetween her puhlic self <lnd her private self reinforces this structural organiz~Hion
throughout the aClion. Her physicnl appearance which she conslamly praises contrasl.'i
""'ith !he cancer within her that she refuses to face. The multiplicity [hat chnmcterizcs her
atlitude and personality reinforces the spatial dichotomy suggested in her geogmphical
spnce. The dramatic selling, Williams suggests, must reflect this. To some extent the
directors and slage designers managed lo convey this on the slage. One reviewer of the
Broadway production appreciated the achievement of whnl we feel in the leXl: "under
Machiz's dircclillfl tile present production is visually rich. Jo Mielziemer's poetic s~tting
unifies <1nd m<1kes continuous a story told in n series or variously loeated arias and
duels."53. Setting contributes to this ch,mlcLerization or Mrs. Goforth and the unfolding
of the dr<1nwtic action. Plot and chilracter, as Henry .Tames hns it, arc indeed insepanJhle.
Spati,dly, the dramatic action unfolds along two lines; both sU'css the fact of Mrs.
Goforlh's confinl..'J1lcnt: tirst, Chris' progression lrom "out there"-~C"pri--Lhrollgh to the
IaSl rCl,;ess or the blue villa, Mrs. Goforth's bcdroom~ sewnd, Mrs. Goforlh's resist;:lI1cC~4
ag~,ins( his penemJ.liol1 [() the bedroom. The beginning of the acti()J1 finds her In the
library, the first or
the two interiors of the viJla. From there she will recede lO the
bedroom when Chris reachi.:s the lihrary. But beforc thcn, Chris' presence on the verandah
provoke:- the see ne where, "looking through her binoculurs," she exclaims, "I've been
besieged" (19). Mrs. Goforth's efl{lrls to "conquer" Chris dramatize her percepLion or
exterior spael,;s (l()ri.:cs) us a thn.:ut she mllst lame. BUL this, wc understand, is her biggest
delusion. A:- an cmbodiml:l\\t of the exterior world, Chris has nothing to do with her death.
lr~nydling, hc simply opens her eyes to the reality of her interior sp<ll.:e-~herself(cf. infra
dHlpLer 2). 1\\1r5. Gofotlh dies from ht:r ~ancer. not from Chris or any other cxlernalll,n.:e.

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32
But the L'i1nCCr is symbolic, with an accent ofinkriorily; it represents the idea Ihat interior
worlds me dangerous for her. Sccnica:ly, that her death happens in her bedroom is nul
without importance: "He lills her onto the bed, and draws a cover over her" (116-118).
She dies accepting Chris's philosophy about the melnphysicalllnknown--which points to
her own psychological limitation--as a nalUral part of reality: lighting reveals the
symbolic mobile fixed 10 her ceiling.
When at last she decides la listen 10 Chris, their conversation quickly turns to a
debate ahout interior <lnd exterior forces, leading to a metaphoric stulemem of the central
theme:
Mrs. Gotorth: [El1l..:ring the lIbmryJ All that work, tIll:: pressure, W<lS burning me up, il was
literally burning me up like a house on tire.
Chris: Yes, wc--all live in a house on tire, 110 lire department 10 call; no Wily OUI,jusl the upstairs
window 10 look out of while the fire burns the house down with us lrappcd, locked in it. (ID?)
Plnt.:cd in the context of his philosophy as a statement about 'he process of life, Chris'
words herc capture the ultimate truth about spatial meaning in the play. The conversation
takes plaee inside (he villa, in the library, the Insl ~paee before the bedroom. It is her
entrapmcnt, not the eXlcrmli pressure of work, thal is the problem. With this remark,
Chri.':i pronounces what constitutes thl: essential reality of all prol<tgonists in the sixties
plays, and describes Williams' own problem in the sixtics: "A new consciousness aboul
his art" Ihm he displayed by cmphasizing the nrlist's "existential loneliness [in} a
fragmented world" (Ruby Colm 1984 339). Cohn says this about The Two-Characfltr
Play, but the remark is morc than apt a;;; applied to Mrs. Ooforth, the olher 19605' nrtist-
protagonisls, <:md Willial11s himself.
Williams had always perceived the theater world as his "congenial home" (Five
O'Clock Angel 1971 263) Suddenly, with his decline, his pcn;eption changed: the theater
\\\\'orld itself became gt.:llcrator of dea:h. The "junglt:" is the image that he often used

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heginning in the 1960s. Mrs. Goforth's ultimate death ()n the stage or her theater was
WilJiams' statemenl ahollt 1he thenler as a "dcilth·in-the~sou1" reality. Her ueath may
relate to the deaths or Williams' friends ,mu relatives OUt,
the dcath mood that
chnrllcterized his lifi.: in the sixties also gives evidence of the ncwness of Wil1iams'
preoccupmion. He had entered a new world where life meant "lO live beyond uespair and
still livc" (Col1versaliol1s 1962 104'), and existencc in the 1hcater world hecllme a
tcmptation to Jca1h. ffonly hceause he h:'1U suddenly become one of1he olJer generation,
metaphorically, Williams was "dead." But more, he could hear severnl voices asking him
10 ahnndon the chealer world. The nrtisls in the sixties plays are caught within "burning
houses," as Chris aptly puts it In The Gniidiges Fnjlllein, the fire seems to have caught
the body of the protagonist, as she literally loses parts of it, yet likc Williams, she will not
leave the ·'house."
Donald Spoto J(.,'Scribes the seHing of The Gn/idiges FraIl/ein (1965) as a
"fantastically rearranged Kev West" and says that "the cottage porch setting is his
[Williams'] own house
011
Duncun Street."~5 This choice by Williams is not
mcaningless, as we will see at the cnd or the section, but the allegorical dimension of the
play calls to mind anolher refercntial level, that of the theatcr world--lhe licld of
\\Villiams' own battle. This play stayed only four nights on Broadway. Initially schcduled
for carly 1965, its production was postponed for lack of funds (SpOlO 292). The failure
and production dinieulties only reinforeed Williams' sense of estrangement from
l3roadway. It was re\\':rillcn like most of Williams' plays, re-titled and produced in 1974
Off-Broadway, but with similar lack of Sllecess.
Evolving in the inJclermin<lte territory betwecn thc t\\\\'o poles or commercial and
1l0lH.:onullcrcial thcater tields, Williams' theatrical and dramatic activities were part of

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34
his search for a legitimate and determinate territory. For instance, initinlly jealous of the
new OIT-nroadway writers, he eventually cmnc to mlmire them, hoth ror their rejection 01"
8roadway :mu [heir slyle (Sp010 321-322). In this, he rcvc<lled his territorial bind. In his
allcgorical play The GniiJiges Friiuleil1, he unmnbiguously dramatized it through the
plight of ex-star Fraulcin: she has nowhere to call her legitimate spacl'. Staying in the big
dormitory threatens her cxislclll,,;c. yet she will not leave it either.
Follo\\\\!ing her lidl into disgrace within the high space of European comts--an
image of the Great White Way (Broadway)--Williams' former legitimate "artistic home"--
Fraulein finds hersdr conlinel! in lhe small space of [he Coealoony Keys, where she
engnges III an existential battle that pree!udes any expression of her artistic self The
setting of the dormitory and its rdated spaces dramatize her spatial predicament. Her
situation in the dormitory is utterly precarious; she has la meet the daily condilion of
bringing in a ecnain quantity of fish from the dock. Her interaction with the triple spaees
that constilutc the sClling orlhe action--the interior ofth!: dOffilitof)-', the terrace, nnd the
fish dock (ofT-stage)--reveals that her predicament results from her being "territoryless."
When \\Ve first meet her, she is confined in the donnilory asking for permiSSion to eome
aliI (228) on tl1l: terrace. The interior or the dormitory, wc later learn, is the space of her
potential death. The "Dark Angel" pays nightly visits to its occupants; and in there she
cooks the fish she risks her life for, yet is not allowed to feed on it. In there, too, she is
refused sexual ravors, the reason for her interest in Indinn Joc. On the other hand, the
terrace is the space of her self-exposition, if not her humiliation. The first scene of (he
action reveab Molly mopping blood that she shed there during the night fighting her
ant,lgonists, 'rhe stage-like function of the terrace is rc-asserted all through the action; for
this is where the nature ami stale of everybody are made visihle, This said, the I'raulein
gains her righl of residence through ",hilt she is able 10 accomplish Orf....~lage, lighling the

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coca loony birds for disl:ardcd /ish in the dock. Each venture brings her closer to physical
destruction by the birds. As Gilbert Debusscher aptly put it, the handling of the off-stage
sp'u..:c echoed Williams' perception of lhe outside world--outsitlc the theater world. that is-
_tl as
a gmy confused mass of menacing shadows emerging from anonymity."~6
We get further insight inro the rraulcin's lack of space by
comparing her to
Indian .foc. Unlike her, Indian Joe reveals bis power in the way he uses and dominates the
three spaces. He is the common object of desire for Fraulein, Moll)', and Polty. The
interior space of the dormitory is where he enjoys the benefits of his popularity: he feeds
frecly all the lish that ~he Fraulein must gel al the east of her life, ..md enjoys sexual
relations with those he chooses. On the verandah, hc exhihits his physical charms and his
power over the birds that are destroying the FriJulein physically. He goes olT-stage and
returns
unlmrmeJ.
Indian lac's lerritorial
domination
underscores Fraulein's
powerlessness. And, as I will later argue. through him. Williams expressed his
predicament by comparing himself with writers like Edward Albee who were successful
both on and OfT-Broadway.
If spatially lhe f'raulein is nowhere secure. the root of her problem lies in the
interior space, where existential conditions oblige her la humiliate herselL and require
her to ventme into ul1.;aJe lCrritoriesY The final scene clearly asserts lhis meaning of the
dormitory in conjunction with the docks. She stands literally blind, as a result of her
ventures oUlside. but as the bOal whislles, "she assumes lhe starting position of a
competitive runneL ... rA]s the lhird whistle sounds--the Gnadiges rraulcin sums a wild,
blind dash Cor the Iish~dock" (262). The crucial question from this point is whether or not
she will return. This creates suspense; and cventually, to the amazemenl of the spectators-
-Molly i.lfld Polly-~she returns. The big dormitory bears much of the signilicance of her
sp;:nial realilY.

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36
In (his allegory of !he: [Ite: of the <:lrtist, Willinms' point is clear enough: the artist
will never quit the stage. Gilbert Dcbu.sscher quotes Williams saying in 1965 to the
thealer people that he had "no more blood to give" (Op. Cil., 71) in the light lo remain in
the thealer world. Yet. he would not stop the light. Com:retely, this means that he would
not quit the theater world.
Williams'
intention
was
to
capture
through
his
characteristic
mode
of
exaggcmtion. the Fraulcin's absmd existence in lhe ~pacc of the dormitol)'. And it seems
that this was successfully carried out in the different productions of the play. Critical
notices praised Ming Cho Lee for supplying "the ncceSS3l)' brenkaway vaudeville set" for
the play,5lS and
creating a "beautifully ramshackle setting
of a Florida Key boarding
hUllse."s'I Similarly, Peter Fulbright got praises for the 1974 production. 6o By their
elTcctivcness. the different sellings allegedly aesthetically sustained the
Fraulcin's
predicament, anu helped charaeterizc her worlu. Williams must have been satisfied, at
least with that. But, most reviews of the 1966 prouuction agreed that it was a mistake to
take the play to Broadway. Harokl Clurman orgucd th;:lt the play would perhiJps have
farcu better Off-Broadway.61 Against all ouds, and doggculy like the Fraulcin, Williams
took it to Broadway, knowing that stylistically it would shock audiences (Clurman Up.
01.).
But slylistieally.
the
play's
predicamem only
underlined
Wilkul1s' own
estrangement from Broadway. Conllmed with
his refusal to prouuce Off-Broadway
where the play might have haJ better chances, this refusal highlights Willi<lms' lack of
"lerritorj<ll" anchorage.
Perhaps, it is in The TlI'o-Choracfer Play tbat Williams dramatized his spatial
predicament most patcntly and in all its complexity. Patently because the theater world
appears in it undisguised; complexly hecause various spatial levels occur. realistically and

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37
metaphorically. His prc-Broadw<1Y OpClIlllg Ilole for the 1973 production W,IS entitled:
"Let rv1e Hi..l1lg It All Out."{,2 and so, i1 would appear, he did. Dramillurgically, using lhe
play.within-a-play technique, The T1VO-C/wwcfer Play relies much on setting to bring
Ihis structure out. The Pirandellian technique was the new note in Williams' experiment
in ~he Two-Character I'{ay, but it was not unique lo him in the 1960s. The 19605 was
truly all experimental ::l£C; a pill)' such as Sum Shcpard's Melodmma Play (1967) t~:mlres
the play-within-<I-play device. l\\nd, through the 19705, Tcrrcm:e McNeal1y, David
Mamct, Adricnnc Kc-nnedy, etc., constantly made use ofjL In Tlte Two-Charader l'lay it
cOl1\\'incil1gl~' fuliills Willinms' desire 10 portray the theater world nnd his plight in it.
Ir in The Gr/{/dixes Frdlllein the lwndling or space presents the artist's
prl:dicaIllcnt in terms of Jack of tl:lTitory, herl:
it IOl:uses on Lhc urtist's sense of spatial
loss and confLlsion. Clare and fl.:lice experience the reality of Dragon Country almost
exactly as "Two" dcscribes it: abandom:J by cveryhody, no one hears their outcry. On
another level ofanalogy~ unlike Chris' house. theirs has no \\vindow; it i~ all darkness, and
""hat wiJl kill
them is the condition of thc inlerior space. The outer setting is a theater
building; the jJl{i.:rior one (which relllDins incompll:le through the action, ullegcdly
bccause ut' Lhe l:arly arrivul of the audienee and (he desertion frum the company of the
actors) is the family house of the characters in the interior play. The lwo characters oflhe
outer play are the same, only older. as the two in the interior play. In thc same way, the
t'.vu settings complement each othcr.
Ullill1atcly, the Piralldc1liall techniquc provided Wil1i;-uns with an effective 100110
explore the notion of the real. This, Devlin rightly argues, led him "into a deepcr
appreciation of the artistic theme"(,J thnl runs through his work. Thc accent here in The
Tll'o-Chumctc1' I'luy i.... as Bigsby has ~hown ("VulcdiclOry" 1984), on the naturc of
re;\\lity
il:-;clL \\....hich is Cwgmemed. multiple amJ unslahle.
What constitutes the real is

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38
never clear in the eyes of Fclicc and Clare. As they lllOVe
111 and out of the interill[
setting, they cross boundaries of realities in princirlc diDcrcnl, but in essence similar.
Therefore, the double setting adequalely, in the sense of objective correlative, establishes
the schizophrenic mltl,re of the '\\.\\'o characters. being, as they are, forever divided between
sanity nnd insanity, fantasy and reality. The setting dramnlizes the essential condition of
the two characters, their entrapment:
The itlca lUll! sense of con!illclllo.:nl arc a central cause of lerror i1nu panic in the play. Oath [he
house in New Bethesda. in the play wilhin [he play. IInd the theater ilself of Inc framing play.. ,are
C\\"lIlccivcd of as 'cages' and 'prison'. The idea of ent]'~pmellt is either the cause or consequence uf
the neurotic belmvior in the two characlers....64
It is all il game of mirrors in which the different levels of reality, from characters co
settings, hOlllologically reflect ench other, reinforce the sensc or nHJIliplicity, and enhance
the feeling or contincment.
In the interior play (which is ahout their childhood). the lamily house becomes a
pnson for fclice nnd Clare, following the denth (by homicide nnd suicide) of their
pnrellts. They b~come insnne. Whether this is the cause of their confinement or a
consequence of it is, as Kahn hns suggested, difficult to say and unimportnnt in any case.
l~;.:i.stcnlial stme and not causality seems to have becn Williams' point. In Ihe frame play,
the sanll;: existential condition prevails. While on tour with their company in an unknown
country, they suddenly find themselves ahnndoned. allegedly for the same reason of
insanity. But again, the focus is more on lheir existentinl situation. How they face this
will ..:oncern us in nnothcr section. Abandoned, fhey refuse to qlJil the lhealer, now
appearing to them as home. Home here is n euphemism for prison; <ll1d it establishes nn
analogy with the family house ill the interior play. At the end of the play, the two
charaelcTs reveal their doom and entrapment in tbe inlerior play through their continued
dramatization of it. The interior play is a denth play not simply becmlse it eenter~ on the

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39
Jouble l11unJcr oi'their parents. but also bccause--und this i~ the worse ror them--it has the
murder weapon, [he revolver. as a central prop. At the end of the play, neither Felice nor
Clare can use the revolver against lhe other bccnuse they need ench other. but it remains
'."ilh them, with its potential for Jeath. That Felice keeps hiding it from Clare reDccts an
awareness of this potential.
Above all. at the cnd or the action, Felice and Clare remain prisoners of the
[heater building, with its chilling cold, its darkness. ~.IllJ ils final closure as lhe only
certainties:
Chm:: So it's a pris(m, III is last lheater or ours?
FcJicc: 11 would seem 10 be onc.
Clare: I've <l(W<lYs suspel:lcd that theaters <lfe prisons for playas.
FcJicc: Finally ye.>. "nd for writers of plays... (.~64)
This, as Bigshy argued (1993 65), seems too explicit a st,Hement-·a characteristic that he
believes murred WillilllllS later plays; but it perfectly describes the reality of Williams'
lived experience.
Kahn has judiciously shown that symholically, the theater image ilself occurs on
three levels and mewtheatrieally explores "the thenter as an enervating and entrapping
proression, and ultimately a 'casket,' a 'vault,' a 'mausoleum' for those within the thealer,
,md a psychological and cosmic metaphor" (1989 52-53). At all levels oflheir rclution to
the theater, Feliee and Clare experient.:e the same condition or conlinemenl. Williams :mw
their prcdicamcnt as symbolic. For instance, the exterior setting which he considers "the
more important of the fwu ... must nor only suggest the uisordered images of a mind
nppmaching collapse hut also, correspondingly, the plllmtasmugoriu uf the nightmarish
\\.vorld Iha( all of us live in at present, l10tjust the subjective hUl the truc world with all its
dismaying shapes and shadows ... " (309). The seHing slIggl.:sts the statc of the reality
\\vhich wc must all cunfront; for Williams in the 19605, this mcnnl the thcaler world.

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40
Wl,; may establish the link bdwcen cOnfinell1Cnt in The Two-Chart/cl!!,. Ploy <lllU
William's own position in rhe Sixlil:s theatrical world by seeing lhe relution bc!v.'ccn the
interior and cxrerior sdtings :.IS historically and dramaturgieally meaningful. The inner
setting is reminiscent of Williams' settings in his eurlier pl<lys. I1 has all the ingredients
constitutive or the southern sl'Hings in plays such 'l'he Glass .Menagerie. and Wil\\i~mls
meam Ihis to be evident 1l cncompass..:s, he says, "nat pieces of scenery \\vhich contain
lh\\.' incomplete interior or " living room ill Southern sUlllllli.:r" (30S) in New Bethcsda.
By pnsilillg the interior sel as a small sOL1L1ll~rn town, Williams leads us la sec the outer
selling not simply rcducti"'dy as the North,r'~ or too generally as "~ocic(y" at large.I'l> or as
"a modern eulture."f,7 but prim<lrily as the ne\\',l American theater. which in lhe 1960s had
become hiS ultimate reality The gcner:.ll or remote selling of the C&;Xl'or:rii~x~~'. c tells
\\
.........'
.,,,
'~/:':
c;.
us, j~ "a state unknown," and the lI11mediatl' setting "a s1[lIc {he'Y;6,"'~ (313) Througl?,,.. IS
I:; III BPIJ4 Oll~ll' "I ~
double anonymity. WiUWlllS suggests that his portrait of lhe~ hC<.lter'n~Pj)ltgs to i c
~~~ccumt.nbliOO ~
.I\\merican thealer as a whole.
....
,::
~Q
{I'
v
Thus. while Ihe inncr selling could Ix; seen as typicul early w,' IU!Pl~"
:tnd
1950s). [he outcr is characteristically
1960s. By andlogy wilh his historkal
development. the latter set IS a
1'ulflllment of the former. rh,:y spcak 10 each other
llletathentrieally. In other words, Willinms dramatized in the setting or the extcrior play
what he had suspected about the theater when, at Ihe age of reI ice and Clare ill the inner
play, he observed the eommerciallheatcr. In his childhood, in Si. Louis, opposite to the
I'vlUll1l11ers Then/er which g:ave him "really good times," .~tood the "usual Little Themer
Cjrollp" r...:miniscenl in many ways of 13roadway lb..::ater. Th...:y (Little Thc;:l!l.:r Groups)
were "de\\ioll::d
mainly 10 {hl.: prcs...:nlalion or J)roadw:ly hits ;J season or two utter
I3roadw:..ly. Their stagc was narrow and nOlices usually mentioned how well they had
overcomc their spatial limitations, but it never secmeu 10 me Ihat they produccd anything

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41
In a manner that needed lo OVL'rcoml.: limitations of spacc."/,)\\ Emotional dryness and
spatial limitations characterized the commercial thealer as he perceived it in his youth.
Thi::; quulifiL'illion or commercial lheulcr clearly evokes images of closure, confinement,
danger, destruction. If the interior setting predicates the uuter setting as a portrait of the
theater in the 19605, the incompleteness that characterizes it must lake all an analogous
symbolic meaning. The stair leading into a void evokes an unknown territory. The
missing; setting, or the unknown territory thereby snggested, arc la be found in the
exterior ~ctling. Wc must indeed perceive the two sCllings in their inlcractions, in the
same way as the actions of the Lwo plays interpcnetrale and speak 10 caeh other.
The uneertain spmial position or Williams in the
1960s nnd beyond IS a
dmwetcristic situation,of liminn!ity. Neither 011 the I3rondway sl:lge (the ultimnte reality),
nor 011 the expcrirn~lllal stage (the allernative), nor out of the Ihcater world nor
legitimately in it, living in a present hnunted by his past identity--whal Devlin calls the
"acllte encets of [thel mythologizing process" of his earlier career (1989-1990
7)--
Williams, in lhe 1960s. was living in no specific world. II', as some critics hnve averred,
The Two-Chll}'acfer Plt~r is Williams' mosl aUlobiogr;1phical play, much of it has to do
with the fael that it portrays the theatrical world--his new hume-cum-pris()rl, his own
literal spatial predicalllent Felice answers Clare that tbey have no home 10 go to, und as
Julills Novnk has perceived them, they perfectly represent [he schizophrenic sides or
Williams: Clare standing for the impulse to stay on st<lge and Fclice representing the
impulse [0 leave the 111l:atery'l The horror show in which Clnn: and Feliee engage was
Williams' show too. In his Memoirs. be described his sixties' experience as "a continual
performance oflKlrror shows, inside and outside my skull" (280).
'v/illiams hurned more energy witb [his play lhan any other of his later
production!;. 11 open.:d in London in 1967 and ~....as repeatedly produced through the '70s

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42
up 10 the carly eighties on ])ro,lclway, experimental and regional stagt:s. Criticnl rcm.:tion
always included tbe selling. so central is it lO the play's construction and meaning. Most
reviewers
of the first production, it seems, failed to sec thilL as sccnil: designer Paul
SWllrti.lchcr urgues, "[blcc<lllsC of "'·/illiams' heavy reliance on scenery as ::t mode of
expositiuIl ... tbe setting must contribute 10 the production In a manner thill differs
subst'Jnrinlly from jls lrudition~11 role in the American lherJlrc."iO To Peter Lewis of the
London Daily
Mail, (me of the those who were b<lrtled by the play, "it seems 10 he
technique without conlcnt--or al least Content obscured and
Illuddled
by sheer
technique."7l
For Brenda Gill, 10 Midziner's "ghostly setting"72 did not improve the
production. On 'he other hallO. 1ll0S1 reviewers of the 1973 production admired
Miclzin(;r's set. Clive Barnes. for inslance, wrote lhat it provided "the necessary
claustrophobie quality."73 The reviewer of Variely put it in anoiher way: "Jo Mielziner
hus designed <In exquisitely impressionistic. spare selling <lnd unreal Jjghting la suggest a
li.:cling of sadness and lllcvit<lbk lruged)'.H7~ This W<lS the rettlily WilliulllS purportl:d lu
show of himself. In Dill Cry (tbe Chicago version)
Williams makes Clare and Felice
welcome lhl: dimness of the swge as demh. This is unneeess<lry, as 11(; reCllized, so he
edited ic out of subso..:quent versions of lite phiy.
Pursuing the tragic pattern of th(; pn:eo..:ding plays, Wil1iams concluded the sixties
with another bleak s(al(;menl of [he artist's spatial prediemnent in In /he Bar (~r a Tokyo
flotel 119(9). In (hI..' Bur premiered on Broadw.:ty in 1969 and played only 22 days (11
May-I June). Ten years later, nrter the llsual rewritings. it opcned Orr-OffI3roadway with
u !:w.: simil:1r to th:11 of the prl:ceding production. I1 ;~ about a dying artist, t\\-1ark, who.
having alienated bis rel,lIiOlls with his wili.: Miriam to rursuc his art, is now desrerately
in need of proximity with her. Denied this. he dies. This was- Williams' last play of the

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43
.sixties. and in an important regard, il :ieems thnt it speaks to The 'l'lVu-Clwracler Play. As
if 10 clear the confusion--for instance, Sy Kahn (19R9) secs a final peaceful resolution-~
around what becomes or Clare and Fclicc, Williams rcst<J1cd the point he had already
mndc in The ,""'ilk 7i"ain that death is the fale or the artist in DWgOll Country. Williams
posed Mark's CUl1ccrn with experimental painting as an image uf his OWl 1 interest in new
c.:unvenlions. and as the expression of existential suffering.
Here, Dragon Cuuntry
takes the form of a Tokyo Hotel, at least on 3 prmwf)'
level. The now familiar opposition between interior and exterior obtain::. here lOO. Both
interior ~lnd exterior find severLlI realizations. metaphoric:..lly and rcali::;licully. Sccnieally,
the opposition bctvieen the bur (exterior) and Mark'..,; hutel room (interior) e::;tab[ishes [he
eenlral..,;patial units, Metaphorically, thc imagery of the circle of light. and the correlative
interior or l,;xtcrior positions that it demands, find sevcrnl applications. Thc contrast
between "here" und "01.11 there" also plays out significantly.
In (he !Jar h<,s rightly been erilieized for its patent discursiveness. (Wil1iall1s
experimented \\vith Pintcrian technique, udapting it to his own eonl,;ern.) The Sl.;nse or
being in Dragon Country is more prcscnt--perhaps exaggeratedly so--in the lingui::;tie
space, 011 the metaphorical level. Imnges, description. and thc idea or being in or out of
the l.:irclc of light <lites! that the sp,llial situation of Murk is thc source of his plight. His
ob5cssive artistic quest has led him into a dangerous territory. "I feel," he says, "as if I
wcrc crossing the frontier of a country I have no permission to enter, but I cntcr, this, this.
I tc[l you, it terrifies me" (19). Using sp::l!ial metaphors, Miriam is eloquent nhout Mark's
plight. "You know," she explains to Leonard. "it's dangcrous not to Slay ill it Itbe circlc of
light]. There is no reason to take a voluntary stcp outside of lhl;. [sic] This wcll-defined
circle of light is our dcfcnse against. Outside of it thcre'~ dimness that IIlCrCUSl.:s lo
darkness. Ncver my territory" (51). The images of danger and dimncss uptly dcscribe

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44
Mark's sitllaLion. For his purt. stressing Mark's psychological state, LconanJ says: he
"lives in a private jungle" (41). All these highlighr Mark's
predicament in terms of
existential space <IS "veil as they describe Williums' own objective and aesthetic situation
in the 1960s. His estrangement from Broadway--Miriarn's tradiLioni.ll circle of light or
"normal" spacc--had led him into <l "dangerous" territory, where La exist is to endure
rejection, solitude.
The physicul setting contains some degree of inlricacy, though compared la the
metaphorical level, it seems that it poorly fulfills il" function. The geogrnphical
remoteness of Tokyo is insisted on, ,lI1d it establishes Tokyo as another territory, an "out
tIK:re" that st<lllds against the "hcrc" of thc Unitcd SLates. The art dealcr, for instance,
arrives too latc 10 be nble la save t\\'1<1rk, whom, it is allcged, no air line company would
;lI.;ccpt to rcpatriate. In this "out therc" l:md of Tokyo, Mark suffers. Out it is less thc
intrinsic nature of the hotel than Mjriam's attitude Lhat deals lhe tragic blow 10 thc artist.
Understood spnlially, Mirium's attitudc repn::scnts the very condition of Mark's straying
out or the circle or light. This particular aspect of Mark's predicamcnt belongs in a
subscquent section. More relevant hcre is that sccnically, Mark's tcrror is dramatized by
his fcar or entcring his hotel room, now filled by his painlings. Thc painting-fillcd room
is a symbolization of the circle of light thnt hc has created. or tried to crcate, for himselt~
as i\\·liriam BOles. Clunnan draws our attcntion to the relation hctween M:Jrk's circle of
light and Off-13roadway. arguing that whcn Leonard snys that Mark's prcsent paintings
arc only wnrth a "minor gallcry" he (Clurman) (hinks of Off-Broadway.75 Was this not
abn an cxpression ofWilli,lJns' own lucidity, or at least a dramatization of what he could
hcur people saying abodt his latcr plays? for most critics, The Gntidiges Frdulein, and
blcr, Kirche, for instancc, belonged in Off-Off.·Hroadwuy.

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45
Dr<:lJnaturglcally, Williams' Inter plays were "the most dinicult that [he] has ever
wrillen."7(, Throughout the '60s, Williams' arlistic ambitions directed his symputhy
lowards lhe experimental stage and writers. This did nut mean J pure co-optation of the
c:-;perimental stage but a use ur its resources to "make his O......'I1 murk"77 There were risks
in the search; and as hc did in 1953 with Camino Real, Williams took them in the sixties,
huping to establish a new legitimacy. This unly alienated him from critics and his
audience.
His burlesque, black hUl11or, pastiche uf absurdity, eIC.,
as critics variously
described his sly/c. became the
"badge" of his failure. Did Williams make an artistic
error'? This is a more tban n:levant question Whose answer will be my concern in the very
last sectiun or my work. Here, I want 10 note the reactions uf two critics because they
stress my present concern. Henry Hewcs. an admirer, answered: "I·lis quesl for the
ereation nfhis own circle of light may be painfll1, but WI: will rejoice in hb determination
lo fullow il."7H Echuing Illany other critics, Hamld Clurmnn (O/J. Cif.) feanxl Williams'
experiments had led him into a private world where must people could not follow him.
I-lis sixties plays Iwd no chance or success on Broadway. This is an aspecl of his plight,
experimenting with "uew" conventions. And the destructiveness of Mark's private circle
or ligh( embodies it well.
The Droadway production of 1969 stressed "lhe exotic quality of the selling," and
according to Clivc Bmnes, the direclOr m:magcd to bring Oll{ lhe necessury atmospheric
(Juality.71) For the Off-OiT-Broadway rroduelion ten years later, the Sl.:( dc.signer opted for
a "nearly bure stage," resulling in the emphasis shifting onllllhe language, (he diulogue.~o
Perhaps, this was a judicious choice. for a.s I have said, even spatially, it is the linguistic
level that bears mueh of the onus of the play.

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46
Prom the blue villa (The Milk Train) through the big dormitory (The Gn(idi~es
Frliulein), from rhe state ,heater (The Two-Clwracler Play) 10 the hotel (In (he Bar).
Williams offered Vnrirtlions on closed worlds--the basic existential space of the artist-
figure. While confinement
and 000111 arc a common prcdicDllH:nt, lhe various artists
develop divergent senses of spatial signific.:UlcC within their dosed worlds. Only
Williallls' peculiar experience in the sixties could orient his imagination toward such a
portraylll of the artist's social circumstances. With a portrayal of the artist-figure's rdation
La space as described above, Williarns achieved something similar to what Bourdicu saw
in Flauhcrt's' SentimenJa/ Education: "a qunsi-objcctive reprcsentation of the sociJl space
of which he was himself a product"
(8ourdicu 1993 173). Refusing la abandon
the
thcater world (thereb~' implying that the spnee olltside it was a threat [0 his status as a
playwright) \\vhcn his "public declinc eroded his cunfidencc in this world" (l3igsby 1984
146). Williams SQon found himself in nn cxistential sp'l(.;e where pJjn would become lhe
substance of his life. In lit..: forms of lailurcs and frustrations of various kinds, the two
poles of the theater world occupicd by commercial and non commercial thcalers excrted
destructivc inlluence on him. Conscquently. he felt lost nnt! claustrophobic. "I have
nowhere to go." he told Joanne Stang in 1965 (Conver.w!ions 110-] [I).
At the end of the 1960s, he could find justification for his 1953 statcment thac,
"withollt planning to do so, I have followed thc developing tension nod anger and
violence of the world and time lhnt I livc in through my own steadily increasing tl:llsion
as a writer and person" (Where I Lire Sl.J). Much of the .substance or his experience in
the sixties. howcver, followed almost cxclusively what happened in the chcater world. As
he explained to Rex Rced early 1971. his own personal problcms with dcath, drugs, and
asylum scarred his mind (191). This unquestionably exacerbated. as most critics have
shown, his melam:holi,], and informcd his artistic rraeticc. BUI what happened la him in

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47
the theatrical world remained <Il.:fucial factor. If he were in tunc with lht: sixties, it is by
way of his intense experimentation and his essentially absurdist and apocalyptic vision.
In the carly 19705, he lOld his lollg~[ime friend Gore Vidal that he "~Iepl lhrough the
sixties." In response, Vidal, who had undcrstooJ that WilIiams was only nl!uuing to his
nchic\\'cmenL in the thcnler world, said: "If YOu missed the sixties, Bird, God knows what
you <Ire going to do with the sevcnties."HI As it turned out, Williams did indeed attempt
much in the seven lies. What he achieved by way of the mtisf-ligure's exisrential space IS
the suhject or th..: next section.
I. 2. Setting in the Illays of the Sevenlies: Towllrd Opcn Spaces.
While the sixties plays present the artist-figun.: trapped in circulllst<ln~es that
hc:<.:ome hi.'i/llcr death-bed, lhe seventies plays reveal him/her either aspiring to or simply
evolving in open spm:es, ex!erior or worlds "out there." Also, \\vhile in the sixties plays
exterior spaces reinforce and justify the closed nature of the interior spaces, it is just the
reVl:rsc in the 70s plays. But again, this does not mean Ihat interior spaces are happy ones
for the artist. Whalever the renson for which he leaves the interior space, whether it is in
an adventurous spirit as with the Writer in Viellx C£lrre and the Man in Kirche, a hid lo
recapture the source of creativilY as witb Seott in Clothes/hr a SUn/mer Ho/el, or to avoid
l:ertain pressure as with August in Something Cloudy, Something Clear, exterior spaces
hnvc in store for the artistlhc same destructive potential as interior ones.
The artisr-tigurl:'s simple presence "out there" or the mO\\!Clllent toward out there
suggests a new spirit--;l Promelhcan spirit as Ridmrd HornakH2 says about Williams
himself concerning his creation of Kircju:. This means (hat he eCJSCS to project the static
and absunJist image that obtains with the artist in the '60s plays. The irony is
that,
despite his Promelhean alli/ude, the seventies artist·(jgure does not achieve much more

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4H
than his prcdcl.:cssor. He only lives on. but perhaps this was exactly Williams' point: life
musl go on, after all; it must go "en {fWI/1{," as he liked 10 say. The layout of selling in the
'70s pl(lys and the dynilmism 111<.11 characterizes Lt through (he vcnicLlI thrust or the action
correspond, in fact, to the changes in Williams' circumstances and dispositions us he
enlcrcd the j 970s.
In the theatrical rcconfiguration in the seventies, Williml1s could hope lo assert his
OWI1 legitimacy without neccss;lrily reeling bound to dCLcnninc himself in relation to <Jny
other prevailing acsthctit: licld. llc did indeed experience s011le changes that he spelled
oul ill Memoirs in revolutionary terms:
Al'lUillly my own Ih~"lcr is HL~n in il slale of revolution: I am quite through with Ihe kind of play
lha[ cstahlishcd my early and popular reputation. I am doing a different thing which is altogether
my own, /lot illOuenced at all by pIller playwright.s at h01l1L: or abroad or by other ~ch()ols of
thealer. My thing is what it alwflys \\\\'"s: to express my world and my experience of it in whatever
form seems suitable to (he 1l11llerial (Memuirs xvii).
This revolution, WillicllllS rightly nlDintaincd, began with his sixties plays, but in Ihe CDrly
19705 it took yet .lllother turn.
EXL'l.:pt for Kirdw and 7i'avelling Companion, all or his seventies plays with
artisls as prot;Igonisb are set in the past--his own past as wdl as that of other L1rtists.
Though aspects of the meaning of the pas! will come up here, this will find particular
Lreatment in chapter 3, Like the co-opwtion of unconventional aesthetics, a return to past
acsthctit: form is always, for the arList seeking legitimacy or onc kind or another, part of
Lhe strategy for achieving his goal (13ourdieu 83-84, passim). Surcly this was the case
with \\Villiams; for instance. tu his last days, he sought to wrilc the "big play" that \\'..'Ould
galvanize and perpetu,lle his reputalion. Williarns lllcunt, despite his many (knials-~the
denbls themselves \\vere perhaps not gratuiluu:-i, but a 5ubtle manifestation of his
strategics-.to return lriumphantly Lo Broadway. To find the new and mure personal
dramatic mode, he turned to his own p;'lst and rroduced LI series of memory and historical

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49
plays. Wc may, <IS Wil1iams himself and n Humber of cri lies have done, ascribc the return
to thl.: elTc<.:t of age, lludging him toward nostalgia. Looking b'lCk at his rast he could sce
but "segments" of life that "arc separate and do not connect" (Cotlwrsatio!l." 1981 332).
This meditative mood amJ stocktaking attitude inhabited him all through the seventies to
his <.kath. His plays 01' that period seem to capture each of the fragments of his life, from
lhe thirties to the sl:venties.
The prist cxpericnr.:cs Williams sUlllllwncd in these plays are ones thal emphasize
artist;.: lives or contexts. While each play stresses specific rm::cts of the artist-figufc's
artistic experience, spatial organization in them evokes the structural division of the
nuthor's objective the;l(cr world: extcrior spaces COllVl:Y images 01' commereinl theater and
interil)r spaces the nllcrnative Stllgt:. It would scem Ihnt, in contmsl with his work in the
sixties, whcn he opposed thc theater world as n v"'hole to the outside ,":orld, through the
1970s, Willinllls mlher stressed his cxperience in buth fields.
lnsoj~lr as the seventies plays are memory plays, like 71le Glms Menagerie, they
sJwre with the lattcr a characteristic stylistic approllCh to theme and setting. They <:In..:
atll1osph-.:ric plays: structurally, they <.Ire episodic, In them. Williams lakes, as hc argues
about Clothe.\\', much license with the lKmdJing of time, space nnd thealril:nlity, with the
purpose of getting dcepcr into the cssenc-.: of f<.lcts. Thcse plays arc foundcd on lhe
cxnmplc of hb lv!emoir.l' (1975) ,vhieh in mall)' respects illustmtes Willinms' new aUituue
and his sfylistic mode: confession. cxplicitne%, lucidity, elegiac mood, abscnce of
chronolugy, etc., characterizc
it, Amllllg his dram~ls, Jlicllx Cane sets the pattern and
mode of the s.:ventics, with rellection orth.: past as <.1 c.:ntral d.:vicc.
View:
Corn; (1977) wns Williams' lirsl ne\\v play of thl: '70s. Its vnnous
productions continued thc trend of lailurc, which was interrupted briefly ill 1972 by Sri/all

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50
Craj; Warning's sw.:cesS--i) play written in the sixties. Set in a New Orlcuns rooming
house, the action of View: Carre tl'lkes place in the late 19305 and tells the story of a
young writer clllled the Writer. Its setting and protagonist recall The Glass .'HenaRerie.
Waiter Ken's assessment is accUrall:: "1\\ boyish narrator, standing for Williams himself.
picks up where the lad of Menagerie kit ofT: he has finally net! the exasperations of life
at home in St. Louis and, in his New Orleans attic room, is in the process of becoming
both a writer and homoscxual."K3 At the cnd of the action, he \\caves the rooming house
..md New Orleans for the West Coast world of I-lollyv,'ood. Having acccpLl:d these facts,
several qur.:stions may arise. For instance, why did Williams choose lo
focus on his
expcrir.:ncc in lhe late 1930s? What does the selling tell about thc Writcr's artistic
condition? How dnes Williwns handle Ihis relation? And ultimately. how does it rclate to
Williams' own r.:xpcriem:c in the 19705'1
William
Prossr.:r C:.lplUreS the crux of the
pl:.lY's
historical
and
person:.ll
significum:e for Williams whr.:n he suys: "we must see the play's evcnts as 'chosen'
moments which represent the growth of the writer's consciousness, which is really the
sll~jeC{ of Vicllx Carn!, its plot and thcme; thc educulion of an artist, an older writer
remembcring his young,:r sdfat a criticul period in his artistic life."M The late 1930s had
marked Williums n~ul beginning in the eonunerciol thealcr world: "I put myselC through
two more years of college ond got a B. A. degree ot the University of Iowa in 1938.
8efore then ood for a couple of years afterwards I did a good deal of travelling around
and J held a great numhcr of part-lime jobs of grcat diversity .... My first real recognition
came.: in 194(J when I received u Rockcfdler fellowship and wrote Bailie ofAnge{s which
was produced by the Theoter Guild ... " (Where f Live (1).
Williams litl:raJly lifted this story OUI of his own experience in thc 19305 because
hc saw a parallel with his experience entering the 1970s from [he 1960s. Actually, he

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5 I
addresserl hOlh his experiences of Ihe '60::; and '70s, lhe \\'1/<\\1' the IOffilcr decade prepared
him for the 1nllcr, the way he entered the thealer world of the seventie:-- as Ira novice with
new hopes and ne\\v fears. A reviewer of Viellx earn!
argues that the set of the play
symbolizes the south and beyond that lhe world.~5 In a man.: spccilic way and on another
level or symbolism, the setting speaks to Wjlliam~; experience of the si:.:ties themrical
world. Through handling ofscttill~ and spuce, WiJliams dram,lli7,cd the two \\>,.'orlds of the
sixties and sevcnti.:s. The rooming house wnvcys his experience of the tlleaL!';[ world of
the sixties--the opening sLa~1..: direction tells us that 722 Toulouse Street is now all art
gallery. thereby drnwing our attention 10 its symbolic relation with the anistie world--
while the unknown West evokes the commercial theater of the '70s by the detour of
Hollywood.
It is important lo elaborate on the portrayal of the rooming house beeausc it is
lIsed to establish the sig.nilicanee of the unknown West Coast outside, and by analogy,
Lo convey Williams'
percepLion in the !970s of the commercial theater world. With
mcmory plays. atmosphere is
the main iJlld dlawcteristic
elcment of setting
(WaIter
Kerr Op. Cif.. 30). In VielLY Corn!. rhe general mood is [hal of djsintegri:uion and
londincss. The physical envirLlnllll.:nt thc "historical building" with its three stories. its
multiple rooms, its alcoves and dark passag,eways, etc .. should, Williams w'rites, "bc a
poetic cvucaliull 01" aU cheap rooming huuscs of the \\vorld" (4). As lile I.:pisodic scenes
sbift from one room to ;mother. from [he halhvays to olT-stage or the baseml.:nt thruugh
c\\'oeation by sound or light, WI.: confrunl images of claustruphobia, destl1lctioll, and
death. Thc first words ut" Wriler as narrator warns us: "in my recollection it lthe house]
still is/occupied]. but by shadowy' occupants like ghosls" (5). The <.le lion indeed serve.s us
up to metnphorical as '-veil as realistic ghosts. There is a bat-laden banana tree in lhe
historic garden. The bats "hang upside down frorn it. .. from dark till day break," and

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52
"when they all scream [([ once aml Ily lip," it sounds in Nursie's cars "like a--cxplosion
Or·~JlllnncJ souls out of a graveyard" (5). Tilt: grave image, an apt image lor the '60s
world of Williams. recurs several times: from her grave, the Writer's grandmother visits
him twice during Ihe action. Mrs. Wire has constant halhlcinatiol1s abou( her dead son
Tillli. Death legitimates the play's morhid preoccllpalioll.'i. Jam.~ is dying or leukemia, and
at the cnd orthe play, an amhulance rushes in to haul Nightingale away to his death bt:d.
rmagcs of dnrkness, imprisonment and mental disintegration rcinfl)fCC the ghostly
IT\\ood. I3y choice or for real lack of bulbs, the house is literally plunged in darkness (6).
Conlincd in the damp and <.lurk of the house (13), the occupants expericnce it as a prison.
Nursie, the chorus-like Jigurc in thc play, intones: "Lawd, that "\\'oman fMrs. Wire], she
got the idca [hat 722 Toulouse Strect is lhe address of a.iailhou~c. And she's the kceper. .."
(IU-II).
8ul with or without Mrs. Wire sleeping in the t,;ntrance, the
senst,; of
confinement remains:
!\\1rs. Wire: Whal d~l yuu ,lIl uo ill Lhal lockeu room ~() much?
Miss Mllude: Wc ke~l) ourselves occupied.
Miss Cnrric: We oughllO go Olll more regularly, hul our light bulb5 have burnet.1llut. su we can't
di.~linl:\\lIish nigh! from day ilI1Ylllon:. Only shadows come in. (J7)
The real reuson I"or the seclusion is an cSlrangcment from life. With nowhere to go and
l111thing to do because they havc been fired. as is the case with Nightingale. or becuuse
thcy ,Ife not willing to do allY thing, these peor!e live in bon:dom. Loneliness is their lot
as thcy ilre scvercd I"rol11 reality. At thc beginning of sccne 2, as the Writer enlers hi~
cuhide. he e:o:perienees "a sound or dry and dcsperu!e sobbing which sounds as though
1l00bing in thl; \\>'!orld could ever appease the wound from whicb it comes: londincss,
inborn and bred Illlhe bone" (l6)-
Deprivation i:o; rampanL
among the oceurunts of lhe hou:o;e, and has multiple
fal;et~. It is Inek of human comrany as Ihe quotation above shows. It is lack of traditional

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53
moralilyas the orgiastic scene ill the ba~emcnt reveals. It is also lack of unistic success
ilnd material satisfaction. The Writer's Tlwlluscripts are constantly rejected. In need of
llll.:anS of subsislcm;e, he must share his time between working lar Mrs. Wire's rcstaumnl
and trying la write.
This is an environment that ps)'chologicCllly Gnu emutionally seeps into the Writer
and shapes his experience. By the cnd or the action. Nighting.ale obscn'cs that he has
"turned rock-hard as the \\Vorld" (92). Bdorc he leaves the huuse, he shows compassion
Jor Nightingale, returning, for the first time. his visits. Artistically, Jane's predicament as
Tye abandons her when she discloses her terminal illncss. inspin:s him and, again for the
lirst time, "I wrote the longest I'd ever wllrked in my life, nearly all that Sunday. I wrote
"hout .I;lIle amI Tye, J coulJ hem them across the narruw hall" (95). Despite this
inspirational surge. 722 Toulouse Street remains an inauspicious environment for the
Writer. His grandmother's goud-bye at her secund appearance becumes a warning that he
must leavc (I07~IOS). Soon Sky's clarinet sounds ofT-stage, an invitation tu go Wcst--lO
the world of
Hollywood. But what does Hollywood hold in slore for him? Spatial
metaphors and attitudes conflate to play out the meaning. "I was abollt to mnke a panieky
deparlure w nowhere r could imagine. The West? With Sky?" the Writer asks. The West
appears as remote and vast as the "sky," unknown and foreboding. The final scene dcurly
drmnalizes this:
Mrs. Wire: Call yOll see Ih.:: rJoor'?
Writcr: Ycs-~but to opcn il i~ a rJl:spel;l!C IIl1der1rlking.
[As he tirst draws the dnor Open. he is fnrcerJ bad, ;l few steps by [\\ cacophony of sound: the
wailing Slury of h i" fUlurc··mechaJJicill fill,;].; ing cries of rain anrJ ple<tsllre. snatches of song. It
f<lues tllll. Againlher.:: is Ihe urgent c;lll or{hc cl<lrineL He crosses to the open UOOLj (116).
Uncertainty is the rule. The West has potelltial for destruction. Sounds of death
ehime as loudly as does the murmur of lonelim:ss in the huuse he is about to leave.
Exteriur and interim spal:~S echo ea<.:h otlH:r. yet the Writer must venture, lhe surge of art

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54
spurs him. and it is, as Ruby Cohn suggests (19.!:l4 341), dsewhcre Ihut art musl come [0
lire. WilliallJl:i cOlll:ei\\'ed The Glass Menagerie, the play that launched him in the world of
cnmmcrcial thealer while he was working for MGM. all the West Coast. Perhaps. then,
the Writer c.tn hope.
The re~lilY Williams sought [0 capnln:: by revisiting the 19305 in lhe carly
seventies had a particularly signilicant ~patio-Icmporal dimension. As he moved from the
'60s to the '70s. Willi:HllS was ,l\\vare thal he entered a new [empowl and metaphorical
space that could b\\: Ul1iSlic<.dly cruciaL He was rcudy to continue his career with ne\\v
resolution. His 1972 play Small Craji Warning.\\' was unanimously ncdailllcd: "Fighting
obscurity for m:arly a decade. the man S01l1l.: pl.:ople have c;:lJ1cd America's greatest living
playwright hns returned to prominence wilh i.l new pl'1)' and new outlook," wrn1(' Jim
Gaincs in 1972.~(, That people rl.:m:lrked his /lew outlook or thal his plays ruised ne\\""
interest confirrned Williams' new sense or artistic being. Yct Williams had some LJualms.
Robert Bcrkvist compared him. (hen, to "n mariner who can't quite bellcve lh;:lt the storm
IS over "87
III drunwlizing [he harsh re,dily lhat makcs up the Writer's present social
condition, and in suggesting a transcendence or this condition in his \\'enlure westward,
Williams h:lll his own present cnndition as a model. HOl1lologically, the space of "Vieux
Carre'-·722 Toulouse Street. that IS--IS n represenw(ion of the mood that characterized
the lheatrical envirollment (If the 19(J(]s.
Yel. it is not without relevance \\0 Williams'
mood of the 1970s. for,ullim<ltl.:ly, the ddermining relationship that the rooming house
entertains wirh thl.: West Coast parallels Willinms' OW1I spatio-temporal trajectory from
the sixties to the seventies.
Reviews, hoth negative i.uld positive, or Vieux Cane placed great cmrha~is on the
set and the designer's SUCl:ess or failure in hringing Ollt the right mood. Unanimously.

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55
reviewers lamented lames Tilton's set {or the 1977 production. "What was potentially
strongest in this chamber-music play of time. pLicc and memory has been botched by
inept direction, \\\\Tetched lighting and dissonance of mood." wrote T. E. Kalcm, .......ho
ended his review hoping that "in some future production the sense of Checkhovian
stasis ... wi!1 be eaptureJ."XR This hope was, ~iCcording to
reviewers, fullilled in
Nottingham (1978) and at the WPA Thealer in New York (1983). Reviewing the latter
production, Me! Gussow argued, ]o(lking back to the 1977 one, that "3 I:.irge proscenium
stage as was the l:ase with the original Viellx Carre" did "an injustice" la the play.89 Sally
Airc, reporting on the Nottingham production, wrote', "V0)"\\cck's set solves the changes
between the many short scenes brilliantly. Set on the revolve, it is divided into three basic:
faees.joined by a practical staircase, and shO\\\\is us the crumbling latch and plaster of the
exterior as well ;\\s the interiors, as jl turned. draped in the ruin of ages and former
glory .... "')() Though commercially they did not m:.lke box~office hits of the play, such
revie\\\\'"s point to crucial artistic elements that in other contexts could have satisfied the
playwright. Mood. indeed, was the issue with sett'lllg, and it was that which characterized
Williams' sense ofbeinl; in the theatrical world OfU1C 1970s, and \\\\'hich he wished to sce
rcprcso:nLo:d on stage.
From the standpoint of spatial sequence, Clofhes follows from Vieux Carre. At
the end or Viellx ('(fITI: the Writer sets out for thl! West eOLlst, the world of Hollywood.
On the other h'llld, Clo/hes opens with Seoll Fitzgcralll arriving from Hollywood to visit
his wife Zelda who is staying in an asylum in North Carolina. As it soon appears, the
asylum anll the North Carolina hilltop selting, beside being imposed as biogmphieal fao:ts
from the Pitzgenilds' story, funetion as
dramatic elements in relation with Scott's
psychological state aIJd his existential condition in the artistic world of Hollywood. As

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56
Michael Prosser has suggested in his study of Vieux Cwnj,91 it is essential and relcvanllo
ask why WiJlimns took interest in Scatt Fitzgcrald's story. Given Williams' relation to the
theater world, the answer to the question must lead us 10 a symbolic consideration of
SCOlt's relation to space. In other v.lords, Scott's experience of Hollywood and the extent
to \\'<'hich his present position in the space of the asylum adJresses that experienee must
Jircct our mind [0 Williams' own rel<ltion to commercial thealer.
The history of the pl<lY's produdion is typical. After louring Washington where it
premiered (January 29, 1980) and Chicago (Fcbru:.n), 26, 1980) where it played with
relative success, Clu/1cs opened on Broauw<lY
on March 26, 1980. It closed :Jller 15
perlormanees on April 6. As it turned out, Clothes would be WilJinms' last play on
Broadwny. Its closing left him and his artistic director Jose Quintera bitter as several
nnalysts h<1Ve variously ;-eported.'J2
That setting is primarily a vehicle for portraying Seott ns desl.:rihed by the title of
the pJay--"Clolhes for a Slimmer HoteL" Suggesting wbat Seatt did wrong, the title
convey:; his ironical rdation with the space of the asylum. The inndequacy of the dress
tor the setting tigures Seatl's difficulties in spatial terms. Setting dram:Jlizes his
predic,unent, subjectively as an expression of IIis confused mind, nnd objectively as an
image of his Jifficultics out there in Hollywood. As Seott appc:Jrs on stage after curtain
rLse, he eVOKes Williams entering the theater world of the 70s--the uncertainty, the
h:Jziness. Jose Quintero. William R<lidy reported. tilled the st:Jge with smoke la sugg.est
the ghost-like atmosphere of/he asylum.93 SCOlt enters after dissipation of the smoke, but
nlready wc know that haziness will characterize his experience of this place in which he
sets fool with high hopes. He nrrives at the Gsylum following the "news" that his wife's
comlilion has improved. His hope is to reconnect with the inspiratioll(ll fountain that she

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57
has always been for him. Her estn::mgement from him hns had significant impact on his
pcrforrnD.llce in the film world or l-IolIY'\\lood~-"oulthere."
As he sLands before the
gate ' ....ailing for Zelda to come out, we pen.:elve [he
setting as it p;JSSCS through his eyes or impresses his mind, guided by the comments of
the nUlls. As in an Ioncscoan wurld, the gothiL:-like door with its dark red color--as if
"SCllfched by fire"
(205)--intimntcs his cunl1lsed, sombcr and scorched mind. Our
attention is also Jravdl to the sl:enic division between interior and exterior. Pursuing the
calor issue, Scatt humorollsly
observes la the nUlls: "If the ohjective is to cre:lte a
cheerful ilTIprcs~ion. I would begin by removing the two of you from besides the gales."
To which Sister tHle responds: "Oh, no, we must guard th..:m until they are lockcd for the
cvcning" (206). The gothic looking gale and the nuns contribute to establish the duality of
the scenic space, which, llletaphorically or realistically, plays out the thcmc of the rlay,
and the predicament of ScoLt. It is Seolt himself who. as he cxperiences the exterior
rcality (.It' the asylum
or expresses hi,,,
vicw of Ze1c1a's interillr space, directs our own
perception. The exterior spacc is dangerous, deadly. but this does not imply that Zelda's
intcrior space is inherently positive. It appears so only
to Seatt; it n::mains potentially
simi Inr to the exterior space and reinforces the naturc of thc latter.
At their first flll:eting, Selltt's and Zdda's discussion quickly chawl:terizes their
two worlds:
S,,;oll: Work on the west coast, tilm work is vcry exacting, Zelda. Inhumanly exacting. Peupk
pn::tenu 10 reel but dOll't reel at all.
Zelda: Don't they call it the world ormake-bdieve? Isn't it:l sort or madhouse, too? You o..:cupy
one there. and t occupy one here (214).
The ''''orlds of film and insitnil y94 correspond signiticantly in thc way they arc
respeelively experienced by Scott and Zclda. This should not be surrrising, for, Williams
has always seen a parallel bctween m<ldncss <lnd artistic crcation, basing it Oil the

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divergent caUfS!;S Iha! his life and his .sister Rose's life took. He always thought, at lcast
hefore the sixties, that l1c was ]ui,;kier than his sister, as she was drawn to the world that
becomes munchc's at the end of A Streetcar, Of that is Zelda's in Clothes, and he inlo that
whidl is Scolt's. But \\vith his portrayal of Scott's plight he presents a gloomy view of the
theater world that is little different from Zelda's.
By the end of Clothes,
Scolt surpasses Zehla's observation of correspondence
between their two wl.lrlds. At the sound of the hells marking the end of visits. 7clda tells
him: "The vl::;ilors' bell hns rung and wc can withdraw to our separate worlds now" (277).
Rejcctcd as both a husband and an "author" of Zelda's life, Scatt says to the Inlern who is
closing the gate: "Hold on a moment. Maybe you can explain to her the advantage she's
had in heing p5yehoiic" (278~279). With this, Seott establishes a spatial dichotomy,
implieit)y making positive Zelda's interior world and. most ()f all, giving expression to
his perception of the exterior space that is his, now, on rhe stage and, by extension, that
Jws heen his, both out there 011 the West Coast and throughout his 1;/1:.
A few examples will prove my point. In the flash back scenes, wc disl:over that
Seotl and ZekJa have always percei ved their eon1lie( in spatial terms. Scott lo\\'ed privacy
:md control, and he tried to put Zclda in confining roles. He wanted her to be a Lady.
[king a Lady mc.mt being conventional; Zelda found the role too confining and rehelled.
The rehellion took several fonns. Sexually, she took a lover who significantly enough
was a pilot, that is, someone related to the most open space of aJl--the sky. Refusing to be
secretive about their affair~~seereeyevokes confmement--she thereby eventually alienated
the pilot's love for her. Artistically, she took la dallCing, a public art more suitable lo hcr
sense or being. One sequence of the flashback shows her entering Scott's studio against
his order. Going public became for Zelda a self assertion, even the substance of life, On
the other hand, for both her lover and Seotl. there is danger in going public and being

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Ul1conventiOI1DI. Exterior or public space becomes a leitmotif of threat humiliation, ::md
suffering III Seoll's ]iiC. ~or instance, at the party scene he experiences several
humiliations, first hy heing knocked dO\\.\\Tl hy the black singer on the performance stage
and .<:ccond hy the "olltrageous" and "insensitive" reaction of his company to his
announcement or Conrad's death. Most of all, the public knowkdge of Zelda's infidelity
is a gruding experience. Undouhtedly, these cases contribute to est<lblishing a pattern that
nms through Scot['s life. In [he present of his life, the setting of the asylum--lhc exterior
par1 of it--echoes or Jramalizcs Scall's experience of the "out there" of Hollywood, and
its meaning for him.
The en~'Cls of the \\·vim]. the cold. the hurnilii.ltilln that he faces by exposing the
confusion of his mind. the rejection by lelda, everything that makes up his experience as
he arrives nt the gate recall what he says ahout j·!oIIY\\.\\TJod to Zelda earlier in the action: it
is a
"world without morality": j( is "hulll;mly exacting."
The play ends kaving him
outside the gate, prey to the clelllenls--a last vision, for us, of whnt constitutes his
experience in Hollywood (lut there), and to which he returns.
Thc irony th,lt underlies Seon's hopeful arrival and the re81jty he eventunlly
experiences nlso dramatizes the ironic course of his real life: the l'eali[y opposed 1(1 the
myth. This might have heen one crucial reason for Williams' interest in the Fitzgerald
Slory, as Rohert D8na suggests.'>5 Williams, he argued, perceived an identity hetwcen his
and the Fitzger"lds stories. "He felt they were doollled from the start, and he himself was
domned ....Like 5<:0\\\\, his emly works were a tremendous success nnd then he fell Ollt of
l'avor" (23). For .Iu/ius Novick more thml ever hd(lre ScoU Fitzgerald reminded "f',1r.
WiJliams so strongly of himself. "'J(, WiJ/ial11s indeed not only kne\\.... of his public decline,
but had to deal \\Vilh it at every lum in his theatrical and drumalie experience.

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60
In Clothes, lherefore, as Dana tlJrther rh)tes, Williams "plays otT the legend the
FiLzgeralds huvc become against the often pathetie and brillle ..:onJ"usiol1 of their actual
jives" (23). The action here, unlike in The Glass lvfe/lLlgerie or Vieux Carn", where it
t~lk..:s place
in the memory of the prolagonists, occurs in Lhe minds of his fellow
Alllcricuns--who kno\\\\' and live by the myth (Dana 24). Focusing on what the aetl1:Jllives
of the Filzgeralds "were," \\Villiams meant to draw allcution to his own actual experience,
that which his O\\vn myth, he thought, prevented people from seeing.'H Consequently,
Scoll's experience 01" the exterior condition of the asylum, his endurance and his final
plight bring to mind Wiiliams' OWn experience both \\vith Clothes and with his various
endeavors tn slay "active" on the s\\age. Everybody, from producer Eliott Martin who
"went on st<lge (0 ask the audience to send their friends" (Kakut<lni 1980 I) to Vlilliams
himself who Pllt up $20,000 10 extend the play's run for a week (Kakutani Ihid, D 7), did
\\v11<1t Ihey could 10 solvage the play, but in vnin. Williams would say aller its closing:
"Every play represcnts to me my life .... nut I had greater emotional investment in this
onc, you know. I'm 69 years old and [ thought this was my last chance to do a play on
f3roadway. But it didn't v.:ork, it just didn't work" (ibid. D 7). Williams could well have
said similar things abollt his experience with a play such as Small Craj! Warnings'JiI. or
wilh The: Two-Character Play. To these, I will return in a bter chapter.
On the whole_ Williams' own experience r..:vcals an analogy with S":Olt's. Just as
Scott needed his wife to keep himself artistically active in the West Coast, Willillms felt
he had h) produce his plays for the same reasons. Yet, what an excruciating task! Scalt's
world is nightmarish; il is a world that Williams insistcd all calling ghost-like and which
undoubtedly wrls in the image of his own perception of the 1heater world. That world
stood in his eyes as a "jungle," a place where humiliating other people is not only ...:unent
but o..:eurs
naturally.'J'l
Reviewers
of the
Broadway production
differed
on
the

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61
effectiveness of the sccne design. WiJJium A. Raidy wrote: "so many of the e1Tects, fog
swirling across Olivcr Smith's windswept setting, nuns enveloping the play's characters in
their ulmtlsl bat-like skirts and buzzers piercing the air only add further confusion to the
play."lllO
On the other hand. John Simon, who did not like the play, found Smith's
"scenery nicely cvocalive."I(l1 So did \\Valtcr Ken of the New York Times and Dfluglas
Watt of The Dail,Y lV"WS. Whlllen.:r the case. the crucial fact remains, as Hilton Allison
put it. thal "the asylum Serves as an appropriate selting (or the mixtun: of realistic and
expressionistic scen<..:s which comprise the play."lH2 With this mixture, Williams sought
[0 caplun: the mood of his experience. through the fiLzgcrald story, of
his OVin
experience in the commercial Lhculer worlel.
Commercial !heatcr is UISfl the context in Something Cfolldy, Something Clear,
\\\\/lllinms' last, and as yet unpublished, play to open in New York (1981 )-~Off-Off..
Bwmh'iay. It too is a mcmory play. and biographicuily, the time spun it covers fiJlIows
;;traight from that or ViclIX Card. The iH:LiOIl takes placc ill the summer of 1940, an
important period in the dcYelopmclH of Williams' career. AugusL, the protagonist. relives
his arrival (/J·om the Wcst Coast?) forty years earlier on the New England Coast, hiding
from theater producers, to
revise his
first Broadway play. As most critics have
perceived, this is a representation by Willi<ll11s of his own experience in the summer of
1940. rcvising IJaltle (?fAnge/s_ Chronologically, the play traces his experience alter his
cmployment hy MCiM, as he W;JS working on IJord!..! oIAngefs ill Provincetov",-l1. August's
experience is a scquel to the Writcr's in Vier/x Cam!; thc setting is therefore naturally an
exterior space. Williams chosc to remember (his portion of his past hec<lllse it highlights
an aspect of his present life in the 19705.

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62
The s..:lting is the bench of the New England seacoast. It is single yet composite: a
turbulent sea, Ita stretch of go\\dc:n summer dunes ...lhc fair sky above it. .. one remaining
room of:::l h:ach cottage, and the remaining floor of some other room blown or washed
aWl1y which provides a pIal-form for the two characters who are danee~like students, Kip
and Clare."lo3 Temporally, it is no less complex. "The remnants of the beach cott<lge arc
Eke lhe remnants or the lime 'Not Now"'; and now and then slight changes must suggest
the "raint intrusions of'Now.'" The setting has a certain ghastliness, an intimation orlhe
drcam~Jike quality inherent in memories and the nature or the characters, "all being
ghosts even though some of them are still living" (13), Dram8lurgieally,
Williams
intended this single h\\ll complex selling to be, us in, say. Thl~ Two-Charucfcr Play,
doubly evocative or nlUllivalcnt. Symholically, it S\\lggcsts rast and present times, layers
or realit)'. Meeting with August for the first time. Clare comments that "he is not as
dcsti/ute as the shack looks" (22) drav..ing our attention 10 the signifieancL of the setting
dcment thnt his shack is. Reality here is multiple; so, whatever relation we can estnblish
between August (we h;n'e two Augusls) and his physical environment must lead us in
several directions.
For young August the dilnpidated sUite of the setting, its foreboding nature, clc.,
intimatcs the harsh reality of confronting Broad\\'iay. Clare says: "he's goin(b thrrllll;.h a
terrible crisis in his life, I mean his firsl I3w8dway rlay produetion" (7). The dangers he
faces on the beach dramatize thl'lse inherent in the commercial Iheater \\vorld which he
s..:cks to entcl'. Physically dilapidated, the shack offers August 110 adequate pwtection
against the rain which, when it comes, constilutes here, :.JS it does in Vicux Carre, a
menace 10 his manuseripts, nor against pernicious human actions. One of August's main
concerns is that someone might steal his typewriter, robbing him of his reason for
C"xistcllec in the theater world. In reality Williams did expcrienee sit\\lations where his

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63
manuscripts were stolen, especially in his Key West house. HJ4 And for Williams this had
<J symbolicrl) meaning; it expressed thc desire of the theater Pi.::Ople, relentlessly pursuing
him, to expel him from the field.
For the August who revisits or who is invaded by these imagi.::s of his anterior
plight (later Williams, that is), they e'/Oke those of his present condition. The time 'Not
No\\'," corresponds in mond Ll!ll\\ reality to the time 'Now' that it eclipses; the mirror game
illi(imed in The Tm)-Character l'!uy continues. In other words, as Michacl l'rosser says
of\\Villiams' relatiutl to Vieux ('arn;. older August or later Williams "chose" to remember
those pmtieular events because of their similarity with t!lose of their present lives. We get
Ihis through several processes of symbolization. Tbc spatio-lemporal rcality of the past
symbolizes the present, subverting the sense of reality only to asser[ certain salient facts.
The author writes that "the time that is now in the play never actually occurs in the play
except as a mood" (13). On the same page, when Clare presents the fake identity card to
Kip, his reaction is: "It looks like a good copy." Fiction or appearance lUay stand for
reality. rl1r old August as \\...'ell, fiction or clsc the past appears more truc, clearer than
re<llity itself, the present. The visionary symbolism in the title of the play is simply a
rranslation of older August's perception of his present reality (cloudy) and his pas!
(elc<Jrer).iOs In chapter 3, I will show that there are dangcrs involvcd in living in the past,
<HId for that maller, in letting it invade the present. Here, I want to stress that Kip and
August highlight thcir present dilliculties, which they experience in spatial terms. As Kip
cannot lind a proper physiL'<l1 spacc to perform his private art, so too, August's
predicament is that hc wants to mount his plays on a Broadway stage.
August's relation to the temponll scquen...:cs of the prist and present has a ring of
irony but perfectly captures a crucial aspcct of Wil1it1ms' situation in the later part of his
e<lreer. Hi:; past achievements, as J will show in a future section, on Broadway becamc the

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(,4
mCilsurc [()r assc.s:;ing his present cnctcavnrs. His pnsl artistic identity became more reil]
than the present one. Williams knew that when people referred lo him <.15 the greatest
Jiving American dramatist. they were referring only to his earlier ilchievements. Whether
Williams eventually came to believe in his being anachronistic or he was simply lucid
about it. is difficult to say. In any case, wr.: canllul discounl the eHed of his unconscious,
as it also necessarily shapes our sm;ial or artistic prncliccs. Williams' complaint ;Jfter the
failure or C1olhe,\\' hud deeper echoes than the immediate frustration. When August says
lhat ";:\\t this moment I [exisl] only to remember," it is Willi,mls himself summarizing his
plight in the [heater world or the '70s. Both the mood of resignation, dcspondl:ney, and
his !celing of eslwngclllcllt come out in August's poctic assessment of his predicament in
spatial terms: "l,'s enough," he sn)'s, "to recondle you (sic) to exile, at la"t 10 the dark
side of the moon or 10 (he unfathomable dark hole in space" (23). For most theater
people, Williams' artislie identity was somewhere other than in lhe present; it was locked
up in lhe temporal reality or lhe '40.'1 <'nd '50s. Williams' own renewed interest in his past
would seem ro confirm this. lOll
JUS! as in The Gntidi)!,es fr(i/{lein, moral dryness chilmcterizes the commercial
tbeil!er world of young August. Clare reminds him that it is naive of him to expect pcople
to understand him, or to be honest with him. Ul7 On the whole, setting in 5,omefhing
Cloudy is both physically und
morally
filled with images of Ihreat, destruction and
death. These describe Williams' PDsition in the commerciallhemer of the '70s and early
'SOs. and relled his perception of his fate in it. To close the play, Williams finds it
ncccssary to recapitulate these images of destruction and death ill a SOrt of tableau. Kip
losses the gull's ske1e[\\)Jl onhl August. (This has I,lrger resonanecs that I \\\\.'ill takc up in
exploring the destructive power of an.) The vietrola. a symhol or August's link (0 the
past, runs down. and the surf booms. To link all lhese, August "picks up the gull's

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(is
.~keleton and turns it slowly, studiously before him as the surf drowns the music and the
stage dims slowly out" (12).
Most reviewers tended to agree
wilh Frank Rich when, comparing it to Vit!ux
Carre and Clothes, he said that the play offered "l'<:lr more promise."I08 The setting
element seemed to have passeu ullnoticeu; mostly reviewers insisteu, instead, on the way
past <lnd present mergeu in the theatrics or "rude oUl and f;,ue in" as WaHer Kerr put it,I09
Yet in many regards, the setting here is, <IS in WilJiams' other memory Or non-memory
plays such as Kirche, nn essential element, and it is a product of the new condition of hLs
l<ller career. Something Cloudy premiered Off-Off-Broildway, at the Bowcrie Lane
Thenter (24 Aug. 1981-13 March 19R2); this ilself is an indication
of Williams' new
position in the theatrical \\vorld of the '70s and early '80s.
He wrote Kirche, KUlchen und Kinder with Otf-Off-Broadway particularly in
mind, as we will sce. Alternative theater, except in its Off-Broadway form, is essentially a
19605 ;lI1d later period phenomenon; Williarm; I.:ould therefore not have had an experience
\\vith it before then. Perhaps because of lhat, the creation of Kirche stopped the line or
memory plays. In its <;tc<ld, Willialfis resorted to parody and f<lree, tWO devices with
which he was alreadY familiar as. for instance The Gniidiges Fl'iilllein shows, and with
.
.
which he purported to pursue his investigation of the essential reality of the lheater \\vorld.
The choice of this modc also reveals a fllcct of Williams' ne\\,,' attitude toward realilY.
Realizing that he had to accept being in "exilc in the hole," as he has August say in
Something CfOHdy, he became amused, laughing <It himself. In his memoirs, he observed
that "Laughter has always been my substitut~ lor lamenLUtion and 1 laugh as loudly as 1
\\vould lament if I lu..dn't discovered a useful substitute: for wecping" (1975 xvii). In
Kirche, behind the veneer of f<lrcc and humor, wc can perceive his laments. At this point.
WiIli,uns reveilled a breach in his admiration for altern'ltivc lheater, at least in theory. In

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66
their comlllon rejection of commercial theLlter. members and sympathizers of the avan!-
gank Illay temporarily unite (Bounlku 1993 66). Here, wc may :-iny that Williarns
tcmpomrily united with commercial critics. btu ironically so. For, he look their
perspective simply la laugh at them. Critic Richard W. J-lornak saw this well,
characterizing Williams' motives as "a private joke for the public <ll\\U critical vultures
who have feasted in one form or a110111l:r for years (HI other more 'serious' endcavors." I10
This said, wc must not forget that Williams never accepted the alternative stage
wholehcLlrtedly. Thus, in Kirdw, wc also have ~limpses of his aclunllaments abell! Off-
Off-Broadway.
Kirche has had onc production On:"OIT-13roa!.Jway at thc lean Cocteau Theater in
Scp!l'l1lber 1979. Scquentially, it comes before the preceding play, but for thc present
purpOSL" it belongs in the onler presented here. Those who fdt in 1965 Ihat it ha!.J bcen a
misjudgment on Williams' part 10 produce The Gniidiges F'nilllein on Broadway. most
certainly found satisbetion in the choice of venue for Kirche which it resembles in so
muny ways: they sharc Gcrman overtones as is eviLlent in their respective titles. FrUulein
reappc;'lrs in Kirchc a~ed 99; and in the !wo plays WiHiams used parodic and farcical
devices. We havl' indications that Williams cOIll.:cived Kirche as an OfT-Off-Brondway
play. as when he says, in Llcscribing Miss Rose: "since she may appear later (Off-Off-
Broadway economics must be considered) she should hc heavily veiled" (2). I30xill
accounts for the slylistic choices bere solely as an expression of "Williams's 'plastic' or
cinematic stagccr<.dl" (19~n (63). This discounts the significnnce of the 1970s dramatic
context. Off~Off-Broadway is inscribed in the play stylistically, thematically, as well as
spatially.
On the SUrl~ICC, Ihis "unpublished black comedy," as Drewcy Gunn has it, is
"ahout n Ncw York bustler and his fnrnily" (1991 GB). But there is morc 10 Ihi~ ploy than

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67
that. The Mnl), the protagonist, is, besides being a hustler, an ex-wriler for the theater,
another of Wil1iams' selr-portraits in the later [)Hrt of his career. The Man boasts some
crlti~al awards, and some t~liled production in Roston--perhaps Baffle alAngels or The
Red Devil Batfery. At the beginning of the action, we see him in his family house in
SoHo, lower Manhattan, living out his "voluntary retirement." At the end of the action, he
prepares la go back upto\\\\'n to his former profe.'ision as hustler or a writer. The two
spal.;es, the family house in SoHo (Io,-ver ~Ltnhattan) and Up town Manhattan, recall the
two mtis1ic worlds of experimenlal and commercial Ihcilters. As in the preceding plays,
Williallls l.:s\\ablishes these t\\'\\'o spaces by a proees~ of contrast: "in here" and "out there";
"on" and "off-st;Jge." Scenieally, eontrost also detennines several llther oppositionaJ
spaces: the kirche (for church) versus the kOchen (misspelled kUlchcn in the text, Spoto
l375J reminds us, for kitchen); and Oil the other hand, the kirehc versus the Lutheran
chureh. The reality of the Lutheran church, the father's church, comes out through hoth
verbal evocation and tbe persons of the Wife and her father.
Heightened by fnrce and burlesque. spalj~tl handling and metaphors reveal
numerous facets of the frustrations that, through experience and observation, Williams
endured
on
the
allernalive stage.
Williams collapsed the
interval
between his
disillusionment with the alternative theater and his ultimate rejection of it; this rcsulted in
lhe action moving, as in Vieux earn?, from interior space (Off-Off-Rroadway stage) to
an exterior onc unamhiguously identified as Broadway. Dut by now we know w'hat
BroJdway represents for the artist-figure; eonsc4ucntly we can predict the result or the
vCllture--whieh he does allow us 10 see, directly at least--into tbat world. I will point out a
few examples orthe t\\.1an's spatial predicament. More will appcar topically in SUbsequent
sections.

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68
Whcn the Man retires and decides 10 establish himsdf in the SoHo section of
Manhattan his move is solely strategic. He insists that his retirement was voluntary, and
he refuses to be called
all Ex-(dramatist). Similarly, when Williams felt rejected as a
13roadway writer, he voluntnrily decided to stop writing for Broadway and strategically
began to look towLlnJ the e.xperimcntal stage: "I find that my grear happiness now is not
on Broauway but Off.. and OIT-Off-Broadway."llj There is no uoubt that Wi!liams
inlcmlcd 10 maintain his sympathy {or the experimental stage till, as the Man puts it, "hc's
evictcJ by--the expiration of his lease on pcr.sonal--exislcncc ... " (3). In March 1977,
<-lskt:u by High School students what his aJvice to new playwrights was, he ;1115wered:
"take your play to loe Papp."Il2l-lowevcr, hkc the Man, experience soon revealed that the
alternative theatrical worlJ was not a happy home for him. m
The spL"cilic ways ill which the Man
uses his "latent" as an artist--a scene
designer, an <'lctor, or a playwright--fall under a later thematic conccrn in my work. Here I
want to stress that religious stereotyping helped Williams to further debunk the
alternative stage. alleast his experience in it. The M,1Il mC<lnt his kirche to be a place of
intellection and meJilatioll on beauty and life. The idealism with which he associates the
kirche (all image of Williams' early idealiz<ltioll or OIT-Broadway) finds justification,
historiefdly, in his aneestry--Irish Kings--and metaphysically in his native religion--
Catholicism. The physical structure of the kirehe. the intended nse of it and his own
<:llrrelative self-definit.ion (image) embody the Man's initial dreams about SoHo. These
Jreams are burlesques ofWillia.J1ls' Jremns. At the opposite 01" the Man's idealistic world,
the kill:hen stands for the world 01" lhe mundane, the earthly; it is the pragmatic world of
Protestantism,
the
religion
or his
wife
and
fLlthcr-in-law.
PJfody
sustains
the
dramatization ortlle \\vife's pragmatism too.

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69
The setting fulfills its image as the e.xperimcntal sl<lge by conflaling the church's
idealism (aesthetic concerns) and pragmatism (,lctioll, material concerns). With these
images, WiJlillll1S creates a wurld of pructiccs at which he wholeheartedly laughs. Fraud
and make-believe, violence, moral squalor, indigenl.:t', etc., prevLlil in this SoHo dwelling
plllee. The Man's world is onc of ll1ake~believe: "In the interior of kirche the Man was
practicing calisthcnics. As the red light warns him uf the approach of the two ladies, he
jumps back inlo the wheelchair" (18). His wili: eventually exposes him as a fraud, but [or
the rvLm his make-believe and his "illv.didit)''' <lfe only acts of "prole::;l" against' his wife
fur her earlier humiliation of him: "Don't pretend amnesia. I'll tell you how it happened.
You stuffeJ a couple of pillows under your skirts ;md ran screaming altcr me on the
~[rect, 'Hc's knockeu me up find is running out on mc now!' Inllamed the local hypocrisy
against me" (67). For Williams too, the creation of the Man as a fraud is an act of protest
against those \\>,/110 kcpt repeating that he W;lS "played out" ,md alienated him from the
public.
On the other hand, the wlfe's pragmatism introduces action, the pllysieaL as a
dominant mode of expression~-an echo l1f expcrimentfll theater which ['lrivileged action
o\\'er words. The reality or her kitchcn--standing for the practical need of food--prcvails
lhrough tile repctition of eating and drinking. Perhaps the whole point about indigence is
:..llso a p<lwdy of the "poverty" of the experimental stage; "poDr lheater" was, \\VC know, a
synonym fvr eX['lerimental theater. Material c\\Jncern le;lus her father to kill her mother to
collect insurance money, whicb she insists on sharing or else she will reveal the truth. To
the extent Ihat the father's only rcsponse to his daughter is to hit her. they also have a
similar sense of pragrnatie communication.
Hitting is the wife's own "modc of
communication" with her husband. E~eh time she enters the kirche. she is carrymg a
mcnacing ax. By the end of the plllY, thl: Man sheds idealism and becomcs praclieal too:

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70
as he kicks his \\"iile, he urav.is our <ltlcntion to the rebtion between physicnl nction ~tnd
(h~ cxrcrimenlal theater: "A bit of--theatcr, Madam--rrcsenta{ional more th.::m literary,
hut that's thl: style no\\'i. I hear" (12). Perh:lps the Man performs his most significnnt acts
when he advises his children 10 take ur prostitution (a field of rractical concerns)
followil1l! (heir dismissal from kinJergarten (intellectual field), and when he himself
eIL'cides La tnkc ur his old rroiession (prostitution'? "",,"riLing?). The advice turns out lO be a
disarrointment, and concludes the Man's string or failures. Onc C,ln easily imagine why
Williallls would sympathize with the Mall at this point, as fJ.ilure \\-vas his lot on both the
commercial and non-commercial sLages.
At the end of the play, the Man musL quit his kirche and go out to the "\\,..·or\\(1
occupied by the halite bourgeoisie" \\,,'herc hc once served and won the Hotli<:ker',;
Awnrd:-i.II-l His
dt:p~llture for UpLown is a mere gesture. "So you're up to it again." his
wife says (53). To undcrstJnd thc jvke here, one needs only La recall WillimllS' numerous
assertiolls thaL he would ncvcr return La Broadwuy, as when in 1972. he said that, "I'm
not trying to comc hack to Broadway; I wouldn't even if 1111.:)' \\-vanted me to."115
We
kn0\\\\' what happened belween then ~md his last Broadway production in 19RO. The ~Aan,
for his part, leavcs SoHo for
UptOWIl 10 "serve [the Hotlicker] ...and then, and
then .. conLend onee more for the Hotliekcr prize" (54). Williams lamented thaL Broadway
<lud
Lelevision
were destroying
serious
literature
(Conver.wtions
356);
however.
personally he V,!3S "not reconciled to d~iil1g before [hisl work is finished" (lbirJ. 360). Till
his death, he hoped tv win the acclaim that would b2'ep his reputation high (MeCann 1983
xiii). The irony that underlies such hopes characterizes the Man's ad. Presumably the
Man fails again Uptown, jusl as his kids did, and just as WiJli<ll11s failed with his last
uLLempL on I1roadway.

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71
In The Travelling Companion (1981), a shor1 gay play published in Chrislopher
5o'free!,! 16 we tind Vieux, an ex-playwrig[n, unmistakably the Man re-born; just as the
Writer in VieH.;: earnl Vias reborn as August in :,'omelhing Cloud:,;, and the latter again as
the Man in Kirche. Vieux has quil his profession. going tlO\\V from botel to hOlel--a
symbol of transience toward the final "exit" in Wilklms' plays--living on sex, alcohol and
drugs. All that remains of his art arc some m:..llluscripts that he carries with him. a symbol
ut' what he lIsed to he. The change of focus in Kirche hespeaks an evolulion in Willj;llllS'
assessment of his position in the lhealricnl world, saying that he had been expelled.
Kirche and nIe Trlll'clling Companion dramatize this statement and the joking mood t11al
surrounds il.
Kirche gol no r~view at the 1979 performance bee~lUse it was advertised as a
"vmrk in progr~ss. "1 j i Those who liked 10
mcasure Willia11ls' plays by Broad\\vay
standards or rrom the perspective of his earlier plays would certainly have founJ it utterly
ull\\,;onvenLional. This was an Off-Off-Broadway' play in which Wi!liams deliberately
broke with his own convention or memory
in the 19705' eycle plays. He necdeJ to
address his predicament in lhe alL~rnaLivc theaLer. He did so by playing the experimental
stage in its own terms; using burlesque rlTlJ faree, he achieveJ what he believed
exaggeration does--a penetration to lhe essence of truth. That was, for him, how the
lhealer world became his terminal battJdicld, his dr~lgon country, his death world.
Princess in S'weel Bird (~r Youlh (\\ 959) Dnce said that "after f:..tilure comes night.
NOlh1ng ever comes aller f3ilure but. Jlight."!J~ Any or Williallls' Sixties plil)'s would
WJ1[wdict Princess. Not so with the S~venties ones. As the hotel, a symbol of transience.
becomes the selling for the artist-fIgures, like lhe Man who has knO\\vn the pain or SoHo
and Upto'\\vn, so WiIJiams seems to have returned to <l bdsie morality (ha I kept his

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72
AI11imd;lS and Blnllches going:: the power to find ways to continue to [ivc in the midst of
desperation. Bur maybe this was only a joke. Flight, as Donald Pease argues, suggests a
longing, un "unfulfilled lksirc."II'l And if the [heater \\,,'orlLl, during WillLams' later career,
musl stand as a microcosm or the larger society th",[ was his world in the earlier plays.
then, we must realize that there is no possible escape for the later artist either. Wc <Ire ail
trapped in the burning house. Chris said earlier. In 1975 Williams l:Irgucd in an inJieativc
way ;:tddrc:o;sing his cxpl:rienec both in the sixties and seventies: "Death is the unavoidable
cvcnnwlily which in most cases we avoid as long as we can" (Menwir.,' 247). From Mrs.
Goforlb's acccpt:.lllce of death through felice's and Clare's' ~l:eol11mOdalion to August's
~ll1d ViclIx's cynicism or resign:.!lion, we lind echoes or his statement. PerhJps not by
choice, but significantly enough, he dil'd in New '{ork, like a gentleman soldier, on the
battle field. The Lhe'llrical fielJ e,f the 1960s and 19705 \\-vas a balllelield l(lr Williams,
whil.:h should not be surprising bcclluse this is the condition of any eullLlral Jield.
Nolcworlhy is that he waged
the battle from the particular position or relative
powel'lcssllcsS that resulted J'rom his critical dcmisc and the rise of new theatrical agents
and a~sthetics. [n the next chapter, I will concern myself with the other artistic agenLs
\\vith "vhom he antagonistically shared the tield, and thl' extent to which this experience
also oriented his portray:.!1 of the artisl-figure.

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CHAPTER 11
FACING THE FORCES OF THE ARTISTIC WORLD
...a the;]t~r mosLly inh:::.bitcd by jungle be:::.sts ...
(Memoirs 85)
73

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74
Strugg\\c is a condition of existence in the artistic world. l This struggle involves
all the constituent agents of the artistic world, each driven hy specific agendas and
interests nimed al acr:umulating cultural or economie cnpitul--and pmver. Because the
n:lationships they develop me fundamentally relations of power, aspects of power or lack
of it such as domination, subordinntioll, Fear, compromise. etc., are essentinl facls of the
artistic world. From Edward Albec's Fum and Yam (1960) through Sum Shcpard's The
Tooth o{Crirne (1974) to DJvid Mamet's A Life in (he Thea/er (19771. we find the artist-
.
.
figure sharing the artistic space wilh what pl:.qwright Yam in Albee's play lists as the
"villains" or their likes: "The lheater owners ...the rroducers ... the backers ... the thcatcr
rarties ... lhc llnions ... lhe critics... the directors ... the playwrights themselvcs ..." (91 R 92). We
find rerresentations of these samc forces in Williams' latcr plays, and largely, they
determine the artist's existential and artistic condition. Restricted lo thc theatrical context,
Yam's list is nearly exhaustivc; no wonder his search for a hero leads to the conclusion
that there is nonl:. "Everybody is culrahJe," he comments. The older actor Robert in
Mnmet's pray seems to echo this roint by explaining
that this is because "everybody
wants a piecc" of the cake or action (75).
Williams offers a selective but sustained vision of1he villaillS at work. rrom The
Ali/k Train (1963) to Something Cloudy (1981), the recurrent figures of the theatrical and
show-husiness world fall into three categories or subticlds: those involved in lhe
rrod\\lction process or the link with the marketplal:e (rublishers, rroducers, dircctors.
cxhibitors, actors); those that traditional criticism would JJbcl ercators--the artist.~
(writers. painters, actors); and those that Will1nm Goldman2 would call the "approvers"
and Bourdieu (121-132) the legitimating or consecrating forces (audience, reviewers and
critics). To be sure, this cntegorization serves only pmctieal pmpnses. At bottom, each or
the agents named participates in the shaping of the artist-protagonist's existential

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75
condition, artistic identity, and creative imagination, and determines the value and
meaning of his or her artistic product. Williams achieves this hy dram<:ltizing the struggle
for a piece or wnlrol or power through such themes as competition, exploitation, lack of
11l(lrality, among other things--all of which, III him, perfectly subsume the reality (If the
l:ommercial artisti.: world.
]11 social as well as cultural practice consciousness is not alw<lYs the sole guide to
action. 3 Hu\\vever, as J Sh(lWed earlier, Williallls was very lucid ahout his own
unCnvorable pDsitiun in the theatrical \\vorld of the sixties and seventies. Through
inlbrmeu uccisions and strategies in the sense of calculated actions.4 he tried to cope \\vilh
the rc:..dity of the antng,lnists and to improve his position in the theatrical field. 1 will
primarily consider ho\\v these inl()fm his portrayal of the artist-figure. My larger aim in
this chapLcT, however, is to investigate the dynamics between the artist figure and the
"villains" or the artistic world, ..mu how Williams dramatically captures these relations.
Relying on the principle that works of art contain indicutions of the author's 0\\\\'11 real
struggle (Bourdicu 118), T will
consider Lhe antagonists--and
helpers, where there are
,111y--in light or the two basic artistic spuces that, as devdopeu in the previous c1wpter.
were Williams' linu his art. This said. if the commercial \\','urld (Broadway) and the
ullernative stages \\vcre the two principal delimiting poles of Williams' .Jriistic subjectivity
and prnclice, as we might expect, the antagonists frum the commercial pole were for him
the most determining forces. l3roadwuy remained where Wi\\liams sought legitimation.
His dramatization 01' commercial ag..::nts as the predominant antagonists of the artist-
figure will shape my investigation.

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11. 1. The Artist Against Prol1nction Agents
An artistic product, \\\\/hclhcr it has cOI11Jncrcinl or simply symbolic value,s must
exist in concrete form ~md reach a puhlic. In other words, the artist must compose \\'.'ith
the specific agents Illld furces that make the \\'iork available lO the consumption market in
mind. In Ihe [Jrocess, conflicts necessarily :..trise; and ullimalcly, it is the dominant agents
or forces that impose lheir terms and values. I3cing a relatively pOl,'.ierlcss agent, the artist-
figure in Williams' latcr plays owes much of his/her artistie identity and practice to the
[Jrodudiol1 forces. The publishers in The Afi/k Train and View: earn!, the "theater" owner
illld munngcr in The Gnddigcs FnillleiJ1 and Viellx Carre, the troop director in The Twu-
Character Play, the art exhibitor in //1 the [Jar, and the producer and actors in Something
C!oud.y are the most outstanding. Evolving in their respedive fields of expertise, these
agents fnll into one of two broad categories \\vhieh are, to paraphr'lse play\\vrigbt D:.lVid
!-!wang(' llr theater historian Andrew Harris,7 the purely financi'll and the artistically
inclined. However, the former dllminate the latter in number. Theirs is the practice of
cummereial thealer. Thruugh a variety of dramatic approaches, from realistie to parodic
and allegorical presentations, Williams offers images of tbe production agents at work.
My objective here is to probe these images, their impnet on the artist-figure, and their
relevance (0 Williams' own experience.
H. 1. 1. M<tnagcrs and Produ"crs: Locale and Fin<tnciallmperatives
The commercially minded managers and produccrs arc the most represented
figures in the artistic \\'iorld of WilliJ.lTIs' later plays. This should not be surprising
considering, on the onc hand, Williams' pmticllbr bitterness against Broadway. the
ultimnte market of commercial theater, nnd un the other hand, the aCl:en{uation of the
commercial nature of that thentcr ,.111 through the sixties and seventies. V/hen we consider

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the plays over the 1wo decaJes, Jiiferent types of m:magerial or producer tigures
domil1;Jte the artistic worlJ, highlighting JilTerent facets of the artist figure's plight, but
often, as with Molly in lhe Gniidixes FriillJein. it is difficult to make clear distinctions.
Overall, however, we CUll say that the managerial figure who dominates the artist's world
in Williams' sixties plays is unquestionably the theatcr-owner. 8 The producer appears
mostly in the seventies plays, and Williams depicts him emphasizing his effecr on
playwriting. I will provide details in the appropriate section. Describing Williams'
porlnlyal of tile managers nod producers, I will highlight the repercussions of their aetions
on the protagonists as artists. Facing these commercial agents, the artist-figure projeds
the image of II powerless victim who assumes speeific roles and holds a recognizable
discoursc. The artist-figure's attitudt: evolves, not simply as a consequence of the type of
commercial ag.ent that ht: or she faces, but also as an expression of Williams' new attitude
toward life as pn:senled earlier.
Molly, the owner and manager of the dormitory in The Gniidigl!s Friilllein, stand.s
Oul in the sixties play·s. However, she is not alone. Mrs. GOIOlth in The .l\\1i//r. Train also
projects the image of a theater o\\vner--and stnge m:.lnager. But as she is also the main
aclres.~ in her own theater, the meaning of her relation with the tbeater, <lS I suggested in
chapter I, necessarily lies heyond commercia! motives ;.ll1d will
concern llS in a later
section. In Viellx Carre!. as I argued earlier, WiIliams addresses his predi.:.ament in the
sixties through the spatial handling of 722 Toulouse Street, New Orlenns. Mrs. \\Vire, the
l.nvner of the phlCe, Lhcrc10rc fully assume:s the: image Dj" the thealer owner and manager.
Among. the other c,evenlies plays, the tbeater O\\·1/ner gets only slight notice in the other
allegorical play Kin·he. kutchen lInJ Kinder, :mJ dilIers only slightly from, say. Molly in
characterizulion. The theater-owner appears as the O\\"'ller or the house or lhe theatriea!
space with tht: power to eject the unwanted artist. t\\'lolly in The Gniidiges Frdulein, Mrs.

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Wire in helix Carn:, as well as the anonymous owner in Kin'he present spectacles of
themselves tbat perfeetly conform to both Yam's descriplion of
theater owners as
"ignorant, greedy. hit-harry reJI estate owner" (Fam and Yam 93), and to Wi[[i~ms' idea
that" A synonym for a manager in lhe theater is a con-man and all playwrights afe shits
with their back to lhe walJ."9
Harold Clurrnan rightly sees Molly in the Gnddiges Friiulcin when he argues that
she represents the managerial rowers: producers, editors, publishers and the likc. 1O In this
<lllcgoric<.d play Molly indeed could assume all these roles. Yet, it seems that the most
pl'oJmincnt of her roles and the ont: she claims the most is the ownership and management
or the dormitory. She is onc of thc nrtist-prolagonist's main antugonists in this respect.
Molly evokes Broadway reality through her concern with profit seeking. Describing her
OWI1 mcthod, she ranks hersd f high in the brge-~cale business hierarchy: "I do quantity
business. Also a quality business but the emphasis is on quantily in lhe big dormitory
hecause it is furnished with two- and lhree-decker bunks, I! 'Jflers accommodation for
always onc morc" (223). Even whcn no bcd is available, there is always room to stand.
For the "pcrmancnt transienls" on whom she capitalizes, tbis is better than being arrested
for vagrancy. Under the "rooftree or Gl)d," as she cynically describes the dormitory--
which, WiTh all the moral squdlor and eKploila1iv~ schemes lhat it dramatizes, rccalls
O'Ncill's Desire Undu the Elms--thcre is space 1'01' everyhody, provided she would add,
cveryhndy cnn pay
his or hcr dne.
"In
business matters," she
further proudly
acknowledges, "sentiment isn't the cornerstone of my nature" (257). She exemplifies her
true nature in her relation with thc fr~iulein. IY1fllly ruthlessly exploits the FrJulein who
surrers this with the spirit or an artist who. even at the cost of her life and despitc her
loss or cachet and artistic self:'awarencss, refuses to give up the "artistic world."

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As the action begins, the f.riiulein has lost all but the privileges 10 use lhe lavatory'
and the kitchen (228-229). To keep the remaining privileges, she must pnwide three fish
a day, fighting againsl the cocaloony birds, a symbol of olher theatrical agents. as I wiJJ
later show. By the cnd of the action she completely loses her eyesight and is "transfigured
as a saint under torture" (245), yet she must still g{) out for the third fish. For, as Molly
explains, nothing but "Three fish a Jay keeps eviction away" (257·258). As the Fraulein
sloically and silently carries out her duty, her attitude .ml! sense of endurance impress
both Polly and Molly as a ITlDnifeslalion of her strength of spirit, but they also clearly
stand for her lack of power. Analyzing Pinter's The Dww.A (19771. Austin Quingly
argues that "To control what someone is able to say is to control 10 a considerable extent
vihat they are able to be."ll Moll)' controls thc Fraulein .iu~t (hi~ way. She controls what
the FrHulcin can and cannot do or say, when she can or cannot come oul all the terrace,
etc. She is "long past having opillioll~" of her own, Molly answers when Polly suggcsts
asking her for an interview (229). Her silencc stems from hcr inability to aSsume her long
lost identity. The Frfiulein cannol even telllhe story of her decline. Molly tells it nnd in so
dl1ing shows that she ha~ appropriated the Fraulein, making of her a commercial asset and
a 1001 of self-promotion. The FrHulein sings "the reveille song" (227-228) to mark the
bcginning of the day and cheer up the occupants of the dormitory. She also sings to
enterlain Molly's social guests or husincss partners (232). Molly sclls the Fraulein's story
;md performance, if we may call her pathetic self-exhibition such, to Polly the reporter in
exchange for n good write-up about the dormitory. Her aim is to boost her image as a
social leader and, ()fcourse, her business:
Let's have a protocol here. The Gniidiges Fraulein is a personage, yeah, but sht's ",till a social
derelict, and a soci,llle<ldcr like me takes precedence over a social dereliet like her, 50 give her a
couple of short sentences, then concentrale Iho.:: rest of lhe wrile up on ME (sic) (230).

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To be sure, the ffunlcin's past artistic life (Cf. last section of the chiJpler) fostered
her presem soci;J! and artistic status. But Moll)".'> contribution to the debasement of her
srI is undeniable. She sees the Frtiulein as second-class and treats her accordingly. Beside
the appalling Jiving conditions that she imposes on her, she also has transformed the
whole meaning of her songs and singing abilities.
Mrs. Wire in Vieux Carre
replicates MoJly's practices In a more realistic
portray,d. But despite her stamina, she lacks this unlimited power over her tenants. As a
board keeper, commercialism underlie'> her relationship with her bohemian tenants who
afC all anists of sorts. That eventually she sympathizes \\vith the Writer comes from her
own neurosis ;.md delusion, as she lakes him for her dead son. In other words, her motto is
no difkrent from Molly's. She charges Sky just for leaving his bag in lhe premises of (he
house, insists 011 eviding Nightingalc Jcspile his poor health, and is blunt with the Writer
himsclfwhen it comes to business: "You're employcd by me, you're fed and housed here,
and you'll do like I tell you or YOll'lI go on lhe street" (56). Mrs. Wire's acquisitivencss
slands in way of the Writcr's art:
Mr;;. Win:: Why aren't you 011 11le Slreet;; with those bLJ.siness cards?
Writcr: Oeeause I'm al Ihi;' laSI paragraph of a story
t\\.1rs. Wire: Knock it off this minute! Why, th~ Slreets are swarming this Sunday with the Azalea
Festival tmde (71).
Mrs, Wire's conditions, as she requires him to work longer than he has to, threaten lo
thwi:1n the Writer's an. The Writer, a typical early seventies Williams artist-tigure, leaves
722 TouloLlse to avoiJ this fate.
The FraulciT\\ has no such choice; she is a typil:a\\ sixties Williams anist-tigure. As
lhe play doses, she faces eviction from lhl.:: dl1rmitory. Despite her lighting spirit, it is
ohviolls that \\vith no eyesight, she is da(mled to failure. In any case, she has become a
liability rather than an asselta Mally's business. For instance, wc scc her knocking down

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the fencing. in one of her last trips to [he docks.
The artist still in possession of some:
degree or lucidity knov,'s well what managers and producers can do to "unproductive"
artists. Understandably, fear of "going on the street" hovers above the Man's family in the
allegorical play Ki/'che. 1\\[ onc point in the action, there is a knock at the dllor. Concerned
with the practical aspeets of the household, his \\\\life panics, thinking it is the rent man.
The rent mail's visits arc dreaded moments; thus he fully assumes the title or "theater"
owner.
That Williams focuses on thc the:atcr-uwner in the 1960s plays or plays about the
sixties ret1ecls his principal conccrn then, which wns [(1 exist in lhc thcater world as a
distinctive spac\\.:.
Williams' experiences and observations told him about the fate of
artists like himself whose plays have lost appeal. In his memoirs, he narrntes [he plight of
Hc1en Carroll, an actress who had become a burden for the producer of Small Cr(jJt
Wt/mings and the manag~r of the thcJler in which it WLlS playing. They li.m:ed
her to
retire by Lying co h~r that the play was dosing. Ref{ecl1ng on lhis_ \\\\'illiams wrilcs:
t bHJW that these ;Ire the Cl'ud exigencies of Jife in the lheatre: Ih..:re is little 01' Ill) s\\:nlimcnt to be
ellcollntL:rcd III Ilj nl<lch inaliOlls. I( i.~ a lnlrror of JHlture. 'l'he individual is mIll lessly discardct.l for
the old. (,kl eonsidemtioll of rrolil (214-215).
The dread of this tY[Jc or experience haunted Willi;llllS from the sixties until his
d\\:ath in 19S3. In [he sixties, his experiences with, for instance, The Gnddiges Friiulein
and in the Rar, convinced him that he had reasons to worry. Ahuut the fornwr play Alan
Schneider, its director in 1965, remurks that when the producer tinally' found money for
the production (see the section on the producer). the play wcnt not to the Lyccum but to
".1 less desirable" theater: the Longacre theater. 12 ilJ Ihe Bur closed prccipLtately to make
placc for a revue. 13 Williams therdore became particularly scnsitive to the venues chosen
for his [Jhlys in the sixties. For instance, though his sympathy for the alLernative stage
was growmg, he saw an On~Broadway production of his plays negatively. This,

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evcntually, beeame onc of his main reproaches to his artistic agent Audrey \\\\/ood, and led
to their separation:
"I think that Audrey Wood thinks I'm dead .... She thinks that The
Two Character IPlay] slwuld be produ<.:cd Off..Broadway. I think she wants all (sic) my
work produced Off-Brl)udway."14
Over thc years, Williams experienced inercasing difficulty finding agreeable
IOCJ1cs {or his plays....undeniahlc proof, for him, that the thenter people, so to speak.
wanted to kick him out. Even his ,')'mall Craji Warning.\\', claimed by most as a sign of
artistic rebirth, had to close in 1972 for a bigger box..officc hit: "I was told." he wrote to
Maria Britneva in 1972 (Five O'Clock Angel 272), "that our lease on the theater had
expired and we werc going to be replaced by a pair of jerks imitating Gertic Lawrence
ilnd Nelly Coward in a nostalgic tribute to their--wh31ever they did." The "whatever they
did," it turns out, was a musical; commercial theater was at Willi,lJ11s' heels. Above all,
his experien..::e with Small Crq{t Warnings was to him, a serious warning. It conveyed a
sense of insecurity that evokes, for instance, thc situatillll of the Man and his wife in
Kin.-·he, but also tells of his gro\\ving difficulties with producers and finaneinl b<lckers. He
gives expressions to this particularly in the seventies' plays.
For commercial prodlll.:CrS plays arc el1mrnodities, and an ideal pl<l)' is a
"commodity guaranteed to attract an audience," as Robert Brustein says in his study of
Bro<ldv,'<lY crisis.!S As Williams perceived it, there lay the source of his antagonism with
produccrs, and he dramatized this, insi~ttng that lhe dominant and characteristic image of
the producer is, to paraphrase
William Goldman, lI, that of a chcater, corrupter, and
destroyer or seriolls theater. J-Ic shows the proulIcer pressing the artist.. figure toward
producing plays that are eomlllerci<llly rcwarding, aesthetically benl toward comedy, and
with star appeaL

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83
A mu: tmnsition play, The Milk Train con!1<Jtes Williarns' pre- and post- 1960s
dmllwtic devices, ilnd types of protagonists and antagonists. Besides the ohviollS and
manilold social <md psychological pressures that most critics huve ell1cidaled,17 Mrs.
Goforth also laces the publishers' conditions. The presence of the publisher figure in this
sixties play is the result of additions 'nade in the seventies (Spoto 342). This requires
further cmrhasis, hut before this \\-ve should explore Mrs, Gol'orth's experience of the
rrcssurc. Chris finds her in the midst of what she takes to be her preoccupJtion: "My
memoirs, my memoirs, night and uay, [0 meet the [)ublishers' deadline" (72), she tells
him, und then );OCS on to show him a letter from one or her publishers. In orher words,
the prcssure is not the product ofhcr imaginatiun. Though the production of the book has
othcr meanings, as I have suggested earlier, the urgency with which she has to have it
done comes partly frum the publishers. And this pressure, she explains, "was burning me
up, it was literally buming mc up like a house on fire" (l07).
The pressure results in personal suffering, and has repercussions (In the quality of
the work and on her entourage. Blaekic, the secretary that she has hired to help her in the
job has many and legitim<lte reasons for eompl:.JinL "r think," she says, that "those
puhlishers' deadlines are unrealistic, not to say crueL" 1 not only havc to function as a
secrelary hUl ;IS ;m editor. .. " tlO). Obviously she symra1hizes with Mrs. Goforth.
Howevcr. she exults when Mrs. Goforth fires her. Part of 8laekie's sympathy lies in her
perception of Mrs. GoJorth as a victim and, perhaps, in the sense of endurance th<lt she
displays. From
Mrs. Goforlh's point llf view, the ac.:eptance of the deadline clause
indic<ltes her dependence on the publishers, her powerlessness vis-a-vis thetll. In all other
matters, at least until death imposes itself upon her, she proves a tough contender who
VI/ill only funclion on her own terms. As Mrs, GoJilrth's personal secretary,', Blackie's

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reaction when Chris reports her "peaceful" death
is indicative eI1ough: "With all that
fierce life in her?" (119).
The idea of the publisher's pressure is one of the iI1scrtiol1s that WillimHs made
while rewriting the play. Clearly, this has la do ,vith the writing of his own memoirs. In
1971 Bill Bame:::. Williams' new agent after A. Wood, amlllged the contract with the
editor of Doubleda}', publisher of his memoirs in 1975. By October 1972 Williams had
finished a 65U-page draft. In a letter la Mafia Brj(ncvu in 1972 he told her that "I enjoy
writing the stlln~ I am knocking it out at an average of 16 pages a day" (Five O'clock
270). (This sentence appears almost verbatim in the play [72l) However, commenting on
the same letter Brilneva wrole that "Tennessee WWiams later complained that the
publisher had wanted too many cuts and had wanted him to cOllcentrate too much on his
~ensational sex lilc" (270). Thi~ pressure recalls Mrs. Gnfnrth's in the c(lmmer~ial motive
apparent behind the attitmlc: of William~' publisher. In 1973 Wilhams consldereu
Ch;l!lging his publisher, but Brilneva
lalked him out of "such disloyally," as she put it
(Five O'clock 285). This'is la say
thut, in his portrait of Mrs. Goforth, Willi;lms had
material fwm his personal experience to rely on. However, other personal needs may wel!
have ~purrcd WillilllllS, just as Mrs. Goforlh has personal reasons to be done with her own
memoirs quickly. [ will explore the significance of this in the next chapter.
This said, Mrs. Goforth has no doubt thJt her memoirs will be published if she
rneels the deadline. The letter she shows Chris reveals thl.: publishers' apprecialion of her
book, already wnking it above Proust's Rememhrancl! (?l Things Pas'. Rut Chris drav,'s
her attenlion to what may be onG or her many delusions: "it's snO\\'v', a snow job" (9 I). To
which she characteristically answers: "This publisher's not (l lo\\'<.:r. A lover rni!6ht snow
me, but this man's a business associate, and they don't snow you, not me, not Sis.~:y

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Go(hrfh! (sic)" (91). The action does not allov.... us to sce the OUICllme. But the doubts
raised by Chris unveil a possibility that constitutes the experience oC other artists.
Such is the case with the young artist the Writer in Vieux earn!, a play in which.
as r argued in Chapter I, Williams dramatizes his experience as a novice in the artistic
world. One llflhe Writer's frustrations has to do with the painful experience of rejection
of his manuscripts. But, "This time," he explains to symr:Jthetic Jane,
"instead of a
rrinted slip," the publisher sent a peI:Jonal signed note that states: "This doesn't quite
make it but try Wi again" (53). For the Writer there is reason for hope, but "mc3mvhile
you've got to survive" (53), as he pUis it. Hc has to overcomc the slate of indigence that
characterizcs his prescnt life. To cope with this he takes a jllQ with Mrs. Wire. But the job
eventually comes to stand in thc way of his artistic creation. as I have already shown.
These difficulties, however, are none of the publisher's concem. At the end of the play.
the Writer must move West, 111 ;In unknown world that m;Iy harbor more grueling
conditions, but that. it appears, is the price one must pay to "get established in [the}
creative field" of writing (53).
In J way, Mrs. Goforth and the Writer helong in the same class, as they are hoth
fiction writers and have no direct contact with the producing agenls. The other needy and
powerless nrtists that Willialns portrays arc involved in performance art and tend to be
prey to business~mindcd producers in more direct ways. Such is the case of August in
Somefhillg CIOlIlZV. UltimatelY, August resolves his antagonism with the producer by
compromising. Aftcr prcsenting aspel.:ls or August's rdulions to the proJucer, I will show
that this resolution or I',is conHict parallels Williams' handling of his own plight in thc
seventies.
With Something ClO/uZ}', as with 'l'ltl! Milk Train, Williams left allegory and
[Jortraycd the producer's practir.::e in a more direct and realistic way. The producer, indeed,

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appears undisguised and under the evocative name orMr. Fiddler. IS Mr. Fiddler perfectly
tits Yam's opinion that "prodUl:ers arc opportunistic, out-I"or-Ihe-buck businessmen" (93),
and perhaps represents Williams' most severe indictment of the producers' pernicious
efJect on the creative a(1i51. Williams cried out in 1971 that they were exploiting him
(Five O'clock 234).
Like the Writer in ViL'/Ix earn? who seeks to establish himself in the creative field
of writing, young August's ambition is to become a Broadway playwright. He is
preparing his first Broadway play. a crucial moment in his project, as Clare observes.
Lll:king the strength of legitimacy or "clout,"
to use Williams' \\vorJ (Memoirs 196),
August is an casy prey for the producer. Money is one or Fiddler's most efficient tools.
Once he exhibits <1 $100 hill to tease August; <lnorher time he gives him $20 in cu:-;h, not
cheque. for the same purpose. Mr. Fiddler Dlso conveys his cynicism through plain and
business-like langtwge. He can "s;Icl'ilicc tact (or honesty anytime" (Goldman 110), ns
[{ichard Nash once said of David Merrick, one of WiJliallls' producers. for instance, he
explains to August:
You've gol to stop telling me what your ilgent told you. I don'l lhink you properly appreciate the
app0l1unily, tho: magnilude of lhe opportunity that you're being offered, a production by the Artist
rhentre af your first play next scaSOll, whell 1l0rmal1y, under ordinary circumstances, you'd have
to wait ten years for sllch a breakthrough (10).19
Fiddler has no olher reason lo offer August this unusual opportunity but a desire
to huve, as r-,.'101Iy Ims with the Fraulein, lotal control over his creative process. In
practice, this means that August must bend his writing habits to meet the producer's time
schedule and relinquish authority on aesthetic mallers. To ensure these Fiddler also
proves resourceful. On onc or his sevcml visits to August's shack he tells him: "1 don't
think it's healthy for you to live here.... 11 gives a morbid eolor to your thought and your
work" (9). He therefore suggests that he move to Weslfrom where he would be in betler

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living conditions ;md "in close tOll ch" (6) for rewrites. In this way, he will get things
"rigbt on track" (9).
August's reluctance compels Fiddler to spell out his commercial motivations and
their dramaturgical consequences:
You're building, up the sccond,Hy characters too much ,md [lot developing the leads, dear boy,,,.
You've gol to remember our prc)hlem as your producer, we've gOL to sell this 1t1<llluscript to slars ....
She (tne female star) said that it was very poetic and all, but she said the patt W<lS loo common for
her (9)
fiddler's language--for instance, "dear boy"--indicatcs condescension, and this expresses
the power relation that links them. The: male star too has his requirements: he wants a
"drunk scene," Above all, f'iddlcr \\vants August to givc the play a brighter lone by
devising a happy ending. August resists Fiddler's pressure, at least initi:.llly. His presence
on the Sl.:a-t:oast, living in a shack, is, as I have said in the previous chapter, an indication
of this. Also. one of the visit scenes shows him standing. up to i'iddler:
AugUSt: No chequc, no sccnc, Mr. LengIc
Lcngle: No sccne, n\\) cheque, Augusl (6).
The parallelism of the lines indicates not a halanee of power hetween August and
Lengle20 but August's resistDnee--his attempt to balance power. Uhimalely, however, it is
the producer who h:.ls lhe: final S,\\y. August not only turns in the "sl.:cne." but ;]Is(\\ though
!le kmnvs he can never please the produecr in that matter,
h[ls done the required
rewriting.
August ultimately accepts defe3t much as Williams' olhe:r se:venties artistMfigures
(ill. Nightingale, the painter, in Vieux Cone, <lnd BCJU in Travelling Companion bend lo
finJneial neeessity and
sacrifiee their flJ1--ur what remains of it. The Writer in Vieux
Corn: uvoids this by l1ecing New Orle:alls. Augu.st's reasons are more akin to those of the:
Writer than Nightingnle's or Reau's. He tells Clare--who disapproves of his deeision--that
he hus no choice but to believe in his producer, and goes on to explain that he: is a

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"rol11~llltic" who "turns a cynic" for what he "wants and nee us oul of life" (7). This, at
least, is clear enough tor him: "I wanl tu SLOp bein~ poor and unsuccessful befon: I SlOp
being young" (7). By co-opting the commercial ~,lme, August sells his artistic identity.
Worst of all, as Clllrc \\\\imns him, there is 110 ~U<lralltee that the plilY will \\-vork on
8ruadway. August's compromise rcmoins a sig;n, if nol of resignation, at least of his
powerlessness in the hierarchy or theatrical production.
\\Villiams, however, s).'n1palhjzcs with August, and, like William Goldnwl1 (111-
112), sug;gests thal the blame lies on Broadway, the producer. Some of the blame that
Williams attributes to producers may have originated from stereotypes about Broadway
(not nil Broadway pl::lys in thc 'oOs and '70s conformed to these charucleristics). Others
may havc come from earlier expcriences ill Williams' career such as in 1947 when he
had to make a rminful :llleralion of the third act of CUI on Cl Ho! Fin Roof by adding an
elephant story told by Big Dmldy to mCl.:t Elia Kaz'-ln's "suggeslions." Williams' person<ll
cxrerienee in the '60s and '70s W<lS the most immcdiate stimulus. Tt appears. for instance,
that III August's ultimate solution, WilJiams projects both the principle of dignity that
characterized his basic sense of liJe, and his new perception of his Cdreer .is he entered the
seventies. "The moral way," he l(lld Charles Ruus in 1975, is "the way of survival now."21
When, at the cnd of his lif~, Williams lamented that "the bllsiness folk" were
destroying serious {heater (CO/1l'cr.wlfions 1981 .356), he had, he believed, ample
illustrations of this phenomenon from his personal experience. First, we must remember
that both \\Villiams and his anlag,onists acted in a larger context which we need to keep
constalHly ill mind. Williams' difficultics and ch<lJlging altitude IowaI'd the produccrs
inltll'lned his portrayal of the artist's plight. His difficulty to find a locale, ns cxplained
earlier, was minor comparcd to that of financing the productions themselves. The
Gncidi:.;es Frlilllein had to wail one season bcfore backers agreed to "kick in" money, as

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he liked Ll) ::iJY (Spoto 364). Gordol1 Rogoff maintains th,ll producers Charles 8owden's
and Lester Persky's uccision hild more to do with Ihe presence l1j" slar adrcss Margnrct
LeighLon 1h<111 "WiJIi"ms collatcrJI as dramalist."22 Financial diflicultics also marked the
productions of
the '70s plays. The Red Devil !Jallety in 1977 imd the Broadway
produclion of erere Coeur l1979) are some examples. Producer Merrick said after the
failme of The Red Devil in BasIon: "I v,'ill give him any other help--other than raising
money. liD And Craig Allderson, the production director or Creve CVl!ur explains: "Alter
the unfortunate reception or Vieux Carn: in 1977, everybody distrusted his abilities. No
onc would come ilCroSS with money for produc[ion" (Spoto 368).
Fl)r Wi\\\\ianls, rroducers wcre simply malicious. Bc saw David Merriek, one of
the leading producers in [be 1960s and 1970s, as the quintesscnrial commercial rroducer;
and
he calkd him "Mr. Bro:ldway" (Five O'Clock Angel 235). Merrick was notorious.
William Goldman calls Merriek the "nwl1ster" (110) and Riehard Nash describes him as
''1,\\lC only n"\\!1 I know 'Hho's n1ade Cl vice of \\10nesty,"24 The etTeci of :-iuch an individual
on the anist-figure can be devastating. artistically and pcrsonally. "Mr. Merrick,"
Wil1iams contended after the Boston production of The Red Devil Ralt':1)'. "sat on the
play for two years," thinking lhat "I would die before it \\'ias produced."25 He also felt that
WhL'1l producers agreed to mount his rlays, they did so more for the worst: than the bdtCL
He said of David Merrick thal "he always allo\\\\\\:d me to bring in a play doomed for
destruClion on Br03d\\,,'uy" (A1emoirs 183).
Of course, \\Villiams could still tind producers t~lr his plays. Sometimes producers
came forward all their own. But these were rhe exceptions [hat reminded him of his true
predi..:amenL Willi<lms often talked about his plight, his enemies, his condition. His
loquacity
on the subject as an aspect of the constitutive or objective realily which
oriented his practice as an artist.
Wc may say that
it indicates his feeling of

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powerlessness. But more than that, it was an important tool in his struggle. (Nll\\V wc can
understand (he verbal dimension 111' Allgus1's resistance noted c[lrlier.) Whether he beg!,;ed
for understanding or lamhusted his enemies, Willi,lIns ultimately !'iollght to present
himself as a victim. Tiis friend Gore Vidal explnins chis using the image of the bird: "It
has alw<lys been the Oird's tactic to nppear in puhlic Ilupping what looks la be a
pathetically hroken wing. By arousing
uuiversal pity, he hoped to eSC<lpe his
predators. "26
For illl the malice
that Williams fonnd ill producers, he still needed thcm--
AUl;ust's resolution of his case \\vilh fiddler in Something Cloudy was Williams' own. In
Ihe '70s and early '80s particularly, his attitude ste<ldily moved from determination,
characterislic of the desperate, to the humble <.Inu compromising minu-sel of the
powerless. Williams moslly revealed his cllmpromising attilllde dealing with production
8gcnis involvcd in action on the s(agc--thc pcrtormancc.27 NOIC\\Vorthy was his pursuit of
stars. as his cndc8vors over Out Cr.v clearly illustrak. He suid on May 31, 1973, that
"trouble arrived in the form of [Out C,:v]" (Five O'Clock Angel 295). He kept promoting
Ollr Ct:v or looking 1(,)r the means to do so successfully hut never managed. Swayed by
\\vhat William Goldman once <,:<Istigatcd as thc pcrniciousness of the myth of superiority
of British thcrlter [Ind [lctLlrS (1969 113-122), Vo,lilliams doggedly ran after British actors
Maggie Lcighton and Paul S<.:ofield to star in his play (Five O'Clock Angel 220). The
hesitations of the two stars armoyed him tremendously (/hid). V/hen finally they agreed.
his elation was uncontnl!lablc. but afraid that they rnight change their minus, he beggcLi
Britnev<-l to keep \\vLloing them, as Schneider \\vould put it ([hid. 222).
WilJiams had also becomc very complianl over rewritings, The director of Vieux
Carn! in 1977 remembers Ihat Williams could [Iccommodlltc hiln magnificently-~"almost
on demand" (Spolo 366). With Clothes, too, WiJliams willingly agreed 10 thc cuts that the

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director dcm,mded. Perhaps the most striking case occurred at the Snn Francisco
i1ertormance of Ollr C,.y, when he act~d like the characters in the sarne play. Lyte Tay\\or
reports that "to the actors' Llnguished dismay [like the audience's in (Jut Cl:v], Williams sat
\\vith (hem in the dressing room and proceeded to cross-out whole speeches." Over tht:ir
protests, he simply said, "In the tbeater you hLl\\'t to be able to do that."28 According 1l)
T"y!llf, V./illimns was referring to Alhee's pm test against William Ball's unauthorized
alteration of his Tiny Alice. Granted, but he was dearly also repc<lting lhe vcry action of
the pl<ly he was cutting. As Christopher I3igsby would put it, Witliams was theatricalizing
his life, and, we could add, by impersonating his own characters.
All through his ent:lIlglcmcut with pmduction agents, Wil1iams remained dear
about his objective: ''I'm so obsessed with bringing one more beautiful play to New York
I have no feof of death--execpt that it might inLervene before my aceomplishment of
thilL":') Often he came dose La being ,IS cynical as Augusl in Something Cloudy. In 1971
he exrlained his break with Audrey Wood, his longtime artistic <lgent, by saying that he
wanted "his work in younger hauds and she is seven YCilrs my sellior" (Spoto 130). And
wlll:11 Bill B,lrnes replaced her, he made it clear to him that "1 want my name back up ill
bright lighls, Bill!" (Spoto 3] I). This was the early 19705, whcu after recnveriug Irl)m his
neuJ"l){ic crisis, and entering the neW dCl:udc,
he had developed
new ambitions. This
shaped his altitude toward producers. Willi:uns' biogrnphers recall that Burnes was a
dedicated professional \\vl1o put all his time and energy in helping Williams. But it ,"vas
not lung before he too was dismissed aud replaced \\\\liLh MitL'il Douglass (Spoto 17H).
Aguin ill I9H I he dismissed Dnuglass and took Luis S<:ll1jurgo. All of this recalls Mrs.
tJoforth's rcl:ltions \\vith B1ackie or the threat of ejc(:tion that hovers over most of
WiIJiams' :.trtists, and Oil a.nothcr level. the dismissal of netrcss Hclell Cllrroll by the
producers of Smal! Craft Warninf{s.

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WilliJms' dismi3sals of his unwanted agents as well as his eompliance over
rewritings were legitimate choiccs. I·lis purpose, \\-ve should remember. was to be back in
the hright lights. But in the same way, though for other reasons, the commercial
producers or his plays too had to make ehoices, choices compelled by thc imperatives of
commen::iulism. For as William Goldman put it about the unscrupulous practice of
"taking"--ehcating--some of the producers did "it becausc thcy ,l1most have to if they're to
survive as theatrical producers" (Goldman 108). For both Williams and his antagonists,
the ultimate determinism resided in the reality of !he theatrical world, or what Bourdieu
would delinc as the practice of the game. The game involvcs another key producing
ligurc~-the director--that Williams depicts in a distinctivc way.
11. I. 2 The Directors: Getting a Play '0 Work 011 the Stage
Directors appcar only occasionally in Williams' later plays. The Two-Charae/er
Play afTers the clearest portrait at" what we may call the director figure. Harold Clurman
suggests thar Indian .loe in l1w Gniidiges Friiulein may stand lor Williams' direetors. 31) r
do not see any evidence that could support this interpretation. Commercialism is a central
charactcrizing clement in the portrait lll' lhe director
in The FI'.'o-Charw.:/er Play, and
more generally, the portrait calls to mind Yam's definition: "Our directors are slick.
sleight-of-hand [lrtists" (93-94). fam, the older playwright, agrees wilh this definition of
the director: I argue that Williams would also. Williams' experience sho\\'.'s that he was
very o ['ten at odds with lhe direcLors llf his plays, and that he frequenlly blamed them for
the fatc of his plays on the stage.
In The Two-Character Ploy, all obviolls ;lspect ofCLtre's and Felice's difficulties
with Dircl'tor fox is finanetal. For instance, Felice explains to Clare that "Fox has done
(lIlC thing. No, two: he dem.mdcd his salary--which 1 couldn'l p.ay him--and after that.

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disappcured" (322). Yet the financial j~lct0r is dearly not the principal determining one.
The central t~lctor is thl: act of desertion itselC which provokes drnstic consequences for
lhe performance. Abandoned by the director, the stage h'.lIlds and the other actors, Felicc
and Clare must improvise in an incomplete stage setting. By necessity, relice becllffics a
direclof-CUIll-,Ktor \\\\'ho must endure cuts i.lnd various other theatrical inadequacies (357)
provoked or not by Clare. The result is that they end up alienating the audience. It is (me
llwt th~ prescnt:e of Pox and the other cast members L:ould not have prevented their
<Jnislic plight, lor [he telegram, in clTect, describes them as insane. The spectacle that they
make of themselves reveals their insanity and suggests how difticult working with them
may h<tvt: become. Nonetheless, tbe desertion of the director remains an objeclive bet
that Clare and Felice must face.
Wi!liams had umple material from his own experience when he conceived the
director figure und rewrote The Two-Character flay. Indeed_ \\vhcn he had resolved the
rinancial and locule problems, his difticuldes were nll! over. He confronted directors, (and
producers and actors, as shown earlier) on other matters such as casting [)nd re\\vriting.
For Cmig Anderson, director of Crcve Coeur in the mid-70s, it had become diHicult to
\\\\!ork \\vith Williams (Spoto 367). As Robert does in Mamet's play (19), so \\Villiams
developed, Anderson further argues, a brittle and par.:moid nalure as a result
of drugs
and. as we also know, because of the strain of hi::; tailures on the dramatic stage. The
insanity of Felice and Clare, it would appear, constitutes a heightened dramatization of
WilkllTI.'i' own sellse o1'<..:oufusioll.
As Felice blames [he cast and diredor. so did Williams whcn he held directors
(and other agents) responsible for the bilures of his plays:
"I don', know why directors
and produ<..:crs think they have tu bullshit a playwright in this ......uy whcn ull tbey have to
say is. 'I like it nnd wnnt to do it'" (Memoirs 198). He had enough evidcnce to support his

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claims. Relating the Broadwny production in 19(J4 of his The A/ilk Train, he explains at
length how director Tony Richardson "dominated" the production process induding the
casting (Afemoirs 198-199). At the San fr<:lIlcisco production (1965) of the same play he
argued [hill director John J-Iancock scared both the playwright and the audienL:t' by having
"skeletal ligures or white p!(lster seated here and there in his theatre." What "a brilliantly
bizmrc invention." he said (Afl!rtlOir.l' 201). He also remembered <:11 lhe time of his
memoirs how, prior to The Milk T'rain'y, opening on Broadway in [964, the British
director Tony Richardson killed tbe play while it wns on tour: "When we nrrived in
Daltinwre we were abruptly deserted by Richnrdson. He had to fly to London ... "
(Memoirs 1(9). This incident may have jnspjr~d the plot of his The Two-Characfer Play.
In thc '70s the (\\ccus1tions continued. He lay the responsibility ll1r the failure of Creve
Cuew 011 dircctor Anderson. For the 1973 Broadway opening of Out C....,y. yet again. he
\\vould indict the directDr: "My feelings tmv::Irds the director became very bittcr bec::luse of
his
autoL::nllic
bchavior"
(Memoirs
233).
Anderson
L::on1inl1s
their
disagreement,
explaining. that "thc failure of the play [which closed aftcr thirty-seven performancesJ he
sel.:l1led to blame on me. and Ihat was the end of our relationship" (Spoto 371).
But to attribute this pattcrn of blaming to Williams' own neurosis would be
incorrect. This whining was, as I suggested earlier, part or his habit of eX::Iggemting f::lcts
or profusely talking ::Ibout them as a \\vay of drawing attention to or justifying himself.
On the other h::lnd, his complaints were not wlthou\\ ground. Mosl reviewers of lhe 1977
production of Vieux Carre, for inslJnce, noted "Artlmr Seidelman's CIUlllSY directing and
vice~ a\\h:ndmll th..:rcon"31 and his "in..:pt direction. "32 JD~e Quintero's direction of Clothes
also appeared to many as too overdone, especially in the use of stage effect to simulate
ghoslliness. In any case. the crucial fact should remain the way Williams experienced and
perceived the ::letivities of his directors, at leas\\ some ofthcm.

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95
Not\\vi!hstanding their failings, as I suggested curlier, Williams eventually came
down to hcggillg directors, JUS! as he did producers and stars. Aecording to director Alan
Schneider describing his case \\vith Williams over The Gniidiges Frdulein in 1966,
Williams "openly \\\\'oocd" him ancr he had seen his staging of Edward Albcc's n!1J! AJice.
And lhen.
All during rehearsals he kept telling me I was on the right track. And on opening night, as the
curlilin fell on less than tumultuous applause, he grabbed me <lud kissed me with some passion on
both cheeks. tclling ilIc--Wilh great liquid IcafS in his eyes··'No onc! No one has evnh suhvcd rndi!
wuhk moalJ faitJlfully!' (370)
Schneider's sarcasm stems from the fael that after the play had failed
in rhe eyes of
critics, Williams tumed against him, and latcr recalled him as the "Jittle grinning man in
the red base hall cap" (Alem()in 212). In the '70s Williams pleaded with director William
Huut, who had successfully produced Confessional. {he
early version of Small Cn~(t
Warning, 10 lake over the longer version (Spolo 332-333). What bccamc of this adventure
exemplifies the impact on his plays or WiHiams' con1"ronlation with directors: "personal
dith:l'enees hetween Williams, lWilliamJ Hunt and the c:lsl led to Hunt's resignation from
di rcclion" 01" Small Cnffi Warning (Spoto 333). For several days, Williams himselr octed
as director (lhereby imitating his character Felice in Ou! Oy) until Richard Ahman look
over.
To be sure, Williams \\\\'us aware of the damages that his eomrliant attitude or
slrained relations with the prllduetioll forces could have on the quality of his plays. But as
AlIgust in 5'omelhing Cloudy would pul it. Williams had to. He not only hoped 10 Lind the
way hack to lhe brighllighls, he also needed to keep himselrbusy, as he told 8rilno;;:va in
1965 (Five O'Cfock An}.;ef 190), and perhaps most of all. he wonted to convince himself
that he still he longed in the thealer world. I will return to the thcrareutie function of his
arl in chur1er 3. For nllW. it is enough to say that his attitude was part of his strategy of

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artistic survival. [-le liked to say th;It "A persistent dream h;IS meaning, [md i:-; sometimes
fu[ljllcd" (Memoirs 232). Dre;Ims ,md hopes kept him going. and this, it would appear,
.justified his portrayal of the artistic minded producer, the subject of the next section.
11. 1. 3.
A Hero in the Midst of the .Jungle
The theater owner or producer ligure in Williams' later plays is not alw;Iys a
villain. LeoOlnd Frisbie, the art exhibitor and g<ll1ery O\\'iner in In the Bar, is an artistic
minded agent. This cle;Irly contradicts the results of Yam's research in Yam ({1/(} Fom, for
Leol1;Ird is a "h..::rll" of sorts. In him, the artist Mark finds someone he '\\'an speak to," in
lh-: humane sense implied hy Roherr the older aetor in Mamet's pl<ly (75). Lconard is an
exception we need [0 account for bec;Iuse his presence further highlights Williams'
predicament with producers and managers. My point here is that Leonard's portrait 15
overly sympathdie; h..:: represents some kind of dream produeer-tigure for Williams.
Leonard is a renowned nrt exhibitor, owner of the World Galleries in New York,
<\\l1d a longtime partner of Mark's. He has exhibikd the masterpieces that hnve made
Mark's reputation. Summoning him to Tokyo to take eme of
Mnrk, Miriam \\a,Tites,
unfnirly it appears, in the telegram: "Mark is your mosl lucrative property. Please fly to
Tokyo al once to protect it" (11). As it turns out, this eommercial characterization of
Lconard's relation to t\\.1ark is, if not pure fantasy, an indication or
jealousy or
antagonism. It is Miriam who evokes the im!.lge of a commercial produCI:''f ligure here.
For. indeed, it is she, not Leonard, \\\\/ho has been capitalizing on Mark's painting. She has
stored away
an impressive quantit)' of his pre-color \\vork for later use (38). When
Leonard arrives in Tokyo, both the picture of Mark that he draws, metaphorically
spc<lkin~. and his own attitude toward M::lrk contradict much of what Miriam would have
liS helieve.

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H,.; justifies Mark ;]5 a painter and defends him as a human being. Mark "doesn't
work for the purpose of having a price tag in fOllr figures on his paintings," he tells
Miriam (5). He sounds like Williams expressing his wish in 1961 when he decided to
stop "compromising" with Broadway: PI want to be more free, I want to wlJrk for myself
real1y, without thinking anymore ahuut whether it will get rave notices or be a smash hit
and all that. Have n hig line at the box-office the morning after it opens" (Conversafions
\\ 961 96). Mark's chief problem now, continues Leonard,
is "a c1Hmgc that he feels IJ[
imagines in your altit'ldc la him" (41). In other words, Leonard acknowledges that Mark
hns entered, 10 use his own \\·\\,ords, "a private jungle" (34), but believes that
what he
needs no\\,..· is sympathy and understanding, not abandonment (36-37). Unsurprisingly,
Miriam finds Leonanl's sympathy tllf Mark "a little abnormal" (43). To this and Miri<lm's
other attitudes, such as when she says Ihat }"1ark's death is a release for heL Lel.mard
opposes a moral shllck:
[I' that's your feeling, il's onc: lhnt shouldn't be spoken even to me. --How do you know I won't
repeal what you said? \\,l,.'e live in a gossipy world. I mjght, aeeidentally, but.... Let's get out orlhe
har and sit in the garden. 'fhe b;llman hears and understands the savage things you're saying (51).
He offers her a handkerchief su~gesting she pretend to ery, but, unsurprising.ly, she
refuses.
ThaI Leonard's artistic relntion to Mark is devoid of commercial interest is
p<lrtieularly apparent in his liheralism and his depiction of his own artistic taste. "My
gallery has exhibited the work ol'painters thal painted with their toes. We even have one
that po:lints with his penis." Therefore, he concludes, "we are used to extremes" {AO-4l).
Mark's kno\\vkdge of Leonard's avant~gardisrn probably explains why iL did not take
Leonard 1011g to convince him ilgainst exhibiting his current \\'.'ork: "the very early
exploratory pha.';e of a new technique is not for exhibition, imd that'.'; what I told him. He
took it well. He agreed" (41). In other words. Leonard prevails against Miriam who

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would rather hDve the work exhihited now for pun:ly commerciDI reasons. If Leonard will
not, she explains, any other gallery "w(iuld exhibit it hecause of [Mnrk's] name" (3&).
To be sure, leonard's choice not to put the work on the market now definitely
reveals his power in the artistic world and over Mark. He participates in the making of art
by deciding what is art and what is nol. Yet, fundamentally, he remains a supporter of
rather thDn an antDgonist toward Mark. This means that Leonard and Mark belong to the
same artistic suhfield where the value of art is primarily~~at least for the present--
symholic, not commen::iul. But Leonard's choice 110t to exhihit the work now is also,
beyond a recolf,nition of the worth of Mark's painting, calculated.
In the field of culture
to cl2.im the symho\\ic. value of one's work--by opposition to its commercial value~~is part
of the strategy of the struggle for legitimacy; it is a decision to torego present benefits for
laler rewards (Bourdieu &3). Whatever the case, LeollDrd remains supportive of the weak
Mark, and this, it seems, is the fundamental message Williams sought to get across to his
contemporaries and la us. Like Mark, he needed support, hut there was no one to give
Ilim any. (Sce also the section on competition among artists.)
To {ully underst;md Williams' sympDthetie portrayal of Leonard, we l1lust--as
app::lrently Williams himself did--look, un the one h::lnd, into his vision of the
experimental stage, and on the other, back into his earlier experience. In the Bar is a
19GOs play. that is, of a period \\-vhen Williams strongly believed in the experimental stage
as a valuable alternmive for his career. He saw it as a pl::lcC where he could find aesthetic
freedom and satislaction. Hi$ sympathetic portrayal of Leonard manifests his hopeful
perception of the non~profit artistil: world as a place where artistic COl1l:erns and humane
r..:elings still existed. On the other h;md. the portrayal amounted to a romanticization of
lhe past, since it led Williams into longing for the '405 and '50s. To Willia111s as well as

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most of the [Jlaywright~ of his gcnemlion, the days of the purely artistic producer were
gone.
In other words, in the 19605, Williams had no moJd for LconarJ in his rersollal
experience of Ihe theatrical world. As C;Ir!y as 1961, he had begun to put "distance
bCl\\\\'cCn himself and Auclrey Wood," his long time artistic agent whom he then saw as
"lOO motherly, domineering" (Sroto 273-274). His relationships with Elia Kazan, the
chosen director in his hLllcyon days, had become precarious following Kazan's decline to
direct Period (?/ A{!iuslment in 1960 (Spalo 268). While Willimns experienced such
important lusses, Edward Albee, whom he always placed i1rst among the "N~w Wave
writers," was enjoyi:lg \\he kind ut' relationship with producer Richard Barr that
unquestionably made \\Villiams evcn more jealous of bim than he already was. Andrew
Harris explains: "Fortunately for Albcc, his e[)rly partnership with producer RichurJ QaIT
protecteJ lhe playwright's righl to experiment and insulated him from many of the
pressures of Broadway commercialism" (1994 8]). On the whole. for Williams in the
sixties, the idea ora cre<ltive proJu-.:er was, as J'larris puts it, "a myth" (125).
Later in the 70s and early '80s he sporadically found support and understanding
with somc produ-.:ers or directors. I huve mentioned
cases suc:h as that with producer
Elliot Martin during the production of ChJlhes in 1980. Jose Quintero helped with the
same play.J) Bm one who Jeserves emphasis herc is Grcgory rvtosher, the dynamic
"romantic and star-struck"J~ artistic director of the Goodman Thcatcr in Chicago. Spoto
refers to him as "the patienl and supporting r-..fosher" (389). I3ruce Smith in CosIly
Perj(Jrmanl-'l!s (1990) and Richard Christiansen in an article (see footnote 34) give some
indications of Mosher's help to \\Villiams.
Mosher often spoke
of Williams' need in
terms that almosl par<lllel Leonard's. "Never did I doubt that" he slill had something to
say, Chrlstiansen reporlS him saying. And then Mosher further commented: "1'Ie's so

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vulnerabk to pum, and yet he overeomes it. He keeps on writing. J find that very
touching." (S). However, clear1y. Masher came \\00 late to provide the kind of stabi\\izing
force that Barr had represented Ii:Jr Albee.
In mher words, Williams, in the '70s, still had reasons 10 he nostalgic. Again, he
shared Ihis with his eontcmporaril's. [ntervicwed in 1984 playwright Joscph Stein longed
for the past, when
"the producers themselves wen:: theater people rather than kind or
business people. We had really thealer-Ioving producers" (Sponbcrg 1991 184). Williams
himself, in the '70s, called Kaz<lll "our great white father" (Memoirs 174\\. and his
TL'I11Cmbrances of i\\. Wood and E. Kazan arc full of nustalgia:
To me she was like a family member on whom 1 was particularly dcp('ndt:nl. Her reaction to <l
new pil'ce of my work was alw<lys (lIat whIch tirst and most conct:rned me: th<lt is, hl'l's and
K;,\\Z,ll1'S. Perhaps if my fl't:lings hlr her had been limited to professional ones. I would not h"v~
oe<:J1 ~o disturbed and finally outraged when her concern for me--Ollce so gtellt and sincere, so it
seemed--appearcd [0 cbh. so [hal I found myself alone as a child lost or an old dog i1bmldoned .. ,
(iv/eIl/OffS 229).
\\V'hatcvcr the real reasons for the break of his rclations with Wood and Kazan, it caused
serious h~lrm to his CGrccr. Throughout his latcr enrccr, Williams felt abandoned, and he
longed for the good days with the Kazans and Woods. In 1980, he pointedly summed nr
his predicament over the previous two decades: "I rcll down a lot in thc 1960s, and
nobody was thcre to pick me up." And "Nothing morn..:ntous happened in tile '70s.
Whatever did happen ...and what sueeess I had, I had to make myself. "35 Tilt: apparent
gloss of exaggeration does not negate tht: nnderlying truth.
On both pcrsonal and artistic levels, Williams' later artist-protugonists wert: at a
disadvantage in their relation with the production forces. Two distinctive attitudcs of the
artisT-figure appear when we consider the 1\\\\'0 decades separately. In thc sixties plays, the
artist remains unduunted, showing an endurance that borders on absurdity. This
willingncss to go on even in the taee or death is ;] cbaractcristic Williams attilude in lhe

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1'loOs theater world. In the seventies plays, [he ~rtjst adopts a more accommodating
attitude. This evolution paralleled the change in WiHiums' own experience ~nd attitude.
However, more than a sign of weariness ill tlie struggle, the change manifested Williams'
fundamenlal sense of morality, thnt which also characterizes the vision of
life in his
carlier work. Stclla. Maggie and Brick, Maxinc and Shannon chose compromise as a way
or accommodating with life, as a 5ul'Iiva\\ slmlegy. 131ographical\\y, we must recall that
even at the height of his career, WilJiams mm promised, though painfully, with Kazan
over the end of Caf on u Hot tin Ro~/ in order La ensure the success of the play on
Broadway. In the 19705 he compromised out of rc!ativ(' powerlessness hut with the same
goal of success in mind. The irony in this case is Hmt he did not
therehy impr(y\\'e his
position in the theatrical field. He had to reckon with other types of forces, to which wc
now turn.
H. 2. Competition Among Artists: Ncw- and Old-Wave Effects
Competition among artists is an essential Junction of the very condition of the
struggle inherent in the nature of Ll1l cultural fields. However, in the 19GOs and 1970s
American theatrical field, other
fLlclors (some of them extr,meous) enhanced the
competitivc clement: principnlly, accentuation of Broadway's commercialism and the rise
of experimental the:.lter--often seen as a theatrical renascenee·'l;--and its correlative
spawning of new and dynamic playwrights. As early as 1959, answering a qu('stion about
the prolifcwtlon of playwrights, WiJliams said: "1 think it is much easier [for a
playwright]
to
\\vin
recognition
now,
particularly
hCe<Hls(' of the
Off-Broadway
movement. And tk tC"l('t that prodllccrs are more adventurous in the type of material that
they accept. The concept of theater has become hroader. .. " (Conversations 61). I3eyond

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[he d~scriptivc nature of lhe statement, Williams was clearly reflecting on his personal
condition, on where the danger would come from.
All of a sudden In the early 19605, younger \\vriters--thc Ne\\,.v \\Vave as he calls
them (Cmn'ersu(iolls 1961 95)--surpasscd him III the (hea/fleal arena. In the name of
"art," some "admirers" found their WilY close to him only to take advantage of him
linancially. Ov~r time, as he incrc[)singly despaired of ever coming back into the bright
lights or ever heing remembered ,vhcn he died, the younger ones, both on Broadway and
the alternative sl:Jge, were enjoying the success that he was vainly pursuing. To this, we
must add his own past artistic idenlily--the Old W.wt'. as r \\...·ill call it hcre--which
Ihrollg.h mallY and slIL.cessful rcvivals, conflicted with his present creations and
subjectivity. As I have suggested earlier, some members or the younger generation of
writers of the sixties were as sensitive to the plight of the aItist as WilJiams. However,
Williams h;JJ the most compelling reasons to explore and rcaet to the theme.
CompetitLon among ;Jrtists in Williams' later plays follows the pattern of the old
versus the youngY Signi Falk, among others, has seen this paradigm in The Milk Train as
all
expression of Williams' indulgent:e in rehashes, a continued expression of his
archetypal theme of "mislll;J1L'hed lovers first explored in Baffle v/Angels" (126). This
lntcrpret;Jtion cle<.lrly is limited. Through most of his later phcl)'S, \\Villiams' hmldling of
the themc uf the old v..::rsus the young artist expresses the larger theme of the existential
struggle of the artist--a manifestation of his own peculiar condition in thc later years ot"
his career. Thematizing the competitive clement or other related forms of t:onf1icting
relationships, Williams insists on various forms of victimiz<ltion. Directly or indirectly,
the victim, who is generally the older artist, experiences the victimization as prejudice
against his or her arl--and artistic identity. WillinlTIs captured all these issues in themes
rangfng from parasitism, physical and psychological pain, through to professional

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jealollsy. Hc also dramalizeJ what we lOay call his dream model or relationships between
the okl and young. artisl. In all these themes, wc can hardly nvoid seeing an expression of
Williams' own predicament. And through
his predicament we must perceive the
workings of the theatrical culture of the 1960s and 1970s.
11. 2. 1. Facing the Parasitism of Younger Artists
Mrs. Goforth in The Milk Train and Viellx in The Travelling Companion
experience the parasitism of young artists in an interesting and characteristic way. These
two aged and former artists see themselves as heing exploited economically or otherwise
hy useless youths, ne'er-do-wells, and sometimes imposters. How does Williams porI ray
this? And how relevant is this to his own experience?
Young artists constitute one significant aspect of the exterior threats to Mrs.
GOf0l1h's self-protective retirement in her hill-top villas. By his appearance and trade
Chris has much in common with the young writers as Mrs. Goforth perceives them. Her
attitude toward him on his arrival and her suhsequent conversations with him convey her
perception of younger v,ritcrs as a class. She justifies her initial reluctance to meet with
him by the fact that "I don't keep with the new personalities in the world of art like I used
to" (82). She alternatively calls them free-loaders, beatniks, and impostors, and explains
why: "Writers that don't write, painters that
don't paint. A bunch of free-loaders,
Blackie... they'll never work for a living as long as there i.~ a name on their sucker list"
(19). For those who bravely and sueeessfully tind (heir way 10 her villas, she has the
"Oubliette" on the beach. It is "a little grass sh<J\\:k" that she uses as the "medieval
in:-titution" of the dungeon. "v..·herc people were put f()f keeps to be forgotten" (81). Cbris
does not end up in the "Oublietle," but he experiences other forms of her treatment of
ji·~e-loaders. She searches his knapsack, and most signific;mtly, starves him. But as we

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knuw, eventually Chris overcomes her through the power or his philosophy of life. l1y
virtue of Ihis vcry philosophy, Chris is a young artist of a specific genre. He plays for
Mrs. Goforth a function fundamcnwlly diffcrelll, as wc will scc, from that of the young
para.sites.
The "new personalities" visit Mrs. Gofonh because she has advertised herself as
"(I patron or mt and artists" (85), and she boasts some wealth as her investments in the
sLock market and the sumptuousness or her villas testify. This is rcminiscenl of Williams'
own relarions with the llumerous companions who--through claim or actual practice--
were always artists of sorts. In the 19605, despite Ilis whining, Williams was still onc or
the richest artists in America (Conl'crsalions 1971 194), and hy the cnd of the decade,
agc and changc of his artistic fortune had generated ambitions similnr to Mrs. Gofonh's:
"there were times when he felt he might prefer becoming the unofficinl denn or American
theater, and the mentor to younger playwrights, or a mueh sought-after writer in residence
;.Il a prestigiou:-i university, hut that feeling didn't last. He had to feci he could do it again-
-hit the jaekpot."38 For Mrs. Goforth and Williams himself. supporting young wrilers--in
\\lthel" words, "alliancc wj(h" them (f3uurdieu
I05)--is a strategy clearly aimed at
enhancing their own image, status and legitimacy in thc artistit: \\\\lorld, Though motivated
differently lhan Mrs, Goforth's, lhe sh;.lttering ofWilliams' ambition clearly parallels Mrs,
(iolol"th'~ rct:i.lntation rcgarding her inilia[ self-assigned role toward the YOllth. For both,
thc change is a clear manifestation of failure, BUl for Williarns particulnrly, it marked a
shirt ofstrntegy in his struggle for legitimacy.
In The Travelling Cumpaniun, Vieux experiences the parasitism of the youth in
ways !hat evoke a partirular stare of Williall1s' relations with young writers in the 1970s.
Viellx is, as wc know, n playwright bled hy age :.lIld loss of artistic lcgilimat:y to roam
from hotel to hOle!. But be GlIl only do so with travelling companions, Howcver, it l13s

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bl;C(lllW difficult for him, as the situation in {he play shows, to find any. Beau refuses tu
yield to him, or so he pretends. When (~vcntually he concedes thnt he might stay longer, it
is llnder the eondition that Vieux replaces his old guitar that, he elaims, he sold out of
need. Evidem:e shows. that V~eux knows this kind or cundilion too well. As the play
closes, the "distant ancl cold-henrled moon beCl-lmeS visible through mist" (40), an
expression of what we may call1he nature ofI3cau. Vieux summarizes this nature in the
monologue at the- beg-.inning \\)f scene 2: "New travelling c('lmpanions retleet the
indifferent times We live in: neglect everything but themselves and their own concerns.
GOllhc give-me's. Give me, give me, give me ... " (38). Linking f)eau's nature to the trends
of1he lime, Vieux's words point la a historical and cultural generalization. The "give me"
leitlllotif clearly suggests Will i~lms' view of the selfishness of the "me generation" of the
sevenlies. As in other ins«tnce:-i, Vieux's
is obviously not a mimetic representation of
WilliaI11s, but a drmnalie expression of his experience as a playwright. I-le therehyallows
a glimps<.: of his anxieties and fru::;tr<ltions with young "arlists" in tbe Iheatrical
environment of the seventies and well before that.
As I remarked earlier, beside New York, other places such as Rome, New
Orleans, and Key West luLd artistic signiflcanec for Wil1iam~. Afier Meda's death early
in Lhe 19605, he "vent more often and for longer periods to Kcy Wcst to write or to rest.
He fold a reporter in London: "I can't bear lO be <llone. I've got 10 have someone near
me."]') But Williams would become very unstable wilh his travcling companions, keeping
lhem only as long as they were willing la stay or as long as he could put up with them. In
March 1964, Frederick Nicklaus, whom he took along on a return to Key West after
i\\krhl's death, tled wben Williams plunged into a protracted silence and harricaded
himself in his house.~o In fact we may say thm aftcr Merln's dC<lth, Williams never
developed a stable relationship with anybody. William Glavin was all "admirer" of his

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lOo
art, and lhe longest companion he ever had after Merlo (1964·1970). In 1970. on the
charge that Glilvin was destroying his work, he dismissed him (Spoto 323). The rest of
the [970s. :.md all to his death. was worse. Numerous hangers-on, (ro111 writer Roberl
Carroll (1 976)--who alone with Rose Williams tigures in his las[ testament (Spoto 336)--
In lhe numerous crowds that kept him wmpany in New York or filled his house in Kcy
West. took turns by his side. The situation orhis companions in New York or Key West
had. as David Gregory recalls, "the tone of cmploycH:mplo)'ce. Some of them seemed to
me like pcnple \\VI1O were in it for what they could get mU of it."41
Elvin Sharin and
Sylvia Sydney share Ihis ObSC[\\'Jlicm. and respectively
call the young companions
"phoney" admirers (Spoto 326) and "sycoplmnts" (Spolo 362), terms that are syrhmymoLls
with Mrs. Goforth's and Vieux's.
Certainly Williams was aware of these exploitativc and dishonest relations. In
1980 he complained ab(lut people's hypocrisy to him about Clothes: "All I heard was how
heautiful it was. I had some reservaLion about it, but in the beginning, neither my agent
nor my friends said it had problems. People should tdl you whaL is wrong with a play
before they rush it into production."·n Williams, however, fdt that he had no choice. Age,
he thoughL, had disfigured him,·1.1 and so bad, he believed, was his reputation in Ne.....'
York especially that he had to surround himselhvith "a few respectable looking people in
order lo he accepted for lunch al bcttcr pJ:lCCS."44 Unlike Mrs. Goforth, Williams could
n()! cut himself off from the free-loaders. Instead, out of need and spurred by his
eh:;\\raeteristic accommodating <luitudc of the seventies, he, like Vicux, pUl up with them.
In 1975, he wrote: "Most of my life has been spenl with intimate companions of a
complex and Jiffieult nature. It is only recently that I havc Iearncd 10 accept the bargain,
by which I mean to treasure the lovely aspects of their natures ... l1nd to sLoil.::.llly live
through their abrasiw humors" (Memoirs 242). Likc Vieux, he gave them more than he

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could CVI,.'f ret:eivc in reLUm. Williams rcnchcs for a grim vision or competition between
nrlisls whell he dramatizes death <IS a possihle outcome.
11. 2. 2. The Artist as Ilcstructi\\-'c Ag-cnt
It would seem that hy the end of the 19605 Williams had accepted the fact of his
dcnth--arlistic and bio1ogic.l1, Early in 1970 he 10ld Tom Buckley, talking about Th!! Twu-
Character Pluy: "If llive, it will be my best play. bUl this does nOl mean it will run more
than three \\Vccb. In any case, it \\vill he my lasl long play" (Cunversations 179). But
WiJliams' life in the sixties wns sllloldcring ash. As I have shown earlier, like the
phoenix, la use a Li.lwrenccan image lhat very much fascinated him, he "ruse" in the
seventies. In otlH.:r \\vords. as daunting as prncticing his art had bccome, he went on
writing :llld producing plays. Among other things, he dramatized what he saw as his
physical and psychological pain, a resull of compl:ling with other artists.
The artistic \\\\'orld in Williams' later plnys is a world of pnin. As it affecls the
weaker artist, much of this originates fwm competing with other artists. Thc pain is thc
result or an existential fight lor physkal and particularly artistic survival--the physical
may be directly rcInted to artistic decline (as is the easc with performing artists) hut
simple depletion of energy always has its e/Tect. Though younger artists appear mosl
frequently as a d<lI1ger to their oldl:r colleagues, sometimes, ns in Clvthes fal' " Summa
Halcl, age difference seems unimportant. Williams' concern is primnrily with the forms
or destructive relations among artists. And through these, wc have significant indications
or Williams' own experience with other artists.
As r ohserved earlier, Mrs. Golorth first takes Chris for a free-loader. In a sense,
even ultimately, Chris appears to be similar to the types thm Mrs. Goforth hates. For, like
the bcatniks, he I'rustratcs her need. giving her death inste<lcl of sex, Th,lt Chris's role is

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complex shows in his relation with Mrs. Goforth. For instance, in what he denies or gives
her, Chris stands in [I symmetrical opposition to Alcx--her cx-lovcr--whom he recalls by
the manner of his arrival and the coincide nee of this wilh her remembrance of Alcx.
Relating the two young artists to Mrs. Goforth's artistic career. we see that their
signiftcance respectively symbolizes her position in the artistic world hefore and after the
fall. As Ale;.: stood for the bliss of stardom. Chris stands for the sadness ;lIld frustration
consequent to her loss of cachet.
Commenting on the character ofChris, Williams says that he "is a purveyor afmy
philosophy. J-k: brings Mrs. Gororth values that her life was lhe opposite of, an
ncccptance of what mus( hl'lrpen"4:Ldcath. This posilive perspeclive on Chris manifests
Williallls' mind-set and strategic justification or his fate in the sixlies. Chris's spiritunl
offering (an Oriental
philosophy about death)
to
Mrs.
Goforth provides her a
mcwphysiealjustifieation of her defeut, which projects her death into a positivc light that
redeems her in her de{cal. Therefore, though Chris linds a place in Williams' long line of
vagrant poets, as some critics have pointed out,4(' he envisions him through his thcn
recently acquired Oriental philosophy of aecept::lllee to confer upon him a new dimension
<ltld function. This meaning of Chris to Mrs. Goforth evokes Williallls' own new relation
to lilc in 19605.
The Gniidiges Friilllein provides the most complex representation of competition
in its particularly destructive form. The lrajcctory or the FrHulcin's career traces the roller-
coaster pattern of her artislie lilc. In Europe, fighting her \\I,'ay up from being a "young"
artist tn being an established onc, she displaced the seal trainer, her artistic companion-
cum-competitor (see also the section on the approvers' power). Continuing the open
competitive h:lttle initinted by the Fr~illlciJl, the seal and its trainer soon dislodged her
from her achieved position, bringing her career 10 ruin (257). In the present of lhe play,

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cvolvilll; in the symbolic artistic world of the Cocaloony Keys, hl.:[ place is <lIthe bottom
or the puwer hierarchy. The (llher artist figures, Indinn Juc and the cucaloony birds,
completely dominate her.
Some critics have considGfCd Indian .Ioc as a caricature or Williams' parasitic
companions47
and the birds <IS a symbolic portrait of legi{imizing figures. 48 These
interpretations arc at best jJ<.lrtial and at worst inaccurate. Indian .lac, lhe hirds, ;.md the
Fraulcin exist in an artistic and power relationship that corresponds to a triadic
representation of the 1960", artistic lield: respectively. Orr-Broadway (Indian Joe), OITw
OIT-Broadway (the birds). and Ihe surviving yet not thriving old generation of the
Williams and Millers (the FrJulein).
Earlier, I established Ihat new wave \\vriters such as Albee whom Williams
paniculilrly admired functioned successrully both on and Off.Brnudway. In light of this
vers:.JriliIY, wc can establish that Williams' portrayal of Indian loe conflates ima~es of
l3roadway and Orr-l3roadw:.Jy, and tha[ Indian .Ine conveys his pcn:eption or, say, Albee.
For onc thing, Indian Joe is the most successful of the three artists. Beside this, images of
l3roadway app...:ar in his link with Hollywood. He is dressed like a Hollywood Indian
(239). :l characteristic that draws upon lhc myth of the Indian as suvage. The use of this
clidH': is reminiscent 01'.1\\ Ihec's use of the middle-class Americall in The Zoo SfOlY (1958)
or the archetypal American family in his American Dream (1960). Wilh Indian loe, it (lhe
clieh~) constitutes the justilication of his physical power and sexual attraction. (Perhnps
this also carries the idea of l3roudwuy's prostitution, bot !his is beyond my concern here).
Thcrc is something "wild" about him that confers on him exotic power. On the othcr
hand. the exaggerations or his features rely un dramatic modes akin (0 Off-Broadway
practices uf t.mh<lncing dramatic effect with surrealist, Brcchtian, or other similarly uscrul
devices (Simard 38). Physical action and presence rather than language characterize his

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11 (\\
stylc. N His most memorable fight against the cocaloony bird, described by Pally as the
meeting of the "ullmovublc object" ami the "irresistible Jim.::c" (240), best dra11l8tizes this
and reveaLs Indian Joe's power. Like the will:'s axe in Kil'che, the tomahawk
he
dexterously wields represents his primary and most effective limguagc in his dealings
with the birds. Where he uses language, it serves to underscore physil.:al aClion or body
langmlgc. For instance, rollLnving his sexual encounter with Polly, he walks out on the
verandah, heating his chest und accompanying his action with the few words he ever
sa)'s: "I reel like " hull" (250).
In everything he displays, from his physical power to his attruclive style and body,
Indi<lll .Ioe is the opposite of the Friiulein. He spells out her pOwl.:r!cssness, hl.:r
grotesqueness, and her lack of success. While she strives to survive, he simply reigns
over the stage, fed, admired, and desired (in both senses or (he term) by the press (Polly),
producers (Molly) and aelOrs (Frauleil1)--his audience. He contributes to the Fri.iulein's
psydlLllogical crisis, Jor she longs for him in vain. V/hen losing her sense of reality she
takes him for the seal lraincr--her fanner colleague, dream-lover. and destroyer--whieh
only underscores her suhordimHion 10 him.
Next in the power hierarchy after Indian loe come the cocaloony birds. As
characters, the hirds evoke experimentul conventions in ohvious ways, and with clear
reference to OfT-OlT-Broadway, the performance tradition which started in the sixties and
came into full swing in the seventies. The
refusal of written text in favor of
improvisation by Orr·Off-Broadway avanf-garJists, their use of'\\';rude visual images," to
quote Miehacl Smith (Berkowitz 96), their emphasis on eolors, physieality, ele,(Marranea
198498), correspond clearly with the birds. Sharing their gray color with 1110st presences
in the coealoony keys, and by their very animal namre, the birds suggest perfomlanec
theater in its endeavors to integrate environmental realities into art (Marranc<l 69-71) or as

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Bcrkowitz pillS it, to collapse the limits between art and lill: (111). Perhaps loo, they
reellll theatrical practices such as that of Bread and Puppet Tlu:atcr under Peter Schuman
or k~n Cluudc Van Italic's plays in their use of giant puppets. marionettes, stylized
costumes, elL'. (Szilassy 74; Bcrkowitz 102).
The birds have "u powerful aJar" (236) that disturbs Polly the l11cJin-woman. She
makl.:s Molly ohserve that the birds are "not u status symbol" to have "in front of the big
dormitory" (236), least of all within it. By their ador, the birds recall the smelly bcalniks
that Mrs. Goforth rcfusl;s to harbor in her villa.
Their odor is a m,mifcslation of their
living in the docks. WillhHns' insistence on it suggests Off-Off-Brondway artists' typical
locations in unconventional theatrical houses: barns. cellars. church basemcnts. etc.
(Berkowitz 25, 95, 102). Polly's remark nhollt their indecorous presence ill l)r in the
dormilory therefore brings {O mind the boycolt of cxperimental theatcr in the early stage
of its developmcnt. [t also implies the condescension or the leaders of commcrcial
theater--and these include theater owners, producers and critics--toward the not-for-profit
thealer in its initial ycars (Sponbcrg xxvii).
The cocalool1)' birds' exclusive dwmatic language is, like Indian loe's. action and
physical presencc interspersed with the sporadic cry "A\\I,'k, Awk" (236). An image or
Off-Off-Broadwa)"s often pcculiar and olten crude dramatic language, this also evokes,
as I have argued, the general distrust of verha! language in avant-ganlc theater. However,
unlike the Friiulein's relation 10 verbal language (Cr. 11. 3), Ihe birds' as well as Indian
loe's dllCS not express an inability to speak; theirs is a characteristic style, a sign of
identity. Another remarkable aspect ofOrr-Off.Broadway evident in the birds and which
also tics them tn the Frnulein is their economic condition. Molly explains that.
Having passed ...lhe zenith or her carccr. ..lhc Gnrldigcs Frauh:in has turned her nttcnlion and
lmnsferred her balllcgl'ount/ I'llI' survival [0 the fish IkH,:ks, I'olly. She's shamelessly. blamelessly
gone into eOrllpeli[ion with the ctlt:nloonics for [he throw-away lish."Wdl. thcy got a elosed shop,

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Ihe COcilloonics, they seem to be unionized, Polly... So dimmer and Jimmer bcc;mle the view they
lOok of her, till, finally, today, there was a well-organized resistance movement against her (238).
The allusions tn lill.: in the theatrical \\....orld arc obvious enough. The scardly of
food. here as in Kirchc, evokes Orf-Off-Broatlway's lack of economic viability, or, which
comes lo Ik 5,lIl1C thing, manifests its repudiation or economic pursuits. The rraulcin's
vClHurC. or be tier. her [Ill into this world suggests Williums' repeated assertions in the
sixties that his future lay outside Broadway. Yet, it \\vould seem that the portrait of the
Fr~iulcin's fate stems more from fantasy than reality. Dl:spite his declarations, in the 19605
Williams ncvl.:r aCl.:epled produl.:tion of his plays even Ofr·BroDdway. What fed the
fantasy is. as I have shown, his idea thal invitations to produce his plays Off-Broauway
were indicative or a desire to kill him--arlislically speuking.
In their competition with the frtiulcin, the eoealoonics overpower her. Having
scalped her and gouged her eyes, they are certain to gel back \\.... hatever lish she manages
to gr;lb, as they do in her last venture. The hirds also command some authority owr Polly
and Molly (235). But Molly's and Polly's fear of them is relative and mixed with
contempt. This ndumbrates the limitation of the hirds' power. The limilatioll shows even
more in their defeat hy Indian Joe in th<: right mcntioned earlier.
More than a comment on the experimental
practicl..: or conwnlions, Williams'
portrayal oflhe birds is ,In exploration orthe impact oflhe experimental otTsprings on the
oldcr artist that he was, and that the frtiulcin is in the play. At bottom. the Fraulein is the
weakest of all the artists in this plDy. A dear sign or strategy of survival, the sensc of
endurance tlwl she displays ultimalely exposes her lad of power. Williams liked to
believc, as Maggic tells Brick (CUI un (I 1-101 Tin Roof) or as Stella (A SIree1£:ur)
demonstratcs,
thal the weak tend to show morc endurance and slrcngth than thc
supposedly strong (Conver.wllions 1965 119). Out at the play's close, the Frtiulein faces
immincllt eollapsc. She is a typical laler Williams protngonist for whom death is the

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ultimate reality. Her powerlessness and defeat in relation to Indian lac and the birds
suggest us Molly would put it, her failure to defend her position against the "parvenu
crowd" (256). In thealric:.Jllcrms, the aged and dilapidated established Drtisl succumbs to
the assertive new wave of artists.
This is [\\ pattern of historical significance that impressed several writers besides
Wil1iams in the sixties and seventies. In Albcl.:'s Yam and F£lm. Fam, the Famous
Amcric311 pl<J)'wrighl, laments the effeets of the new OIT-13roaUWi.lY writers, and is
himself a victim of Yam. the Young Amcric311
playwright Thus. parodying
Ibsen's
MWler Builders, F:l1l1 whines: "The new geucmtion's knocking at the door. Gclber,
Richardson, KopiL..(Shrugs)... Albee ... yoll ... (MOl.:k woe) you youngsters arc going to
push us out of the way ... " (89). In SllepJrd's Tooth (~lCrime, Hos~, the establishcd pop
arli.sl, not only yields his plnce to Crow, the youngster, but, unnble to adapt la thc new
SlY le. kills himself (l j I). A thread of proll::ssional jealousy links most dmmalizations or
the tension belwcen artists. This was very familiar la Williams in the later pnrt of his
carCl:r.
11.2.3. Aets of Professinnal Jealousy
A sLrain of jealollsy--profcssional and othcrwisc--is apparclll in thc Fraulein's
relations with both Indinl1 loe and the birds. But it is in such plays 'IS The Two-Characfer
PIa)' and Clothes for (/ Slimmer Hotel that Williams perhaps best concerns himscl f with
that themc. Whether wc lake Felice and Clare 'IS brothcr and sister or as two sides of the
same person. the dynamic betWl"l"1l them plays out lhe characteristic lcnsions that obUlin
between artists sharing the same artistie space. Their competition is most reminiscent of
Robcrt and the YOIJl~gL'"r actors in Mamcl's A rUe in the 71,eafer. Infuriated by the
lIuuamcd aClrI:ss whom he deems ineompctcnt, Robcn crudely says: "I W<ll1t to kjJJ thc

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cunl .... If I could do her in and bL: assured I'd gel away with it, I'd do it with a clear and
open hl.:art" (19). In the thealer. Robert asks, "What do \\vc have but our fellow workers
llo rcly on]?" (75). This is a rhetorical question \\\\-'bich, under the apparent ironical tone,
1ll:llliksts the c()lllpelitivc lctlsiol11hal is caliug at Robl.:rL Interdependence in the artistic
world
does not preclude competition. It exaccrbmcs it. The experience of Felicc <\\lld
Clmc reveals a significant aspect of this.
Inlcrdcrcndl.:llcc dt;'lracll:rizes Clan.;',... amI Felicc's rdation ..... "II' you'd stopped
with mc, I could have stopped" (316), explains Clare who bl:licvcs they should have long
before quit the thciller. The inabiliry of each or them to be alone on or off the stage, or for
lll.1.t matter. to kill each othcr at th~ cnd of tht: play, i:; a further indication of their
interdependence. It is lhe main reason that prevents Mnmet's Robert from laking aetiun,
and compels the two of them to endure each other in an
almost absurd way. Yet,
l.:haracteristieally. Clarc and Felice compete between themselves.
At the beginning of the performance, Clarc asks relice: "Arc yOll going 10 throw
~pcechcs at mc tonight?" (31 R). lkhind thcse words is a slntc of conllict or struggle, Ihe
ultimate t:ffect of which. Clare suggests. is thc dcstrudion of her pcrformance. Her claim
is analogous 10 what Robert believes he is J victim of when John "walks on his scenes"
(41-42) or when he plays with thc "incompetent actress" ([9). Several times during their
pcrtormance. Clare calls for cuts by striking on the piano. Most or the time, Fclice
refuses. At lhe end of lhc performance, when thcy fail to entertain the audience. they
characteristically blamc eDeh other 057). The reasons eaeh advances suggest tbc
pen.:eplion each has of him- or herself and consequently. of ha"" they rate each othcr as
artisls. On the strength of his artistic age Jnd attribution--he is Dstar actor, playwright.
poet. und stage director--Felice condescend:; to Clare. He ldb her what nol la do hcl()rc
slepring on the stage or while on it. For in:;t:lI1ce. she must never look at an audience

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hefore going on slugc. AI another til11\\:, he explains to the audience: "What I have La do
llD'\\\\' is keep her from gelling too panicky to give a good performance" (310). In their
present situ:.llion, Clare seems the most audiencc-conscious--in the negative sense--of the
[\\\\10. but she too boasts some strength and ureas of superiority over Feliec, namely in their
relation with the press. She insists on having a pre-opening press conference, which
rei ice thinks they fortunately do 1I01 have to go through this parlicldar night (312).
Furthermore. her account of Fclice's "bellicosity" toward her is indicative enough: "You
still cannot torgive me for my Cleopatra notices. Run into columns of extravagance <lnd
your Anthony's were condensed as canned milk" (317). Rcality or pure fnntnsy. thesc
belicfs serve Clare in hl.:r l.:ompetitive stance toward Fclicl.:.
Compdition among ;Jrlists is not a simple mllller of hcing seIJish. To cxist in thl.:
artistic world is csscmially to diffcr (13ourdicu 58). The act of differing is an expression.
or hetter a primmy strategy of survivnl, of legitimating oneself. In Clothes, the strained
relationships betwccn Scott ond Zelda have to do with this. Scott plays the role of 0
l1l.:gative audience and critic to Zelda's artistic undcrtakings. BUI most insisted on in the
p1:ly is the image of Scott as a "dcstrw.:tive forcc"50 with Zelda as the victim. As I showed
cmlier. Zekb is a victim of scveral denials. Ensconccd in his scmch for or adherence to
llrlistic disdplillC, he destroyed Zelda's drcam for a happy marital life, which led her into
other activities such as dancing. Also, unwilling to share his subject--which is Zclda
hersclf--with hcr, hc did everything he could 10 discourage her ambilions
10 \\"Tite.
Denied escape into "(Jcts of creations," as Zelda cxplains, shc cnded up in madness (274).
Zclda did however wrilc a book, Save Me the Waltz. Evocation of this book in the action
unveils thc crux of the competitive tension between Scoll ;Jnd Zeldn as artists.
This occurs during thc visit at the asylum. Faccd with Or. Zeller's praises of
Zelda's book, Scott clwraclcristically responds: "My publishers and I edited that book! --

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Zdda did hn\\\\'cvcr '¥fite a hook, Save Me (he Wall=. Evocation or this hook in lhe action
unveils the crux of the competitive tension helween SCOII and Zelda as artists.
This occurs during the visit at lhe asylum. Faced \\'t'ith Dr. Zcller's rm:lIses or
Zelda's book, Seoll characteristically resronds: "My publishers and I edited that book! --
Tried to make it coherent" (259). Unahle to controlthc gush of jealousy apparent in his
rcsronsc, Scoll "sways and uses the hench for support" (259). The rsychoJogica\\
imrlications behind this recall Mamct's play, cspccially the scene where Kobcrt visits
John and finds him
rehearsing. As he watches John declaiming what sounds like a
Shakespearean play, he measures up the extent 01" his own limits. Thus he confesses
when John discu\\'crs him hiding behind the door: "you make me leel small. You make
me led small (~ic), John. I don't feel good" (83). In thc same way, SC()u feels small and
had when Or. Zdlcr praises Zclda's hook as "an importanl work" that contains passages
"that have a lyrical imagery that moves mc, sometimes, more than your own" (259).
Similarly too, SClltl and I-Iemingway try, in the samt: play, lO make eaeh other small by
revealing each other's weaknesses as artists and individuals.
While Hemingway
undt:rscores SCOII'S androgynous
personality (269) and his "professional envy" loward
Zelda (269), Scotl points out llemingway's
art as essentially a strain of scl/:portraits
(268) and his lil~ as fundamentally solitary (272).
Personally, Williams fclt no less small and bad during his changed artistic
circumstances in the sixties and well beyond up to his death. The rise or the Nl.:W Wave
writers is a rrimary causc or this. From EurofJt:, there were Bcckett, Pintl.:r. Anouilh,
Osbornc, and among the home grown, there were Riehardson and Gelber, ror instancc.
Hut always coming lirst on his list was "Edward Alhec, of course," for he is a "hrilliant
artist, and a very braw man, I think" (C()llw~r.wlfi()n 1961 95). In interview after

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Capping their SUl;Cl.:~:-; in stylistic explorations \\\\'{IS their appeal la audience.
Albee's case wns especially remarkable to Williams. A1Jn Schneider reveals thnl it is
when WiJJiams saw his successful production of Albcc's Tiny Alice that he began to COUT1
him 10 direct his own SIafJstick Trof!,fdy (sec section on producers). I have already
mentioned the outcome of this collaboration. To insist on Williams' competition with the
new wave writers, especially lhe home grown, does not necessarily imply that he had no
id en of his stature bcvomJ Broadway or even lhe American borders. or for that maller of
the literary value of his work. Brcehl, D. H. Lnwn:m.:e, Strindberg, and especially
Chcekhov, were artists he often compared himself 10 or admired, as wc lTIay infer from
his a~knowledglllenl of lheir influence on him: "It has oflcn been said that Lawrence was
my l1liyor litcrary influence. Well. L;l\\\\TCllCe was, indeed ... but Chckhov takes precedence
as all influence" (Memoirs 41). The fact is t11nl, as someone slCcpcd in existcntinl
problems, ::md as a writer for the thealer, his more immedinte artistic environment
remained his principal and necessary concern.
The failure of his plays in the midst of the New Wave writers' success generated
III
\\Vil/iams the characteristic eflects and stance thm he explores in his plays: "It's
something that drives me crazy with jenlousy. While I'm in the lhealer, I' m elllhrnl1cd by
it ,md I say, oh, God, if I could write like that. If only I were tV"enty five and just starting
out, what these boys could have given me" (Col1versaI;on 1962 98). His imaginntive
portrayn] of th~ Fraulein's pain as well as his reinterprelation or the Fitzgeralds' story had
an objective ground in his personal expericm;e.
By Hle cnd of the 19605, the rise to prominem:c of thc Shepmds and M::Imets most
certainly increased his pain. This is when he started work on the historiL:al plny Clothes,
as if to find soluce in the facl th:lI his case was not singular, thm perhaps after all the faul[
lay not in him but in something Americansl or al lC<lsl trnns-individu::ll. He has

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I-Iemingway say in Clorhes: "I've always had the feeling that it's a mistake for writers 10
knov,' each other. The competitive element in the normal male nature is especially
prominent in the nil/un: of writers" (267). Whatever Williams' justific3tions. we must not
lose sight of the fact that competition among writers eannot bc dissocialCd from the
determinism of the artistic field ilsdf and the historical and cultural contingencies thm
shape it.
In the '60s illld '70s, whilc his presenl plays, a product or his new artistic identity.
were being rejected, his earlier artistic crcations witnessed intense and successful
rcvivills. Robcrt Bcrkwist describes an aspcct of this in 1975:
Lire is being good to Tennessee WilEams again. After a long and difficult period during which his
reputmion declined, he is enjoying a widespread renewal of interest in his past plays. There may
be, in fact, no fewer than lhree revivals of his pJl1Ys simultaneously on Broadwny during the
coming we~ks. The G/ass /I--fellu~erie has jllst opened at the Cirele in the Squilre: Sw.!e! Bird (~r
YOII'}, ilcclaillleJ at the Kennedy Cenlcr and then at the Brouklyn Academy of Music, reopens ilt
the Harkness Dc<-. 29, and the Phoenix will present onc of his shorter works. 27 Wagolls ...at the
Plllyhouse on Jan. 26_ 52
In (acL, lllost of his "classics" wt:re revisikd, especially in the seventies, and for vanous
reasons. Bigsby observes how revived in 1975 in the midst of the Walergate scandal, Caf
on a Hot Tin Roof with its denunciation or Illcm!:lcily, was particularly appropriate;
hence its success (Bigsby
1993 5R). As I showed earlier, rcvivals were nol peculiar to
Williams curly plays; they denoted a cultural trend. But for Williams, this interest in his
earlier plays simply lranslatcd as the Williams of the 19405 and 1950s compcting with
the Williams of tIle 1960s and 1970s. He first explained in 1965:
You're always competing wilh )'Ullr earlier work. In my particular case they all suy, oh tbat Glau
Ml!l1lJg,me! unlil you almost begin to hate il. Because you know you have been working fiercely
all the lime since. And it's not quite iJossible lo beliew IIml yDU haven't created something since
[hen (ConVc'I"Srllioll 122).
In 1971, he rcpeated the same complaint almost verbalim (Conver.wli{)ns 192-
193). On another level, he strongly believed, perhaps not without rcason, that the awards

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he n:ceiveJ were in recognition of his rl<lYs of the 19405 and 19505. for instance, in June
19HO. presenting him with the Presidential Medal of Freedom, Jimmy Carter said:
"Tennessee Williams h;.IS shaped the history of American drlllll:l. rrom pnssionatc tragedy
to lyrical eomcJy, his masterpieces dramatize the demal conflict of body and souL youth
and death, love and despair. Through the unity or reality and poetry Tennessee Willinms
shows that the truly heroic in life or ml is human compassion."53 Any Williams scholar
reuding this would easily imagine '.\\'hieh era of his C<ln:cr inspired lhe president.
Logically, as wc \\'t'ill scc, Williams eventually came 10 hate the prize-givers. Willi<lIllS
was very sensitive lo this Jdinition or his artistic identity, and this elenrly oriented his
portra,yal of eharaetcrs such as Clarc <md Feliec in The Two-Character Play, as two
(ompeting sides of the same artist. Also. if as Donald P(ase argues. through Zelda and
Sea tt, "Williams explores the relationship between character as figurativc, substantial
identity [Zeldu?] and character converted into app<lritional form [Seotl?I,"54 wc must
perceive lhL' eonllict bdw~en Zelda and Scatt as a meditation on Williams' own
eonOicting mtistie identities.
Lastly. in two of his 19705' memory plays, Viellx Corn! and Somelhing Cloudy,
Williams portrays artists who are supportive of each olher. In Viellx Carn!, the Writer
ddcnds the olJ <lIld dying painter againsl eviction (73-75) unJ rdurns his visits (90)--that
is, shows understanding and compassion. The Writer himselF linds eompnssion from the
l:lshion designer lane Parks, as whcn she learns about the rejection of his nmnuscript.
I\\:rlmps most important, taking him to the West Coast, Sky the vagnllll musieian--a
symbol of freeJom whose name inscribed on the bug "shines like a prediction" (8)--s3ves
him from the d,ukncss and dampness of 722 Toulousc Street and the inhibition of
creative energy that characterize it. In Something Cloudy. August pleads with the doctors
to help dancer Kip protect his pride, "All Ihut he's got left" (26), In his turn, Kip saves

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Augusl from drowning. tlnd helps "get the.: ocean OLlt or' him. Waler, in f<lct all aquatic
m()Jaliti~s and natural phenomen<l [Issociatcd with them, is in this play the central symbol
or destruction.
Williams' depiction of supportive relations among anists, like his portrayal of the
producer figure in In Ihe /Jar, bns 1000 with lloslalgi.I--a throwback inlO the times when
he could depend on the kindness of strangers (Cvl1l'l!rsaliol1s 1971 192)--and his \\....ishes.
By Iht: 1970s, allegedly, he had stopped competing: "It Llsed to be a terrible
bit of
competition .... Now I could even be on the same block as Edward Albce and wish him
luck" (Cu/l'(;rsolions 1972219). This is a clear <:.xpression ()fhis changed visioll of life,
as or the seventies, and its ::Itlendant nccOllllllOdaling tlltilude. But wc must not lose sight
of the 1:1et lh<ll Williams always "was very gL'llerous wilh et number of young arli:-;ts who
neetled cash. There W:lS :::I gencrous strcak ill him, and he seemed La want to prOlecl as
much as he asked for prolcclion."5S
For the mosL part, the "prOlcctions" he got from
)'oUlh
in the Imer ycms werc
calculaled, In any case. by the mid-1970s, it seems that no protection WJS supportive
enough for Willimns, because no help could ever bring him back to Ihe bright lights. The
ultimate determining reality of Williams' portrayal of the relations belween artists WJS his
own dmnged relationship wilh and perception of the younger artists--lhc new-w<\\ve--81ll1
his own former artistic sclf--thc "old-wave." Thc old-wa\\'e had a larger impact on
Willimns' 1:ItL:r career, for it affectcd his practice in other respects. Its impaet on critical
stanJmds and audience perception of his later plays. :::Ind the extent to which this can be
said to have shap..::d the dramatic portraiLs or the legitimizing forces will concern 111":: ill
the next section.

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11. 3. Audiences and Critics: Allllroyers ~'s Antagonists ur the Artist-figure
As legitinwlC mCllll1ers of the cuhuml world, audience ami critics play a
significant role in bOlb the artist-fIgure's perception of himself Llnd the artistic ur
comIl1cft:i;-l1 valllC of'his/her work. In other words, they tnkc part in the creative process.~6
Audience and
nitics are large enlities that I have defined else\\vherc. 1 will call them
npprovcrs after William Guldman (1969
67), for they are
ultimately called upon to
sanction the value of the artistic product and legitimize the artist's identity. Basically,
Willil.lms' later arlist-figure is in search of his or her repulation. And whether the artist
cxpcricncl:s the approvers simply in his/her consciousness or as dram;:llic presences, fear,
,md images of danger and destruction uominate lhem. To explore Williams' dramatization
of these emotions ,md images and their bearing on the artist-ligures and Iheir work will
constitute one aspect of my concern here. As critics appear significantly among Yam's
villains so they do among the "beasts" in the jungle of Williams' thcaler (Memoirs 85),
All through the ]960s and 1970s, Williams never stoppcd railing against thc
approvcrs' rejection of his plays. Essentially he suw his difficulties "vith the approvers in
terms of artistic taste, which he ineluctably and justifiably lied to thc effect of
commercialism, and, cspceially whcrc critics were concerned, to what he called their
viciousness--lheir critical attitude. Though it is possible lO agree with Williams'
assessment of his predicamcnl, this ohviously needs qualification. For onc thing, the
doubts Ihill some critics wised about the inhcrenl quality of some aspects of his later
plays arc nol poinLkss. 57 And on another level, his case was in no \\....ay singular. By the
I960s, so unpredictable had nudiences become thal no playwright was immune to failure
on Broadway ([krkowilz 169-171). Williams knew vcry well that Edward Albce, his
model of success among the New Wave writers, was also ,11 odds with the approvers.
Neither wcre [he critil.:ul fates of such other "big names"
as Willial1l Inge and Arthur

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Mill~r a secret to him. Hal Foster has argued 111<11 "the extraordinary expansion" of theater
conventions in comemporary America has resulted in "provocative cOlllradiclions."5K To
Williams the most prov{lcativ~ contradictions 1,1y in the WHy the appruvcrs continually
rejected his work.
Wc must remember Ihut taste and the crilical attitude that Williams perceived as
vicious do not stand in a void. As ".:mc of the key signifiers and elements of social
identity" (Jenkins U9). taste echoes lurgcr cultural realilLes. Taken as nil aspecl of the
struggle inherent in artistic jicld~, the npprovcrs' stance is no less a culluml significr. In
other words, taste and critical attitude here are
elements of the larger l:ultural
contingencies of the sixties and sevenlies. For this and bee<lllSe WilJimns saw his
condition with the approvers mainly from this angle, taste and critical attitude are crucial
notions in our investigation. More generally, how Wil1iums' pi.:reep[ion and his actual
experience shaped his portrayal of the artist-figure's relations with the approvers will
concern us.
11. 3. I. Making or Breaking the Artist: Aspects or the Approvcrs' Po,\\vcr
In three consecutive plays of the sixlies, WilJiallls porlrayed
actors, or more
generically. perfomling artists: Mrs. Goforth as nn ex-Follies' star in The Milk Train. the
FrLiulcin as an ex-chanteuse in The Gniidige.r Fralllein, and Clare and Fclice as theater
aetors in The Twu-C/wf"(Jeter Play. Perhaps the performing artist is the most audienee-
conscious .misl. Facing the critics, aetors t::lke special risks; they "me ::I[one atlhe edge of
the ahyss ... rthey arclthl: mosL dangerously plaeed artists in the most dangerous art. "59 In
the .sixties plays especially, this knowledge served Willi,lnts to probe the determinism of
the approvers illlhe slmping oflhe artist's identity nnd, ultimately, the values of his art. In
the ~eventics' plays. we have a less dire.:! approach to, and more di verse images of, the

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uudience. This reOects the types of artisLs in thoS'c plays: fiction writers, playwrights, and
performing artisls. Notwithstanding the diversity, the dominant significance or the
<HldiCIlCC cithl..::[ remains similar to, or constitutes an elahoration on, what we have in the
sixties plays. It is t1H:rcfore possible to draw thematic lines thal subsume the different
portraits of the audience over the two decades, The <lrlisl's awareness of the approvers'
power is an apt theme with which to slart.
Onc of Mrs. Goforth's principal concerns, when Chris arrives in her villa. is to
learn as much as she r.:an about who he is. By the cnd of the play. she confronts him and
soon their conversation winds up at the issue of identilY:
Mrs. Got"orth: How do you know he [the Swami] wflsn'ljllst an old faker'!
Chris: How do you know I'm not just a young one'.'
Mrs, Goforth: I don't. You Ilrc whatlhey call you!
Chris: [Taking he/' lumd I As much ,IS {/1I.rune is what anyone cillls him.
Mrs, Golorth: A hutcher is cnl1ed a butcher, and lh~t's what hc is. A baker is called a bflker,
and he's a haker. 11-- (1 ] 6),
The immeJillte referent of this eonversl1tion is Uu'is' reputation <IS an Angel of Dealh. But
the IInderlying lruth applies to Mrs, Goforth--in both her past and her present lives--as
wdl as to WiJliams' olher artist-ligures. whether they ha vc retireJ, are in decline, or are
seeking to establish their reputation, Reputation, or marc generally, identilY lic~ in the
eyes of the beholder--lhat is. for WilIiams' artists. in the eyes of the approvcrs. In lhis lies
the power or the auJienec ;lnd critics, It is a power that can make or destroy artists
because it delcrmines tbeir artistic value. Awareness of Ihis power 1110stly animates Mrs,
Goforth. the Frtiulein, and Felit,;c and Clare.
In their days of stardom, both Mrs, G,)fonh and the Frnulein experienced the
power of the audiem:e in its positive Jimmsion, Both were made by the audience's gaze.
by how their respeclive audiences perceived them. When she enlered the show-biz world
at age lift~~ll. Mrs. Golorlh made her \\.,.<.Iy up the ladder in record time, Shl.: explains why:

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1 was just billed at the Dixic Dux)', was just supposed to move lily anatomy, bUI was slI1an enough
10 keep my tongue moving, 100, and the vcrhal commentS I made on my an.llomical motions while
in llloliull Wt'rc a public delight. So r breezed through show-biz like a tornado, rising from onc-
week 'gigs' in the sticks to slar billing inlhe Follies while still in m'tccns...(67-68).
The Fraulein's ascension to stardom in Europe was even more striking and dramatic. At a
"benefit performance before the crowned heads of Europe," explains Molly, she stole the
show during one of the most performed tricks of her group. Using her mouth, she caught
the fish intended [or the trained seal: "This switchcroo took the roof off the old Royal
r-Iaymarket" (256). Tl1ereon, the Frtiulcin beeaml: a star overnight heeause "popular
demand [for her switeheroo} was overpowering" (257). Thus she remained unlil. as I have
alrcmly ~hown, the seal and its tminer took their revenge.
Mrs. Ooforth and the Fdiulein arc now fallen heroes. The dramatization of lheir
respective pasts is a statellll:nt about the audience's power. The stories of their artistie
careers evoke Williams as he stood in the sixties, looking retrospectively at his own
'-lrtistie trajectory, meditating on the roller coaster pnllcrn or his own fale in the hands or
the 'Ipprovers. Harold Clurman argued in 1966 that The Gniidiges Friiulein is "filled wilh
sardonic mirth at the plighl of the artist applauded and glamorized in his triumphs and
then repudiated and derided when he fails. "60 As Williams himself remembered in 1975
when writing his memoirs, Broadway rescued him in Ihe beginning of his career and lhe
press boostcd his popular image (Memoirs 7-8). By lhe time of The Milk Train and The
Gm/diges Frdulein, his plays had stopped appealing lO the Broadway audience, and the
leitmotif' then in thc press was lhm, to qnote one headlinc, "Misluh Williams, He Dead."tJl
His demh decreed by the approvers, Williams would, however, not SlOp pmcticing, as
some would Imve had him do. Hc developed especially complex relations wilh lhe critics
that. perhaps better any othcr <:lrtist-figure, Clare and Felice eapturc in The Two Characler
Play.

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From the point of view of Clare Dna Fdice, the per!(I1ming artist's relations with
the crities are Il ehain of binary oppositions l:harat:lcrized by partnership-antagonism,
lovc-h;Jte and need-fear. The motives behind the first terms or the pairs are ut once the
bases tl)f the antagonism, hate, und fcar. This appurcnt paradox denotes the centrality
(literally and melaphoricnlJy) of the critics, here present as the press.
Conceived or U5 a "public service" agent
(Gottfl'icd 17) or as an intcrprclr.;r
(Palmcr 11) the press fulfills its function evolving bdween, on the onc hand. the artist
and his an, <Llld on the other, the <ludknce. from this position, it controls the identity of
the anist and his url, and the audience',:; perception. Danger lies in the act of control. for
instance. in the interior play of The Two-CIU/mcler Play, The Press Scimitar's report on
the incident in the family house Illrgely
shapes the puhlie image or Fcliee <Jnd Clare.
Clare insists Ihat the report w.tS "malicious" (337), and that its allusions to [hem "as the
derJnged children 01" a HIther who was a liilse mystic" were "sly" (337-33R). Wherever [he
truth lies, the essential point hcre is that this is the image that sticks in the mind of the
public, and thereby alienates Felice and Clare from the public. In the frame play, Clare
alleges that she has had a betler puhlic image than Fclicc as a result of the nOlices of the
press on them. The two occasions that come {Q her mind are their appearance as Anlhony
amI Cleopatra some lime earlicr (317) and their press conferences. "You're terrible with
the press, you go all and on about 'Iota I theJIn..:' and, oh, do they turn ofT you Llnd onto
mc ... " (312). We gather from this that not only is Felicc's artistic penchant well known,
hUl so too is his being a bore about it. On the other hJnd, Clare sees herself as a darling of
the press because she believes she is always "wonderful with the press" (312) and insists
011 having a pn::-opcnillg press eonfen.:nce. Yet as the performance allows us to discover,
Clare is not so wonderful. In the course or the performJnee, discovering the press in its
uclu.d role as interpreter, ber attitude is self-rcvelatory:

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Clare: [Pointing out lowilrd the audiencej: Felice··someonc's l<llking out there with his b:lck to the
slUgc as ifJlc were giving a lecture.
rei ice: TI1;lI'~ the interpreter.
Clore: Oh, my God, he's lel/ing them what WI:'I<: snying!?
Fclice: Nlllunllly. yes. and explaining our method. That's what he's here for.
Clare: [half-sobbing): I don', know what ro do ncxt--l...
[,'elice: ··1 know what to do. (334)
In this scene, Williams articulates the essence of the media's impact on the perfonning
artis!. Clare's reaction facing the awesome power orllle press is paradigmatic.
Not long t.lgo, recalling the flpening night of Andrew Lloyd Wcbbcr's (3roadway
hit PJwl1(om (!ffhe Opera, actor Michacl Crawford relates his panic hearing orthe arrival
orthe press: "I think I had a breakdown on the spot. Frank Rich of The New YorK Times
was going to be therc,"(,2 Clare's fear is indeed the fear of thc performing artist playing
out her fate in front of the approvers, facing the abyss: the judgment of the critic,
Evolving in the thcater world, WillilllllS nJlurally knew of this n:ality of the per/()rming
artist. But whnl is more, in Ihe sixties and sevcnties, he wns himself an actor-like figure at
the l:dg,c of the abyss.63 Dl:spl:rately sl:cking 10 boost his l:areer, he appeared as an aclor in
his 5'-l/Iall CraJi Warnings in 1972. By this time, he had had so many or his plays
lamhasted, he has read S0 many writt>ups l:alling for his surrendl:r or simply <.lsking him
10 accepl the realilY of his fnll that he summed up his experiencL' of critics and reviewers
in the si;.aies by saying simply that they put him down (Alcllwirs 211-213). Thougb he
could disiingllish between lhe good and bad critics/>4 as a community he saw them ilS
"killers" C'vIcflloir,I' 242) lih: Waiter Kl.::rr who "killed 1he Slap.I'licK Tragedy in one line"
(Memoirs 212) or as sin~ers of the "unforgivable" type (Alemoirs 173) who knew nothing
but vengl:ance,
Analysts such as Schmidl Mulhisch (Col1\\'ersa(ions 1975 296) or Glenn Loncy
lend (with rctlson) to support WiIlialHs' point by stressing that his critics wcre sometimes
unfair nBd [00 l13rsh. 65 For instance, writing in 1966, Harold Clurman said of The Milk

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127
Train that "in a sense il i~ not so much a bad play as no play."66 Time called In The Bar a
play more "deserving of a coroner's report than a review. "67 The Village Voice described
ViclIX Car,.e as one of his last plays onc would hardly "want to sce on stnb\\e agail1."(j~ Of
(he same play The New Statesman wrote: "it seems la me that no sane spectator would
fail 10 prefer traffic noise to yet morc of fhal (SiC)."6Q Obviously, these are the lype of
devastating nOlices that a playwright, especially fI commercial onc, dreads. What is more,
it is ollen hard to shnre the views of the reviewers, as I will later show when investigating
the reasons hehind these "killings." For the moment, J want to stress lh~ acts of killing
themselves as a manifestation or the critics' power as Williallls imagined or cxperienced
it. For him, theirs simply exemplifies the destructive practice or bbeling which in the
intelleclual field is a dangerous weapon (Jenkins 160). Dut even then, we must remember
that, at bottom, the critics' attitude is <! product of their sense of aeslheti~s as Broadway
agenl~. Though he found it hard 10 accept the rules of the gamc, Williams certainly
understood vcry well the cultural dimension of their taste nnd attitude. He gives us much
in~igh{ into thc matter in a numher of his plays.
11.3.2. Commcrcialism, Tastc, Critical P.-acticc. anll the A.-tist's Plight
Central to the theory of the cultural field, the economic metaphors of market,
supply and demand (Jcnkins 87) are espeeinlly relevam to the analysis of the relationships
between the artist and the approvers. Underscoring the relatively conservntive niJturc of
commer<..:ial markcts, as we saw earlier, Raymond Willi"llTIS hints at a major problem for
Williams' arti~ts. and tdls us that Williams' (lwn difficultics are llol neeessarily duc to the
intrinsic qU;llily of his work. In Ihe main, Williams' l;ller artisl-figure has difficulty
offering satisrnctory works to the con~umers, thc approvcrs. Through this Williams
profoundly indicts the approvers. His drammizmion of this indictment is especially

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virulent and collsislcnl in rendering tile approvers' taste and critic:l1 £lttituctc as informed
by
commercialism.
Whether
s/hc
is
an
active
participant
or jusl
an
icon
of
commercialism, the characteristic image of the commcn:ial approver in his plays is
unflattering. Superficial in his/her underslanding of art, s/he has doubtful tastes marked
by love of sensation and simplieity.
Por both Mrs. Goforth and the Fraulein, popularity, al Icast in the sellse implied
earlier. belongs 10 the pasl. YeL
acting, the sense of being a spcctnclc 10 an audience,
remains eClllral in their lives. In Ihis, Mrs. Goforth particularly recalls such heroines of
Williams' early plays as Blanche or Maggic (he cat. Having lost her ability to indulge in
prctcnse, the FrauJein is a new breed, hUl she rccalb Mrs. Goforth through the idea of
perlormance, How the approvers assess the pcrfonnance of the artisl is of interest here,
When Mrs, GoJurth retires from Show-hiz and settles in the mountain in her
villas, she is not simply hiding from her former audience whose "delight" her aging
"anafomy" can no longer elicit. Struck by the same disease of Time that ails Princess in
SlI'eel Bird of Youth, she tries to resist critical jlldgment by cUlling herself off from the
public gaze. Yet lhe intrusion of Chris in her reclusive world introduces a theatrical
dynamic in which he plays the role of an approver and she takes lip her former identity as
a slar (sec chapter J), Mrs. Goforth's gestures, dancing or sho\\ving her bosom, and her
entire discourse about her past and public sclf....which, to hcr, means her physical
appearum:t':--aim to cltlllrol her own identity, that is, ho\\\\' Chris perceives her. DUI in the
end, it is Chris who, arriving at tbe villa with a clear knowledge of who she is, imposes
himself, uS I have shown carlier. In other words, Mrs. Goforlh faib to move ht':r
"auclienee" ..·Chris. The imagery of luck of milk expre:;!'ied in the title indicates this well.
She must aeeep! hcr inahiliry tQ feed her audit':llcc.

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The kind of mind-set with which Chris arrives at Mrs. Goforth's characterizes
most porlraits of audiences in Williams' later plays. In Something Cluudy, behind the
various conditions imposed on August in order to have him rewrite his "poetic plays"
lurks a lixcd urlistic taste that needs 10 be catered to. But perhaps most of all, it is in The
Tl1'u-Clwracrer Play thill Williams profoundly explored
this aspect of the audience.
Dramatizing the dangerou~ nature or the approvers' tasle, Williams enhanced its cflects
on performing artists Clare and Fcliee. Among other things, the enhancing lakes the fOfm
of an acule awareness of danger that Iwunts Clare and Fel ice throughout the action.
The portrait of the audience largely comes out through Clare. Shc has thc most
negative image 0[" the audiencc, alternatively detining them as "inhuman" (313) and
"enemies" (317), or using bestiary epithets to characterizc them. They are wolves (358)
and "fur-bearing mammals" (359) who could eat up r'clice and who keep panicking hcr.
This recalls Williams' perception of the theater people as jungle beasts. At one point
Clare suggests Ihat the audience may have killed Fox, the missing director, for food for
their dogs (359). 1'he process of animalization here indicts the audience's taste, calling
altt:lltion to its abnorma!cy, its grotesqueness, nnd its cruelty.
The (WO levels of The Two-Churacter Pluy contain similar images of the
audience. In the interior play \\vhere Fclice and Clare art: estranged from social life, their
neighbors as well as the lnrgcr puhlic symbolize the audience. The two chmueters' fenr of
public judgment .and their eventual inability to go out of the family house parallel their
experience and predieamcnt in the theater of the frame play. The early arrival of the
audience forces Fcliee and Clare to begin the pcrlorrnance in the conditions that I have
described elsewhere (Director Figure). BUI the performance itself··like opening nights for
Williams7u-.hegins in the midst (If fears that bespeak the image of the audiencc as
encmies. y.rhcn il is time Jinally to open the play, "There are several guttural

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exclamations from the house: above them. a hoarse male laugh and the shrill laugh or a
woman." raced with this, "Clure's eyes focus blazingl}' all the 'house': She suddenly
flings her cloak to the floor as if dwllenging the audience to combat" (324-325).
The oull.:ome of the combat is to her disadvantage, and lhe significance of this is
clcur. Her mission was lo lransfoml the meaning or the "Juugh" from mockcl)' to
llpprcciation; in Olher words, it was to elicit the delight of the audience. In lhe course of
the combat Clare senses h..::r defeat and explains it with a rhetorical question: "I wonder
sometimes if it isn't a little too specinl, loo personal, for most audiences" (Gut Cry 62)~-
which underscores lhe prohlem of laste. But could Clare <md r..:lice have overcome the
audience anyway? For one thing, their words had to pas~ through the interpreter, a
symbol ofthc "critil.:s who may misinterpret Ihe play, or in a broader scnsl,: the l1lind~sets,
the whole army of per~onal experiences and concerns we the audience bring 10 Ihe
plny."71 The truth, thereJore, is tlwt Clare's failure to surmounl her nwareness of the
audience signals the audience as a crucial handicap to her performance. As rei ice tells
her, "you must never look at an auuience hefore a performance. It mah:.s you play self:·
eonsl:iously, you don'l get lost in the play" (317). Clme ends up doubting her own ability
to gd her message lhrough to the audience. As a result, she canllot "get lost in the play"--
that is, she canllot perform correclly. It is therefore she who notices the audience's
ueparture while they are perJoflning:
Clare: Fdice, come out of the play. The audience has rcn, the house is completely empty.
Felice: -·Walked? Gut? All?
Clare: [She has piehd up their coas( from behind the 501;'/: You honestly didn't notice them gel
up and go? (375)
The departure or the audience does nol stop Fe lice anu Clare. The perlormanee
has olher meanings for them as I will show in Chapter 3. Yet il is nOleworthy here that
thc nbscnee (If 1111 audiclIcl,: drastically alters the value of their art, and its meaning too:

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l31
"the sp(';l.:talor--no less than the actor, designer or direetor--is a eollubor<ltor in the creation
of thc form. as well as the final judgment or ilS power, bl:i.luty, elTel:tiveness,
appwpriatenl:ss. and signi licanl.:c. "72
Fear of losing the audience haunts the incipient playwright August in Something
Cloudy and compds him to accommodate both producers and actors' i111istic "tnsle." In
the allegorical Kirche, the Lutheran priest's loss of his congregation strongly evokes n
loss or audience in the theater. His c'Jtlsequcnl
plight spells OUl {he fate of an artist
without audienee. He hecomes a different individual, plunging into "unchristian"
practices: he kilts his wife to collect the insur<lm:e money, His fall into silence is
important bUllhis points to another field of interest Ihat I will take up later.
Unlike the preceding artists in this section, the FrUu1l:in keeps the interest or her
nudiencc srcady--or almost. Comrary lO Clunnan's asscssmenl,73 she is not repudiated in
her present life. She is still "applauded" but lor the "wrong n:asons." As we have seen.
Molly controls her life and artistic identity, offering her as a spectack 10 Ihe "auJience"--
her social guests and business partners. (The details of Polly's interest in the Friiulcin, as
\\Vc will sce, also adumbrate the audience's taste.) Through Molly's appreciation of her,
\\Villiams pnrodil:s the approvers' taste.
The honrdcrs of the dormitory are all "personages" of one sort or another whom
Polly and Molly have "fun watching" (227). The Friiulcin stanJs out us n "real personage"
(226). and indced Molly exploits her lhc most. Molly's idea or a personage inJicate:-; her
taste and thul of her public--thosc who must sane lion the stalus of her "theater" and soeial
stJ.nding. This taste translates u:-; a lo\\'e flU the fantastic, the gothic. It is thc FrUulein'.s
demise, her loss of artistic control, her grotesquerie.s that her audienccs--or critics for Ihat
ma!ll:r--applaud. On the whole, with till: Frtiukin, William.s dramatized a macabrl:
feasting Oil the <lrtist--which was not without relation 10 his own experience. In 1965 he

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132
cried out (Dehusscher 1987 71) that he had no more blood to give in the tight against the
appruvcrs.
Indeed, la understand the motiYolion and significance of the audience's taste in
Williallls' later plays, we must consider the playwright's own plight. There is a historical
dimension 10 Williams' ditlicultics wilh audience taste; confronting it \\\\'as 110\\ new for
Williarns in the sixties and sc\\'entics. Taste was the principal reason for the failure of his
J]alfle ofAngels in nos{on (1939) and CalJlino Real (1953). Rcaeting to tbe latter play's
case, he said:
1\\5 for those who depaI1ed before Ihe final seel1C:, r otTer my~clf this lenlative bit of solace: lha!
lhese lhcillcl'gocrs may be a lillk uomcsliclIlCd in [heir Ihe<llricaltastc. A cage represents security
<IS well (IS confinement to a bin! that h<lS t;rOWIl used to being ill it; and W1Wll a tlleatric.11 work
kicks over the tmces with such :,pp<lrent illsouciance, security seems challenged ancl, insteau of
paf1icipalin~ in its sense of Ircedom, one Ollt of a ceI1<Jin !lumber of playgoers rush b<lck oul to
the more accustomed implnusibility of the ~treet he lives on (Where I UI'e 67).
In the sixties ullll sL'vcllIies, not one but multitudes "rushed hnck out" when confronted
with WilHarns' pht)'s. In the face of this, he not only lost his sense of understanding and
magnanimity. apparent in the quotation, but also started la rear for his very existence as
ull artist. For wlmt is" playwright without an audience, espccially in commercial theater?
If as D. Pease puts it, his later work
was mostly "measured in terms of its
rclationship with audience" (19XO 59), Williams knew ,,,,hy Ihis was" problem. In the
mid-70s. Williams wrotc: "there is much ahout them [the audience] that strikes me as
obdurately reSiSlall( to my kind of [heater lhese dnys. They seem to be conditioned to a
kind ofthcater which is quire different from Ihc kind I \\\\Tilc."74 Taking the desertion of
his audicllcc as a sign of lack or quality or his works, as so many critics hilve. is not
aceeplahle. r have already defined the type at" audience he faced in the sixties and
scventics on Broadway and their inclination for specific plays, lhealrical experiences. for
a broader sense or Lhc problcm. we need to get al what 'h~ .lrprovcrs ob.iect la abollt

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Williams' plays. But fir::;t, lct us investigate his dramatization of some aspects or
commercially motivated practices and legitimizing forces, namely m....anl giving and the
journalistic practices of commercial reviewers.
It is essentially in The GnliJip,t!s Friiufein that, through the idea of interviewing,
Williums orJers the most extensive and perhaps most illumil1:.Jting analysis of the
journalistic practice or crilics. Portrayed in a symbolic modc, Polly the Gossip Columnist
and Editor of the Cucaloony Gazette projects, like most characters in The Gniidiges
Frtill]ein. multiple qualities in her role as a representative or the prcss--at least as
WillillnlS saw the press. She is both a competitor and an ally to Moll)'. She parlicip,llCS in
the moral squalor and corruption of the donnilory. She loves
the sensations and
grotesqueries that it offers. The critic llJS his or her personal taste but, as the critic is
chosen by the editors and publisbers, the nature of his or her taste represents the
newspaper's (Booth xvi; Harris 109-110). Metonymieally, Polly dramatizes the reality of
the press. In her continual sclf-appraisal--a strategy she uses, among other things, against
Molly--Polly underscores both the "power of the press" E1111l she has "b\\;hind her" (235)
and the function of her write-up as a "weapon" (224). She indeed strikes an advantageous
deal with Mnlly on the basis o[lhat strength.
The deill allDws Polly to interview the Friiulein. In the interview she 1I0t only
dramatizes her pari in the "killing" 01" the Frtiulein, but also gives expression to her--and
thereby her readers'--artistie "eompelence" and taste. When she has "seen all sides of her
costume" (232), Polly's interest shifls to \\he Fraulein's spectacle, her "art" itself (232).
I'!mvever, lor this, she proves incompetent:
[The friiulein assumes a romantically ,hemric<\\[ pf)~e on lhe porch and begins to sing.]
Fruutein: Stars are the win-dows or 1'!ea:l:J'Vi:ll
Thai an-gel peek lhroooogh!
[She StopS in mid-gesture. frozen.]
Polly--ll:Js she finished the 1\\\\llllbcl''!

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135
mellowing files anu jerk uut the copy on the L.llely no longer so lively" (253). This is, \\0
use Williams' expression, n macabre practice (Memoirs 241).
Tbe portrait or Chris in The Milk Train comes close to duplic<.lting this practice.
Chris arrives, some eritics have rcmarkcJ, in the manner of Christ or Sl. Christopher; but
Chris also t:'vukcs the critics who by the 1960s had pronoullced till: artistic death or
Williams. Like a media-man arriving for an interview (or an auJience for u spectacle), he
stealthily wnlks into Mrs. Goforlh's residence or lheater seeking to impose his vision of
life on her. His religiously evocntivc nJme links him even more lO the critics. Endowed
with tIn: power to declare the success or failure of a pl<ly--Ihe "death" or survival of an
m1ist--Nc\\V York
critics go
by
the religious
tille
"high
pril:sl"
of New
York
(Col1verslllions 1975296). Cl:ntering 011 acceptance. Chris's adopted Oriental philosuphy
rcc~dls the obituary quality, in Williams' eyes, of some critical writings (Memoirs 241-
242). On another level, Chris sonwhow compels us to remcmber In the nor \\vhere,
according to Felieia Lnndre. Miriam's dislike of Mllrk, "resembles the critic who refused
to nurture the onee-hcloved artist" (1979 160). Ultimalely, the impacl of Chris and
Miriam on the artists has a similar effecl--hoth Mrs. Gofol1h and Mark die.
As the
main
route to
this
macabre
practice.
interviews
impressed olher
playwrights of the sixties and scventies. Albee's vignette on the villains in the thenter
world, Fam and YUIII, is particulnrly noteworthy. Sllbtilled "An Imaginary Interview," the
piu)' follows thc shape of an interview, 'lIld dramntizes the dangerous spirit that it evokes
ill the mind ora p!i.lywrightlike Williams. Yam, indecd, displays his villainy by tricking
the older playwright into submitling to an interview by telling him he needs advice on an
article he is preparing about the villains in the {heater worlJ. The punchlim: is revclalory.
On his way back from the meeting Ymn phones from downstairs to thank lhe stiJJ ehlled
Fam ror the "interview":

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Moll."': Naw, she's lost conccn!r;ltion ..
Fr:iulcin: IRc.~lll1lill~ from llle stat1!
I·· .]
[Slle ['ree7.cs a~aill in mld-gl'.~tlJre, opens and c10scs her mouth like a goldfish.)
£\\llly: Now what's she up to'!
Molly: She's demonslrating
Po/ly: What's she demonstrating'? (233)
Polly linels the Fraulcin's "SIY1<..:" "peculiar" (247) anu her languuge limited (237). Yet she
cannot understand the Frtiulein's "pcrfomw.nce," and ends up basing her nrticle on the
illtcrpn:tution proviucd by Molly. (She thereby co-opts Molly's taste,) That shl: should
f~lil IQ understand this limited language i.s therefore more indicative orher own limitation.
Style or language Ill'rc ele;Jrly stands lor everything tliat, as ' ....e will see. constituted the
grounds 101' the critics' n:,iection 01" Williams' plays. The allegoricul dimension of the play
makes this vagueness convincing.
On lhe otht:r hand, the sensational side of the FrauJein easily provokes Pally's
i.ldmirulion, The "intervil:w" session begins with a uescription or the Fr{iulein's costume
anu ;Jppearance. which Polly quickly and enthusiastically disposcs or. At the end of the
play, when the Frii.ulcin rdurns from otr..stage complelely
transfigured. Poily
more
easily pClIetrates her ill1i.lge~-though obvi\\111sly still imit;)(ing Mol1y-~;)nd can sympathize
wilh hL'r:
Polly: Is she Illilking; much progro.:ss?
Moll)': Slow but sure. I admire her
Polly: ISentimentally} I admire her, to<l
Moll}': lliope you'll give her II sYl1lpathctic writc-up
Polly: I'm ~unlla pay lrihUlC 10 het fighting spirit 12.'i~).
This tribute. it turns OLlt, constilutes Polly's coup de grace to the FrUukin as an artist. ror,
~lS she ~xplains, it is meant l~)r thl' morgue: "YOll ll1USI'Ve heuru of (he newspaper file-case
whiL:h is known as 'the morgue: iI's where lhe historical data, the biographical matter on a
mortal Ldcbrity is filed away for sudden reference, Moll),. I mean the hol-line betwcL'l1
lhe mortuary and the Gazette ~ollnds olT, Jlld inslantly you leaf through the yellowing,

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136
Fall1: You're wdcome..
You're welcome ...heh heh heh. (He hnng~ up..
Strolls) You're
weleoll1e.... You're welcome. (Suddenly SlOpS). THE INTER VIEW!! I TilE INTERVIEW!!!!!
(1lis fnce turns ash~n ... his mouth drops open ...(96).
Together with Willimns' insight in The Gniidiges FriiultJin and The Milk Train this
exposition of the media's most preferred lool shcds a scorching lighl 011 the critical world
or lhr.: 19605 and heyond~-at least as Williams experienced it.
Williams h<lS it that because of his hcalth wndi!ion--wc may aut..! his growing fe,1f
or distrust of the press--all Ihro~lgh the sixties his conLaCl:-> with r!lc pn:ss were brier and
confined to opening nights (Conver.l'a/ions 1970 147). This is not totally true as, for
instance, the nwnber or his interviews in the 1960s shows (Cr. Devlin's ConversalionJ).
Williams' assertion simply indicatcs his mental disposition toward interviews. Bet"vcen
1969 and 1970 he hacl, two experiences with the press that are particularly reminiscent 01"
thc situation in Albce's vignetlc. I-re explains:
A year ago, llne of those big t::mey magazines eoulun'l bet all interview; so finally they wrote their
own [Dona[u Newlove, "A Dream of Tennessee." in E\\'4uire, November 1969,172-178.64-68]. I
\\\\'015 terribly ill at the time ,mu wasn't physic;l1ly able 10 slIe them for the libelous story. much less
grant all interView...,'111cn (here was that story by that thing, whatever he is, who calls himself a
writer. It was in lhe Atlantic ant.! you'd lhink they'd have beller sellse, at lea~{, the editors. Oh
God! What errors and misquotes and, well, you wouldn't bdieve it [Tom Buckley, "TellJ1Cssec
Williams Survives," AI{of/lie Alumhly, Nov. 1970: 'HI, 100-106, 108 J. (Cof/versatiof/s 147).
From thesc experiences, WiHiams learned "to avoid such things [intervicws]" (Ibid.), but
dearly not for long as the numbcr or interviews in the 1970s in De,,'lin's collection again
testifies. What is morc, by lhe mid-70s, though his distrust neycr subsidcd, Williams had
s[i:lrt~d [0 use interviews as therapy and for self-publieily.7s The lattcr use of the press
perhaps had a most damaging dIect on his career, and he knew it. "The greatest danger,
professionally, of hccoming thc snhjecl or so many 'write-ups' and personal appearanecs
Oil TV and lecture platlorJns is lhat the materials of your life, which arc. in the ease orall
organ!!.: writings, the matcrials of your work, are sort or telegraphed in to those who see
you and to those who read about you" (Where I live 155), It is a dnnger he could however

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137
not avoid. and to the <lpprOVl.:fS, his work indeed eventually appeared as deFt VII and Jijcl
enrelUJ/I, A reviewer of Vieux Corn: once said that Wil/iams could no lunger shock his
audiences with his plays because they knew so much about his characters Ihat they could
predict the resolution of his plots,76
Williams' responsibility dues not, however, cxonerllle the media-people, driven as
they were by commercial and sensntiollalmolivcs. Stressing the necd of a reassess-metl\\ or
WiUiams' laler works, Simon Truss-lee cxrlnins: "Durinl:; his life time the line beL\\'t'een the
critical judgment of <l theatrical crallsman and the journalistic treatment of a phenomenon
was more than unusually hard to draw" (Tennessee JYilliams 0/1 File 6). Throughout the
sixties and seventies, the media's practice ns regnrds WiJliams' plays manifested the
"murderous demnnds of eommercinJ thcaler."77 We Imve seen some aspects earlier.
Noteworthy here is the easc of Life's use or Willimns' image to boost its sales in 1969.
I,ile paid 101' n lull page ad in The New York Times nnnouneing a forthcoming issue that
"predicts (he demise of ant: or America's major playwrights" --WiHiams.7H
In his seventies plays, he otTers different and yet compelling images of' the
l:olllmercial legitimating world.
In Jlicux Carrt~, the tourists who visit 722 Toulouse
Street evoke spectators. Oy becoming a historical place. 722 Toulouse Street became an
artistic objcct--by the lime the Writer-narrator remembers it, it had become an art gallery-
-but it fell into the deprecatory world, for Williams, of commercialism. Perhaps [he most
thought-provoking aspeel of Williams' venture into the critical realm in the seventies
appears in his allegorical Kirche. With his evocative name, the Hotlieker calls up several
legitimizing realities. He is "patron of the humanities and the arts" and dispenser of "the
l-lotlicker Prize for Exeellencc in Ihe Art of Rhyme" (57),79 The phrase "art of' rhyme"
bc(wys thc l-lotlickcr's artislic taste, which it undercuts. R..hyme brings lip images or
artistic contw! and classic tastc--the image of "high" aesthetics. However. cunflating the

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n:alities of awards uno criticism. the prizes yet have more "monetary" than "honorary"
value (38). The emphasis on the monetary is <l sign of dcvnluation. This in its turn is
indicative of the "taste" of the dispenser of the prizes. The name Hotlicker itself is, as the
Man says, "descriptive; three syllahles, two words comhincd into one" (3R). It evinces
destruction. f-'urthermorc, subsnming the whole composite reality of the Hotlicker is the
depreciating fuel of prostitution with which he is <lSSOCialed. At the end of lhe play. the
Man joins thl.: HOI] ickcr uptown to, as he puts it, "contend once more for the Great
Hotlickcr Prize .. ," (57). In faeL. only "]il.:king," in the doublc-cntelldre that dmracterizes
that wonJ in the play, awaits him.
In this scorching portrait, the object of WiIliams' parody is obvious enough. "The
Hotlicker Award," he has the Man explain, "is not one of those annual affairs of no more
than nnnual signiJkancc bUl it is awnrded only on such rare occasions <IS it is--
DESERVED!--cven if that shoulJ be no more than once in the lifetime of an immortal..."
(3l:<). Clearly, Williams wns venting his frustration for being JenieJ the Nand Prize that
he always thought he DESERVED, bUl never got (Five O'Clock Ange! 1979 376). But
bevond this, he lamcnteJ the lllore fundamental J<lmage of commercialism la American
drama and artistic laSlt:. Wc can now turn to presen!ing aspecls of \\Villiams' later
dramaturgy, and investigating relevant aspects or critical allitudes towards his plays.
On the whole, lhe idea that Williams' laler plays arc among the most difJieull he
ever wrote·~o is not wilhollt grounJ; much of this is due to the heavy experimemation in
which he indulged. A numner or criliL:s have concerned themselves with the Jelails of
Williams' il1llovatiolls in his bIer plays.HI Donakl Pcase insists thHt Williams trieJ in his
Inter plays to relrieve "the vision of t~le carly plays from tht: holJ or the public" (1980
59). Coming from a Jirlerent perspective, Marlin GOllfried underscores the fael that he

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ahandoned the artislie identity he "found years ngo." and tricd to "catch the beat of the
newcomers" (23). Thi1t hy the 19605 Wi llimmi had ado pled a new dramatic appronch to
reality is quit evident and he ncver misscd an occasion to poim it Ollt, hut the change in
it~dr could certainly not have been a prohlelll. After all, is not artistic identity, like any
nthcr, slIbj(.'Cl to the contingencies o!" hist()[ical nnl! cultural changes? Arlistic'llly
il1l1ov~lti\\'e. Willial11s was in perJ'cct tune with his lime.~2 011(,' cl:rlninly is that Williams'
dramalurgy, from its plotlessness to its use or grotcsqueries. its experiments with
languagc, and themes or destruetion--all uf which drew the attack of rcvie\\Vcrs--\\vJS in no
way peculiar in the si;.;ties and seventies. Other playwrights werc similarly preoccupied.
,\\t hottom. it is largely Williams' puhlic image and the expectations of his approvers that
constituted the crux of his plight.
:\\ survey of the reviews urWil1iams' later plnys, especially the sixties ones, shows
a reL:L1rrence or lhe exprcssion "this is not a rlroadway play." by which they me::m not n
re,distic or narrative play. Of the Milk Train, Variefy wrote that it is a "doublful projecl
for Bmadway. picture or S[()ck."H~ Hal'Old Clul'm<Jn H•1 and Henry l-rewcsH~ noted that ]'lIe
Citlddiges friJlI/ein did not conform tu Brondway tasle. Of Ouf c,y. the reviewer of lhe
LonJon DaiZv ,lfllii
said [hat it W,IS "a delianlly non-commercial play."Hh Willi:lnls
himself went wrong. l f hc CVCr did. primarily by targcting thc wrong audience--lhul is by
sticking to Broadway audience while his drarnaLUrgy had shined 10 a new direction
calling for difrcrent norms of apprccintion. Despite the expansion of lhc theatrical culturc.
Broadway remained distinctive in its tas1e. Taking his plays to l:hondwHy, Williams
ineluctably exposed them to comml.:'rcial critics and newspapers. Crilical assessment or
his plays largely relied 011 Hruad\\',-'ay aesthetics. Whil<.: hc offered what he called a new
type or writing. creating e:;sentia!1y llon-n.:alislic plays. the npprovers longed I(lr realistic
(1IH.·s·~that is, wdl-mallc-. <1nl! "simple naturalistic" plays (G()ufried 33) more attulled 10

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Oroaclway Laste. A look nt the mi.~lor
and recurrent "faults" found by reViewers IS
rcvel:ltory.
WijJi::lllls' laLer plays struck muny reviewers as struclUreless. lacking a clear
narrutive line that builds up to a climax. The reviewer of Newsweek typically wrote of
The Milk Train that it is "a boneless sprawL"H7 Clurman found it "amorphous."88 John
Simon saw
The Two-Character Play as a "Iuslerless eoncalcnation of strained
dialogues. "ll'l or Vieux earni, the reviewer of Variety
said: it is Ha collection of sketches
thrown together in a sleu7.Y New Orleans setting."90 The Daily News called Clo/hes a
"disjointed llurrative."\\ll A sponlaneous answer to (hese reviewers could simply be that
pbys do nol have to have narratives to be good; this point has fortunalely been mauc by
some mure receptive reviewers. Tht.: "potential grcatness of this work [The Milk Trainj
lies in its achievement of total human mystery in Chekhovian moments of communion
suduenly reached unintentionally by pcoplc moving in many direclions."92
Of Vieu.l;
earre, Clives Barnes had Ihis la say; "Why do we nlways expect pla}'wrights to wrile
narrative plays? Wc don't alwllYs expect composers to write symphonies. Here it scems
Ihm Mr. Williams is conecrned principally with the texture, the fabric of the work. "9.1
In the themes, characters and dramatic situations that they develop, Williams' later
plays appearcd as rehashes to some critics who chastised him for that. Reviewing Vicllx
Card. Simon writes: "A man who would steal and rcsteal from himself is the saddest of
1~lilures.'''N NewslI'cek 95 on Tlte Milk Train, and
The New Yorker96 on The Two-
Character Play, spend much time 011 thc repetition leitmorif. These reviewers would have
us belic\\'e that repetition in art is inhercmly negative. BUI this is so only with
comlllercial ar1 for \\vhich fashion is the rule of pmcliee. Some angry readers have indeed
seen the negative reception of Williarns' plays as an indication lhal Ihoadway or
Amcrie<Jn thealer was "rnorihulld."'I7 Yet the fact remi.lins that not commercial criticism

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alone, but even academic criticism tended to reject Williams' Inter plays on almost the
same grounds as the popular prcss.9l\\
Signi Falk. perhaps the legitimate counterpart 111 the academic field of the
llDlt1rious reviewer .I0hl~ Si1l1011, is negative "tbOUI almost everything Williams produced
in the last lwenty years or his career. While she acknowledges WiUiams' tnlenl in his
e;lr!icr plays,<N she sees nothing but rehashes in his later unes. Of" VielLt Carre (1977),
she writes that it is a restatement or old material in a form reminiscent of The Glass
Menagerie (167). She concludes her book with the now familiar point that Williams'
genius is [0 be found in his "masterpieces" of the forties and fifties. And when she says
that Williams "does nol need to wait for thc judgmenl of future generations" (167) to
establish his stature. I suspecl she simply me;Ins that there is nothing to expect from his
!;Her plays. The eritics. says Leo Colt, "panned the first professional productions [of The
Two-Character Play], carping--Lhey always do now--that it was not Cal. Streulcor, even
1~lIww."1(1) The works of such othcr acadcmil: critics as Robert I-Ieilm;In or Rogcr Boxill
are also nawcd in lhe same respeet. The former judges Williams' later plays inferior
because in them, "Williams
has not again come close to the tragic strueturing of
ehnr<lcter and experience as he did ill Slree/cor. Cal Oil u I/O! Tin Roof, nnd Slimmer und
Smoke." 1nl The latter sees his later plays as a recyeling of" the archetypes or the faded
belle and the wanderer, a boring repetition of
film technique and .:l return 10 lyric
naturalism characteristic of his cmly mttobiographic short plays.I02
On the whole, the critical altitude that eenters on repetition eomes c10sc to what
Palmcr lisls as a chief critical flaw: "Comparing pmductions that have unlike resources or
ohjedives" (pulm-.:r 150). In WilJiams' case, the Lendency was to systcmatienlly use his
earlier plays as a standmd to mC:lsure the success of his laler ones. On this. Palmer hns
this to say: "The practice or measuring one work against another by the same play\\.vright

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introduces a particularly subtle bins ... " (150). While comparison IS not inherently
innppropriatc, in Williams' case, as some critics have observed. his earlier success sealed
his critical late. The bias in Willimns' case \\vas not subtle but hlat,mt--'lJld damaging.
Assuming that his earlier plays were nlways better, critics failed la see that "The master
IHlS l:rosscd over many frontiers" since The Milk Train (Colt 6). It "was to be expl.:cted
th<ll his more recent efforts would disappoint [the critics]. \\vhatevcr their merits" (Loney
75). The critics gave no chance 10 his latcr plays to stJlld on their (mm right.
Also recurrent in the reviews arc complaints nbolll fhe allegorical, "nbsurd,"I03
<llld fant<lstic scope or must of his plays. In fact. nl1ything that ranges fm nficld in the
lheatricality of his plays, from the kabuki stagehands in The Milk Train, the slnpstick nlld
loncscoan overtones in The Gnadige.l' Frau/ein, the hem'y symbolism in n,e Gniidiges
Friill/ein. The Two-Character Nay, the Pirnndellian technique in The Two-Character
Nay to the persistent dreamlike quality in the seventies memory plays, alwnys negatively
impressed the majority of reviewers. Laurie ',\\'iner writes retrospectively about The Afilk
Train thJt: "audience$ in the early 1960s were clearly not lining up LO see J. nlay wilh
mystienl overtones that asked them to contemplate J wormln'S relationship with hl':r own
impending deatlJ."IO'\\ Critics were annoyed, says Alun Schneider, by whul they saw <IS
Williams' "daring 10 write soml:thing akin to loncsco or Urecht" (19R6 370). For instance,
the reviewer of Newswcek
could not judge the rewrite of The Alifk Train successful
bL'cause, he says,
he did not like the Brcchtian style used. I05 RegreUing the symbolic
quality of The Two-C/wrm;ter Play, Stanley Kaufman wrote that the use of symbolism
for effect "is reminiscent of the little theater pieces of the '20s," Then, be continued,
"when realist playwrights die, they hecome symbolisls."106
This Inller statement shows the erux of thl,; problem: most reviewers wtlmed
realislic plays, In il rather positive review or The Milk Train in 1963, Time stresses the

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symholic and religious allegoric nature of the play and concludes: "it \\vill certainly repel
dcvo1ces of n:alism."lo7 By rCillism the reviewers oftcn meant objeetive rCJlism, as for
instance we can gather from the rcpruat..:h against Cfolhes. In ('fled, several reviews
insisted on the ruet that Williams railed 10 be "ubjective in his portrayal of the
Fitzgcralds. "lOll How<Jrd Kisscl
claimed
lO
"have
learned
nothing
about
the
Fitzgcralds."lOl) To the reviewer of the WABC TV 7. Williams "destroyed both
Zelda
and Scott."110
The cnlcia[ question Ih~ll these reviews raise points more to tbe shortcomings of
the reviewers themselves than to Williums' f;Ji!u[c. For did WilJiams intend to be realistic
al all--al lellS! III the sense (!ley imply? As r cmphnsizl.:d curlier, Williams used lhe
Fitzg~m.lds Slory to l1leditme on his own situation in the '60s, not to recreate the
htzgcralds story. Catherlllc Hughes once said of SOlJlelhing Clvudy that as a memory
play, it expresses Williams struck by "myopiu," ;:tS a result of his being "enamoured of his
images, his memories of things past."lll In fact, the slale of myopia applies lo reviewers
themselvcs. 1l2 Thl:Y were prisoners not just of BroadwlJY standards, but
also of the
plJrticular image they built about Williams' earlier plays:
Th~ rcviewers wcre vexcd hy Witlimm' foolery, were dislUrbcd by the frequently outlandish
humor lIe employed, and werc nostalgic for his delicate pocticizing. They were anxious for the
wdl-devclopcd and consistcnt dramatic persona lily alld impatiellt for thc drnma that takes
imaginative Talher than imagillary, fallciful rathcr tball fam:jed or farcical
leaps beyond the
boundaries 01" realism. I 13
The truth is that Willimlls' laler plays wcre nol inherently and indiscriminately bad
or tasteless, just because they employed 13eckettian or Pirandellian or other stlch
innovati"e techniques. Simon Truss/er nsks rhelorii..:ally: "can so many of Williams' later
plays have been so incomrctcntly worse than those of the late forties and early fifiies
which established his reputation?,'l14 Alan Schneider's critique of the crilic~ ahout The
GnddiRes FrtJII!ein is rcvclmory too: "The critics... haled Fraulein wilh a vengeance, not

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allowing the perfOml:l!lCe to soften their response" (19R6 370). When F. Gillen writes
that during the last twenty years of his career, Williams' "pupular success Jnd critical
acccptanCL: almost v<lnbhed" (Gillell lYR6 229), she is expressing suspicions about the
critir.:s. and rightly so. Certainly Williams was aware, and su loo arc we, that it is
unrealistic to expect commercial critics to forget the commercial motive. But the fact
remains that this 1l100ive call be invasive and blinding.
With much palienl:e and tolerance. and with less defcrcnl:e La commercial
motives, some reviewers could appreeiDle the depth of some of Williams' later plays. In
1973 Clive Oames, significantly wrote o( Tlw Two-Character flay Iha!:
This
is an advelllure inlo drama at which many, perhaps the mnjority will stolr, bUI more will
fiml stimulating. Millorilies, lleedless [0 say, are not always wrong.... It is llot a play that every
01lC will like, if even its critical rece~lioll were to be better than 'mixed.' I would wmlt it lucky.
l3ut it is a play with a chance ofultinlate survival wliich··ultilll;)rely. o(coursc··is heller than a
two-yellr Broadway run. I IS
Illlhc early 1970s, S'mall Craj; 1Vanlin~.\\· caught the eyes of some r.:ritics with its
overt Chekhovian texture, as a sign of Williams' artistic rebirth. With his typical
conviction Barncs said ~)f Vieux Carn!: "it is, unquestionably, the munnurings of genius,
nOl a major statemenl. Yet beneath lhose rnumlUrings, through the meanderillgs, is an
authentic voice of the 20th-century thea!l:r.ll is slight but not negligible."116 Something
Cloudy impressed Frank Rich as a sophisticated exercise using the stream or
consciousness. ll7 Comfoning as these reviews sound, lhey were not, la borro\\v Williams'
own term, "money notices" (Memoirs 233). (Wilhams' own flaws will concern me in
chapter 3).
On another level, the variolls rediscoverics of his later plays tdl a happy SlOry
about them. Of the revival of Vieux ('ane by Stephcn Zuckerman at the WPA Theater in
1983, Mel Gussow wtites: "A failure on Broadwuy in 1977, this is the lirsl of tbe author's
ncglcdcd work~ to be subjeded, posthumolJ~ly, (0 re-cvalllation. More should follow."l'"

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In 1987. Kyk Renick the artistic director of the WPA thcnter chose to produce The Milk
Train. He cxplaill~ why:
As so mallY of Tennessee's plays were. this one is abolll ffi<lintaining dignity in the moslllppalling
circumslnnecs. Wc fell ill 1987, when every week wc Jose another friend or colleague (I) AIDS
and death Sel;:ffiS to be all around us, it is the right time 10 Ulkc another look at 'Milk Train'. 119
Studying his most innovative play uf all, The Two-Characfer Play, over a two
year period (1980-1982), a tcam of researchers at the University of Wisconsin rcached
the conclusion tlwt the play's lar.:k of succesS' was essentially due to produdion problems.
By this they meant that previolls proJuctions of the play fniled la use or find the
appropriaLe dramatic language. The production that capped the research provoked
"encour<lging... audienees' responsc."12U Wc know that the power of language La "do
things," to have effecLs, is a function of "the ilppropriatencss of audience nnd context"
(Jenkins 155). Thus wc should not overlook the spccial circumstances ut the University of
Wisconsin that contributcd to their production's SlJccess, namely (he tlid that the audience
1110sLly belonged to the lI11ivcr::;ity's intellectual community (Kahn 43). However, it is
noteworthy Lhat the conclusions rr.:ached hy the Wisconsin team confirmed the rich
potential or the pluy that Clive Bames, for instance, noted in the original production.
rn 1976, Coil wrote that "In twenty yenrs, I venture 10 predict. [The Two-
C!lafOcler Play] will be slotted habitually in repertoires" (6). Though this time is still to
come, the assumption today aboUl mOSl of Williams' later pluys is not whether they have
literary merit but how to find the right regisler of dramatic language to stage (hem so us to
llwke them ar.:eessible to the general pubJic. 121 After stating thc difJiculty of Williams'
brcr plays and thl: dcpth of his experience thnt they convey. Jerrnld Phillips argues that
lOll is time that we ;Jpproach this area Williams has carved ouL lor us to examine, and
discovcr the gift of self-revelation he has maue Lo lIS.''122 The point of the slatement--
which others have made fOo--is n change of attitudc. Williams' own verdiet was that

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commercialism, l:orruption und incompetence marred the critical recertion of his plays. h
llHHrcd it in the sense tlIat it censored the reception of his work·-the principnl way 10 his
scar~h for cull mal authorily and theatrical recognition.
True. Willi;llllS himsclr participated in what H. Clmman calls a Immner of
thinking about the thealer in terms of "cash receipts, publicilY, prizes, awards,
intervicws."12J But Williams was no less sensitive to (he acuteness of the problem, and la
hi::> heing a victim of it Somewhat noslJ.Jgically, he felt that "a world of 'superior things--
things of the mind and the sririt' had been replaced by " new and cmssly commercial
onc."124 For him things had changed and like the tourists in View: Carre, "peuple go [10
the theaterl for lh~ wrong reasons now--fur r.:scape, for entertainment" LJhid.]. Compelled
into evolving in this changed frame of values, Williams became "almost exclusively a
public figure, subject of newspaper notoriety, rather than a distinguished pructicing
dmnwtist."125 No longer or [It most hardly able to control his arlistie idenlily or the
direclion to give to his art in the consumption market, \\Villiams found il hard [Q continue
to communieate with his audience when he had any. This indicates a deep alteration of
the signilicuncc ofWilliams' art for himsclfin the sixties and seventies. I will explore this
in the next ch[lpter.
My hHger point in this (llle has been that it is Williams' experience [llld perception
of the entire theatrical culture uf the sixties and seventies that shaped his dramatic
imagination. Facing [he cruel realities of the artistic world--lhe praetio.:s of other agents
as wdl as the perverse consequences of his ur her own action and decisions--lhe artisl-
ligure in Willi<lllls' later plays, dcspite his or her endeavOf, remains a helpless victim. His
ur hcr art becumes Ihe propcrty or at least the Joing of others. What remains Of becomes

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of the artist-figure's art 111 lerms of personal significance will concern me In the next
chapter.

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CHAPTER III
THE AR nST-FIGURES AND THEm ART: DESTRUCTIVE RELATIONS
.. . /rhat ill lrell are we £loin};?
Just going from onc goudamll frantic distractiun [Q another,
till finally one too many goJJamn frantic diSlraclions leads la
disil.~ICr, and blnckolll':' F:clipsc at: total orsun?
(Mrs. Uofarth The Milk Train 62)
148

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149
Thl: existential condition of the al1isl-ligurc in Williams' later plays is a harrowing
one. But this is nothing I1C\\\\' in Willian:s' work as u whole. In his earlier plays, violence is
rampam, <lnJ death roams the soda I environment or the protagonist. While the cnrlier
prol;)gonisl tn;ads on "a hot tin fOol:" for the lalcr one, "What is called real [is] a rock!
Cold and barren" (Clo/hes 275), As I have tried 10 show, the "real" that Williams' later
artists experience is his rcpn;scntulioll of the llleutrical world of the sixties and sl.:veutics.
In 191:0:2 as he bid good-bye 10 Brnadway, the most determining environment ofllis al1 in
his Inl!:f career, his definition of the real repeats the terms quoted above but includes as
well recurrent images from the entire hody orilis work: "therc is a rock Ihere, and it is not
onc from which water nor violets nor roses spring" (Spota 400). As perceived and
dramatized by Williams, the theatrical world
is a life (knying force; this has been the
context of the first two chapters. Onc level or my interest here concerns (he al1ist figure's
.1ttituck when faced with thal life-denying reality. I will argue that Williams' own practice
or art and his evolving attitude lov...·ards it informed his portraits of the "rock."
Early in his childhood he discovered the therapeutic function of writing and the
lhcater.] In the '40s and '50s, the popular and commercial success of his plays provided
him with much needed psychological .md financial security. To stress only the
psychological aspect, let us quole Williams himself: "I create imaginary worlds inlo
which I can retreat from the real world because .. .I've never made any kind of adjustment
10 thc real world" (Co!1versotio/lS 1962 106). fly the lime of The Milk Train, with his loss
of popularity and cOlllmercial succes:;, with his own growing <..:onviclion of the failurc or
his creative pO\\vers. the idea of his art as a Jortress changed (Bigsby 1984 146). The
qualitative distinction between rcal (life as he experienced it) and the imagined (art as
refuge) cullapsed. He had, he though!, proof lhat the rush uf time had pt:netrated the
furtress of <Irt and was gnawing its walls away. He began lo sce the theatre as a mirror of

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life, thus expressing a lIew pl:ssil1listic pcrr..:cplion of hi~ arl. WiJliams' objective
preJicamenl shaped his subjcctivc self in a profound way. In 1975, writing about QlIt
Cr)" he asscI1CU that, "I consider [it] a major work and ils misadventure on Broadway
has not altl'l'cd lhal personal estimate of it ..." (Memoirs 233). Yct, Williams' vision or his
:.1ft remained fundamentally dependent on its place on Broadway. The images
Broadway
approvers had of his nrt, their fictions of him were. [IS Bourdictl would pUl it (260~261), a
normalive mirror. When this mirror projected b:.lck antipathetic images. WiJliams felt the
failure of his art.
For someone who had dOl1liilatcd Broadway for decades, this was pcrh:Jps
understandable, bUI, even ill the face of what he sa\\\\-, as the overwhelming testimonies of
the changed nature of his art, Williams would not retire. On the onc ham1, this might
show that his complaints aboullhe tbeater Wl:re unfounded. and his disillusionment only
superficial. In .IIlY case, as I have suggestcd in the previous chapter, his doubts served
some purpose for him. On the other band, considering his refusal to rdire as a stubborn
p-:rscver;Jl1ee, wc sce th;Jt the Sisyphean image aptly describes his own attitude too. Dut
Ihis, he would argue. c,x:prcsses a moral conviction that the arlist can never retin:.2 As I
will later show, this may have been fatal--or ;Jnyway a damaging error. When he died in
1983 he was still writing his plays and producing them. His work remained unfinishcd;
only death stopped him.
The basic attitude of his later protagonists remains an instinctive seilrch for
,:scape, for acts of distraction. as t\\1rs. Goforth puts it in The Milk Tl'Gin (62). The search
for prolection bcars a fundamcntal sense of morality in Williams' work, just as it did in
his lile: it is an act of dignilY (~Vherc I Liv/! 52). However, wc have a crucial difference, in
terms of the outcome of the search, bel \\\\'cen his earlier and later pbys. In the earlier oncs,
the acts of ese:Jpe reached a certain Icvel of cfficieney, though only temporarily so,

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bCCall~l.:, aner all. the rush of timc--his uhimate symbol or the omnipotence of lifc--is
ullstoppnble. Then.: "is no way 10 he.ll the game of being against mm.heing,"3 he would
say. Thus, art (movies, poems, paintings, acts of (heatricality), fantasy (like Laura's glass
menagerie), Sl.:X, alcohol, etc., offered Tom, Laura, l3lunchc, 13rick, Val Xavier, Lady.
Vee Talbot, Princess. la name but a few, [l sense of life, a moment:.!!')' protective haven.
Like Orphcus's magic lyre, Vat's guitar in Orphell.l' De::icending is "able to charm even
Death for u moment"4 In the later plays, lhe artist-figure linds no such temporary solace.
ThaI which is ~upposed to provide protection or therapy is, like Chris's art in The Milk
Train a recipe for death, or like the thenter in The TlI'o-CharaclC1' Play, simultaneously n
prison and n dcath-lr'lp. In the end. it appears that the artist-figures ean never escape the
rush or lime. and must simply always endure it. Clinging "to ench other for salvation,"
they find that "they nrc one another's hell" (Bigsby 1984 145). Creating imaginary worlds
to whidl they retreat. what they find there is numbing. not warming. Sceking to create
order or to control it, lhey end up with disorder, pieces, fr<lgments [hut they ennnot put
together.
Yet. stubbornly, the later artist-Iigures hang on to their art as thc main possible
escape route. thus crenting the condition or their death. The archetypal Inter nrlist figure
evokes irnnges of Sisyphus and an absurdist ch<lmcter. As nothing around or nbout him or
her promises a sense of order, lifc or hope, continual sufTcring is his or her lot. Death
becomes the only ccrtainty; it is. so to spenk, the most definite distmction. Jerrold
Phillips' assessment is ajlldicious one: "In the later plays the protagonists, continuing the
search for n mcans to extinguish their existences, reach the nwful conclusion thnt death is
the only effective manner of turning 01Tlhe world. The suhjcct orthe Inter plays becomes
the seductive lure of dea[h."~ It appenrs that by the seventies Williams personally saw
death in a sirnilnr lighl. This also informed his practice.

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In the fir~t two sections I want 10 explore the artisl-Jigurcs' personal relation to art.
Essentially. artistic pncLicc dramatizes the failure of their search lor escape, <md the way
they experience the destructive power of art. These pnrlicular fom1s of anistic failure
rd3tc to Williams' perception of his own art in the Jasltwo decades of his career. In the
last section, 1 wHnl to shmv that Williams insists all the artist-fIgure's responsibility for
Ihe way an becomes a death-tmp. This, I will argue, essentially rclmcs la WiUiams'
assessment of his own attitude la his art; il is i.l dramatization of his own sense of guilt.
Ill. I. A,.t as .. Tool: Im;lgcs or Failure
Art had always stood as the
principal source of
Willinms' "self-torturing
)'I.:arning ror ordl.:r ami meaning" (8igsby 1984 144). When he began lo
perceive the
tlwater <l~ a mirror of a more disordered lire, describing it even ill bestial terms, he
portrayed it as containing its "OVt'll denial [and as] [hc primary source of Lits] own
absurdity." My concern here is not with the artistic forms, which are as varied a~ the
types of artists wc have in his later plays. but with the significance of urt to the artist·
figure; Ihe diffcrent ways they attcmpt 10 use ,m as a survival kif. Processes integral to
<lrl. such as imagination, adion. thcntricalization, and eommunicntion n::cur significantly
in this rcspect, hut extrinsic aspects of artistic practicc also play a parL For inslancc, the
ani st· figure is not indifferellt 10 the economic dimension of his or her art. (I showed
earlier that economic.: concern is central in the anistil: world represented in Williams' later
plays.) III any case, "alh::mpl" is the right word lor the artist's cndcavor. Frustration.
failure, and death are what he or she Ultimately fLlces. As the primary route to the later
artist-ligurc's instinctive search for protection, <:In contributes to the characteristic
apocalyptic mood or the plays through its t~li lure to providL' any degree of salvation.

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Though thinly developed, there is a dear dramatization of an eeonomic dimension
in the artisL-ligure's llSC of his or her art And this is no kss signi(i~,tnl than the other
ways in which he or she uses art fUllctionally. It illustr::Hes the later artist-figure's scarch
for economic security or at least .subsisLence. Because art invariably fails to provide this
security. it appears under a negative lighL.
Investigating the forms of dramatization of
this failure, I want to tie it to WjlLiams' own worries about the Jack of commercial success
of his later plays.
A logic of economic failure underlies the rehHiollship hetween the Wrilcr and the
p:lilller in Viellx Carn} and their arts. Selling their artistic instruments (a typewriter for the
former) or their artistil,; abilities (in thl.: painter's casL:), hoth ncvcrtheless iind themselves
destitute--an unprecedented silUation that l,;onslilUtes an important focus of the action, Ln
Kin'he, till.:: n;asons that the Man invokes Jor his return U ptown, hoping once more to
make money i..:ompeling for the HOllicker's prizl.:, arc indicative of his own failurL: to make
his art lucrative. In So Ho, despite his ingenious use of the artistic experience acquired
before retirement, it quickly becomes impossihle fix him "to fulfill all the responsibilities
or parenlhood" (7U), The speeiJic instnli..:tion he gives his kids, leading (hcm to
prostitution for money's sake, testijies to his awareness of the economic dimension of his
"art." The kids return having given themselves uway, "free," for love, His failed attempt
to shield himself against the intrusion cfthe wife also dmmatize his dilemma. Associated,
in [he spatial didlO[Omy of the selling, witlt the kitl.:hen, and more generally, with the
111I,:mc of eating and cooking, the wi re represents pressing economic llel:CSsrty,
On the whole. the prescnl.:e of thl.: economic dimension in the artist-fIgure's
rclntion with his or her art expands the idea of its function. It revcals Willinms' desire to
span the whole spectrum of his disillusionment into the depil:tion of his own <trt, And
interestingly the dramatization ot' the economic theme in this particular sense seems 10

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<lpply soldy to tht: artist-figures or the seventies plays. The artist-fIgure's lailure 10 lind
t:l.:onomic security thrOl.lgh his or her art rd1cL:ls the place of the economic in Williams'
own preoccupation in his 1,lst years (the seventies) with his failure as a playwright. In his
earlier pluys this theme is practically absent, or else art is economicnlly successful. Tn The
Nigh! of Iguana (1961), the plny that many consider os marking the closure of Williams'
early career. H.mnnh Jclkes uses her art ralher effectively lo sustain herself and her
dependent old grandrathcr, Nonno. This portrayal cvincr;:s Williams' own economic
situntion at thal time. For, after his encounter with S11CCCSS in 1944 with The Glass
A1cnllKerie, money was newr ogoin a matter of coneern6 throughout his emlier cmeer.
horn the sixties on, though he wa<; still among (he richest American ,mists, hc
began to be' conel'rned. Production costs were now extremely high. Coupled with
difficulties in r<tising money, this situation strained or at least threatcm:d to strain his
finollees. More crucially, as his artislic represcntative Mitch Douglas explains, his new
plays were not selling \\'iell: "By this time [the seventies] he was out of vogue and he
knew it. His plays had lost money and he was h"rd to sell. There W~ no new market for
him. <ll1d llOtllrJJly this upset him" (In SPOlo 388). In the sixties and seventies, his
principal Jinaneial resources were prJetieally reduced to the production of his plays
outside the United Slates, and 10 the film productions of his l"arJier ploys (Spoto 291). Of
his later plays, only ll1e Milk Train saw u film version.
Understandahly, his Jinaneial situalion rcgularly came up as a subject in his
interviews. Often he ...... ould claim to he
wealthy; at other linKS hc would complain,
stressing his need or money. In 1975 he even said that he wrote his memoirs for
"mercenary rcasons." "Tt is aelUaJly," he cxplained, "Ihe first piece of work, in the line of
writing, thall havc undertaken [or material proJit" (Mt!1J/oirs xvii). Williams was either
joking or indulging in his penchant for hyperbolic statements. Whatever Ihe case,

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however. thal the subject of money suddenly became importam to him Hfuminates his
Jeeper worries. Exacerbated, his awareness of the economic dimension of his plays
logic.lIly seeped into his writing as a testimony of the changed nature of his Drt. Unlike
Hannah, the later urLi.s!-figurcs are left either with the simple realization that they cannot
depend on their an tor livelihood, or with a painful remembrance of their failure [0 use it
in this particular respect. By jnsisting on art's failure 10 salisfy the artist-figure's basic
needs, WiJlimns gives an indieation that his own new plays could 110 longer assure his
basic satisfaction. What about his more prolGuod, and perhaps intangible, needs?
The most though/-provoking attempt 10 usc art as a survival kit begins with its
dramatizutiolJ us an instrumental therapy. It is the most preponderanl and classie theme in
Williams' work us a whole. This undoubtedly derives from the fact that, as mentioned
carlier. the author first: literally encountered writing and live thcaler as powerful forms of
therapy. From the inception of his career, he shared in the romantic vision of art as an
inslrutlll:nl for transcending the harsh reality oni re (Esther Jackson 1965 27; R. D. Parker
1985 52G). Bigsby aptly summarizes the power of the imagination as held by Williallls:
"[T]he imaginal ion, operating through its powers of self-invention or lhrough its
sympmhcti<,; understanding of lhe solitariness of the other. is able to create a morality
which is no less real 101' existing outside of time" (19X4 144). He also had the sensibility
of a modernist like Samuel Beckett for whom role-playing is nn adequate survivnl
IllstrUmell1 in a fragmented world (Ruby Colm 1984 339; J3igsby 19l:l4 141). He believed
in Ihe Aristotelian doctrine of catharsis, both for himself as an author and for the
audience. Thus. writl:s Jack Wallaee, for Williams, "theater is essentially popular and
cathartic; its aim is tn cnter1ain-~literally hold tbe audience together by stimulating and
purging hostility. and by healing, for a few hours al kast, (he wound or isolation" (J28).

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In the cm!, we could say that lwo ideas capture Wil!iunls' sense of the power of art. First,
tile idca of a timeless world or Cl urcarnworld: he \\\\'Tote in 1950 that. "u charac.:tcr in a play
[isJ immured against the corrupting rush of time" (Where 1 Live 52). And, seeond. the
idea of being engaged in a creative process: in 1961, spelling oul what he callet.l his
theory about the drcul11world ofa play, he said, "un artist will never die or go mad while
he is engaged in a piece of work that is vcry important 10 him" (Where / Lil'e 141). His
later plays. however, contradict art's po\\ver to protect, revealing that processes and
"fictions also have their cocrciolls" (Digsby 1984 141). fundamentally, Ihe ilrlist-figures
become nware llwllhey can reach only a drcamvmrld t1uough their art, and that practice
is only a stop-gap or prevarication. Williams begins to insisl on the distinetion between
th<.: value of the artistic world and of its product.
For most or Williams' artist-Jigures, artistic power and pmctice mean creating or
finding <lCCCSS to a fictional, an imaginary world. The Iiclional world may be in a physical
structure, all artistic work, or simply an imaginary or fantasy world in its own right. Here
we must include insanity, which tor Williams has a clear relalion wilh art in its power to
gencrate an im:lginary world. In th<.:ir individual ways, the biter artist-protagonists reach,
just as thcir preJccessors do, for some kind of protection. Out, as I have memioned
earllcr, what they ultimately encounter in their own individu<ll ways is neither an
enchantcd world of happiness nor a sense of security. We may S<lY instead that, to
paraphrase Jerrold PhJllips, arL lures tbe artist toward self-destruction, death.
The \\\\'orlds of refuge arc sometimes physical structures to which the artist-figure
relates litcrally or met::Jphorically. Dealing with space and selling in chapter one, I
al1tieipaled this specific pattern. The way performing artists in Williams' later plays like
Mrs. Goforth, Clare/felice and the Man use their "theater" house:-. arc exemplary. They
constrllet or strudurc their physical cnvironment as a pwtcdive haven--or so they

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hi,;lj~ve. Tile strategic !ol.:ation of Mrs. Goforth's villa on 3n isolated island indicates her
lh.:ed for protection. Yet uespilc her ingenui[y, i( remains aeces:;ible to outsiuers. Chris's
arrival is a clear testimony 01" this. In the same way, though not of their own making, the
theater house, setting lor the oulcr play, is nf import to Clare [lnJ relice in Tlte Two·
Chorae/er flay. When they elect or iln: forceu to use lhcatcr houses wherever they can
finJ any as their hume, such mtributes as comfort and protcclinn inherent in the very
notion of home stand out as objects of their primary imen:sL. But as we know, it was not
long bdore thcy realize that the thcater has actually hecllme their prison. And as in fv1rs.
Gotonh's case, .llthe cnd of the play. iL is ohvious th<1t the lheater is their death-beu--their
v~lldl. 1,1 llse a \\Von..l from the text itself. The chaotic slate of the liTeral setting, the
allllosphere or loneliness. and the chilling coIL! that characterize it apdy reinforl.:e lhe
image or death. In Kirc!ll?, the Man uses his "church" in ways that eeho the functions of
1\\·lrs. Qoforth's house or Felice's thl:ater. Ikcause of thc farcical IlDlme of this play, the
ur;lll1atization of the tlleme is perhaps too explieiL "It so happened," he explains to his
wife, that "I had tired or the streets. Desired not you hut a period of seclusion nnd
swbility" (70). So he acquired his Sol-la hOllse. anu uesigned il accordingly. It is for him,
like lhe house of the chamhcred-naulilus--a recurrent imagc in the ptDy~-construc(ed "for
security from the hazards OUTside, tile world exLernul surrounJing him near and tar" (3).
At lhe end of the play, as (I lypical seventies protagonist. he flees the kirchc. For, not only'
h(ls his voluntary retirement hecol1le too conJining, but also the walls of the Kirche never
prlJtected him against the encroaching outside world--for inst'lI1ce, his wife's heatings.
Overall, the cndeavors of Mrs. Qoforth. Feliec/Clare, and [he Man panieularly
point to a need Jor physical protection. Using the lheater as a llh.::talanguage, Williams
explores the nature of rculity, here the physieal dimension of his iJca that the tbeaLer
world was no longer a "congenial home." The protagonists' physical insecurity is very

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[5S
much a tran~lation of Williams' imagined or actual fear for his physical S:1Iety in his later
years. Whether in Kcy WCSI, where ~ome anti-homosexual zealots mugged him7 or in
New York, where in 1968 out of paranoia he hid himself fOf 5evcral days on the belief
that some pl'ople wanted to kill him (Spa to 303), Williams always saw the hands or the
Ihc<.llcr people lurking. Just hefore the im:idenl rderred la above, he wrote the following
note to his brother:
If ilnything of a violellt nature happens to me, ending my life ubruplly, it will not be <l case of
suicide. <IS it would b..: 101\\de to appear. I <lm nol hOlppy, it i~ lrue, in a nel of con men, but I mn
hard ut work. which is my love, you know (Spoto }O})
Rightly or wrongly, Williams feiJred fur his physical safety_ But as I hnvc ~hown
in chapters onc and two, he saw a thn:at of llll: "con men" as m\\lre theln physical. As a
\\:unsequenee. each and every artist thal he portrayed in his later plays searches for
protection, lherapy lit the deeper psyehologicl'lJ unci mcntal levels. Thl: past is a recurrent
thcrnpl:util: sourl:c. and via the theme or the past, wc witness various experiences of
imaginary rel'uges.
The past, in Williarns' plays, is the paragon of drcamworlds. For this and other
reasons, it is perhaps onc or the most l:ompelling themes in his work. His concern with
the past is nOl surprising, considering his southern origin. rndced, for most southern
writers. the past--basically the South before the civil war--is a recurrent aesthctie clement;
il is mythologized in their works.s It is never out 01" the minds \\If their protagonists
because as William Faulkncr would put it, the past is never dCJd. It is for Faulkner,
Flannery O'Connor or WiJliams charged with ambiguity. Williams claiml':d that he writes
out of regret for the South before the wur, its \\.\\'<1)' or life and culture,9 but nl the same
time he was very critical of it. As Oigsby puts it, he "<leecpts the equivocal nature of that
past, stained us it is by cruelly and Lorruption" (1992 33). Irresistibl)'. his protagonists arc
typi\\:ally druWI1 10 the past. Charles Colton the old drummer ill The Last Solid (JP!d

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Watches, tvlrs. Lucretia ColJin the Spinster who Lakes herself to be a Lady in Porfl'ail oIa
AIadull/1a. Tom and Amanda in Tlte Glass Menagerie, anci Bbnchc in A Streelu.ll" are a
few peflect illustrntiLllls from his earlier work. His laler prot:.Jgonists are no exception.
But what the pnSl tells them or about them is I1Llt always pleasant. Glenn Loney is right
Willi;I!mi' concern with "the past...is IlDI at all a plcasurnblc nostalgia Jor lovely,
wondcrrul things now gone" (19R3 80). Or even worse, as Jcrrold Phi/lips asserts, "The
past is closed, all enormous failure ltlit does not even offer memories of pleasant, fruitful
times" (\\980 54). Invariably, in his later plays. re .... isiting the past is a dangerous
trip
leading 10 a possihle encounter with death.
Mrs. Goforth's writing of her memoirs is the artistic expression of her desire to
capture, at a fietionallcvcl. what she deems to be the brightest side of her pasllife: her
ronwnce with Alex, lhe only one of her tonner SIX husbands whom she married OUI of
love (14, 47), and hcr "career as a great intcrnalional beauty" (30). The lack of aesthetic
interest in her present endeavor indicates the purely personal and functional dimension of
her creation. "fhe conceit is to recreate her fomlcr identity, therehy somehow transcending
or negating \\.vhat \\Villiams defines as lhe n1sh or clTecl of lime. What she yearns tor are
indeed all the things that her present slntus as an ex-star--a halcrul expression to mosl of
Williams' lalcr artists as a whole and to Williams himself--and her physical stule as an old
and unanraetive woman. deny
her.
Mrs. Goforth's obsession with Alex does not
preclude hut rather
accents an
encounter with the darkest spots of her past lite. The
ghost of
Mr. GQtorlh whom she married !lot for love but for money f:lees her. That
she still hears his !lame despite the t";Ict lhat he was Ilot the latest indic~Hes, Ul a
raulknerian way, that we emmot leave the past behind. especially the unpleasant aspects
or it. In her case, the ghosts me the ones she would rather forgeL On another level, that
she tries 10 elicit Chris's love dramatizes her illusions that her past beauty is still v:llid.

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But perhaps must illustrative of the danger involved in her quest for a glorious past is the
f:1Ct lhal while hallucinating about it, she slcepwalks, heading toward the elifls (59).
Obviously she would have fallen to her death had BI'lt:kie not been vigilant.
In The Two-Character Play, Felicc's and Clare's descent imo lhe past--when they
llsed to blow bubblcs--by the process oC their performance of the inner play looks very
much like an <let of suieide. For, as I have shown elsewhere, thl.: interior pluy is
c's:-ientially a death play. J[ is hJrdly less dangerous than the exterior play house. For, il is
<l story of$oliludc, insanity. murder/suicide; above all it contains the murder we;lpon. the
revolver. Speaking in the interior plny. Clare is d~Jr enough: "I ean't sleep at night in a
house where J revolver is hidden .... Felice, there's death in the housc and you know where
it's WHiting" (345).
No wonder then, Clare is the most reluctant to "get lost in the
[interior] play" (J 17). For its world is not a happy place to he in, least of all, onc in which
Lo be lost. Clare's is ajustifted refusal 10 seck refuge ill the pasl via the interior plny. Like
llcr, t\\'1iriam voices--and So loo docs Zelda as we will see--a rejection or n distrust of the
past (lr of the fictional world
as such. "Reeollections are insufficient. I like present
actions" (10), she claims when contrasting her fonner success with men to her present
need of them.
In I:l way, 111 the seventies memory or historical pbys where, ns I have argued
carlier, the protagonists return La Iheir individuul pa~ts searching for the clue to
undersLanding or explaining their rres~nt li \\'Cs, thcy rcach conclusions (hat justify Clare's
or Mirialll's fear. Supposedly, the past is "clenrer" than the preSClll for August in
,",'olllclhing Clea/', and for Zeldu it illuminates the present. as the Imern suggests when he
says, "ShadcHvs of livcs ...sometimes illuminate" (231). But the fact is that if the past is
enlighlening aL all iL is so by way of its Clnulogy to the present. It brings imJg(.'s of pain.
Whining over his pliglll in the closing line of the play, Seoll says: "the pa.."il...still always

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present" (280). Zelda appears 10 him as she always \\V,lS: rcbellious, uncontrollable. To the
Writer or August, too, the past is prim<lrily the proof of a painful experience or existential
condition. For the writer it is an encounter with "shmJow)' oCCllpants like ghosts" (5). It
paralyzes Augus! in the present, making him lose conWct with present reality: "You've
got to come down out of the sky, the clouus" (20), Clare urges him. August's own
realization of the futility of hj~ attitude to the past leads him
to the following
acknowledgment; "rP]oets have a great talent of fOl1ling themselves <.thout themselves.
And so loo do poetic playwrights. Any kind or romantic... " (7). Whatever the process
whereby the artist-figure relives the P<l~t, it is a torturous o..:xpo..:rience. Zeld<l's case perhaps
better dramatize~ the
tragedy of living in the fictional world of the past, and needs
~peciall11ention.
The past for Zelda is in essence the exprc~sioll o(insanity; a manifestation of the
tb-cllhat "ranta~y nms rilJt" and "hallucinations bring back limcs lost," (275) when pre5enl
reali!}' rn<\\kes existcncc impu~siblc. On one level, the confusion or complexity lhat
characterizes the dramatic action of Clothes is an efrort to capture Zelda's e.xperience of
the past, her halluciJ1<ltions, or, which comcs lo the same thing, her insanity. The bulk of
thc action 'akc~ place ill tbe form of a Oashback: Zclda's past life dramalizcd. This is, as
Adlcr e;xpresscs it, "the concept oftimc as a perpetual re-cxperit:ncing (perhnps analugous
to ahreacting in the psychoanalytical process)" (1987 11). The dranmtic action asserts lhnt
10 livc in the pasl or in hallucination is synonymous with a state of insanity--a mind
illlprisont:d in a stale of disorder. With her lllver's gin of a slluvenir. she takes up
Miriam's perspcdive in In (he !Jar, contrasting lietion with reality, and thus describes
what it feels like lO live in fiction, the past, hallucination, or insanity: "All photographs
are a poor likeness and so arc paintings; they don'l have tbc \\.vannlh orthe living f1csh so
loved" (248). This is an apl response to FeJicc's illusion tbat he will find warmth in The

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Two-Chart/da Ploy. All jn all, if resorting \\0 the past is a
form of distr:'H;(ion from
present reality, it is, ':IS Mrs. Gol'orth has it, a "goddamn distraction," because it ICuds to
disaster. This is not Jar from Williams' own discovery in his Imer years.
If Williams' thematic concern with thc past wns 110t new in his later career; it
"acquired personal relevance man.: aCUle than in his earlier career" (1984 138). On the
onc hand, as r showed carlier,through rcvivuls orhis "classics" and (he critical practice of
using them as norms. his carlier work, his own artistic P<.ls{, hccame one of his most
swunch antagonists. On lhe other hand. we know that, in the seventies especially, he
returned to the very beginning of his career, dramatizing meaningful sequences or his
experience as <l playwright. "Hislory," writes 130urdictl, "is one of the mosl effjcielll ways
to put reLllily at u distance" (1093246). Williums did so no! to evade hut to better observe
the reality lhil{ hy the seventies had hecome his nightmare. Like Zelda in Clothes, he
sought (0 use his earlier experience funclionally as a vantage point. a cognilive matrix for
illuminating ami understanding the present. His discoveries Werc, like his prolagonisls'.
thnt it had all been a sequcnce of sdr-torture. endured hehind the curtain of work
(Convcrso/ions 332). He dramatizcd this in thL' way, as I huve 5110'.\\'11. the protagonists
suffer their pas! experiences in the same way they sutTer their present ones. Thus. if
Williums meant 10 convince himself thnt the sense of endurance Ihal characLCrized his
eJrlier Career was enough n:ason not to despair, he was served. But he was also lueid
enough 10 know that, as he SOlid ill 1975, 10 still he a romanticist at his age was
humiliating and selr:-dcstroying (Memoirs 227). He was quile aware that he had lost the
energy tlwl in the past always helped him surmount the "hloeks," to use his own word
OVllere 1 Lirc 106). Also, if he simply sought strategic<llly to use <lspeets of his earlier
dramaturgy inllovatively as a mealls to rCL:J.plure his lost lcgilimucy-, critical n:<lclion lo
hi~ use or the pUSl, ;.IS I have shown, slilled his 'lmbitions. With holh his own realiZ4ltion

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'llll! this I'CC~l)tiol1 () r his (001 of sel r-llndcrslanJing ..mu j usti fication, Wi llimns suffered in
his 0'\\'11 way what AJler defines £IS "time as a perpetual rc-experiencing." As it tumed
Ollt, the past did not offer any solace whatsoever. In a sense in its power to translann the
past into a therapeutic 1001, just "s in its power to create plays, Williams' later
imagination invariably led him on lU a similar track. His work, indeed, was the condition
of his suffering; yet he ncv~l' stopped writing or pUlling on plays. With this, we can [urn
in a more theoretical sense 10 the function of artistic process.
Wil/iams' sense of drama largely accounts for his idea of arlistic process, and it
has the ring of an existential credo. Drama, he believes. is "something closer [than words]
to being and action."lil For his later artist-ligure. indeed, "Acting and being arc pres~ll(ed
as being synonymous. It is the proof of existence. J act thereJore J exist" (Bigsby 1984
132). The arlist-tigurr:s try [0 resist loneliness and disintcgration, but soon they renlize
(Iml their acts arc mere jokes, futilities. For so overwhelmingly chaotic and fragmented
arc the environments or theaters in which they evolve that an necessnrily fails to give a
Sl'Jlse of order or hope. The Sisyphc<'lI1 imngc is an apt onc. Typienlly. the drnmntic action
shows them at the end of the rope, in their moment of failure and pnin. This is their
tragedy.
Thcre is a form of thcatriealiz:ltion that means offering the self ns a spectacle . .lack
Wallace linds indications of such a sense of the theutrical in Orphclls Descellding where,
["or instance, seeking sclf'lhcrupy, Carol Cutrere indulges in a cons~ious self-exhibition, a
compulsion "to be noticed, seen, heard, felt" (Wallace 331). Blanche in A Slreetcar is a
wonhy predecessor to Carol and [be later actresses and actors. l3ut, as usual in the luter
plays, thcre is a negative :lceent to this theatricality, in the sense that it comes to menn
representing self-destruction. The (,'niidiges Friiuleil1 best exemplifies this in the form of

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pure. naked actioll--lhm is, without aesthetic consciollsness. Her compulsive n:tuming to
the verandah appears to amount [0 Li sense of being. Indeed. that action is rcminist.:ent or
till: rocking chair in the ilsylum of the screenplay Slopped Rocking (1979), the proof that
time still flows. As with most of the weak in Williams' work, a certain sense of
endurnncc dKlractcrizcs the Friiulcin; it is her Sisyphean impulse-M;) compulsion and an
undaunted willingness to acl. In a sense, this is the particular foml in which her action
dramatizes her remaining artisti<..: im[1ulse, onc that relies un her mere rhysical presence.
To pmaphrnse CIDre in The Two-Character PJoy. it is the magic of habilM-lhe habit
inherent in the friiulcin's former scnSl: or ilk:ntity as a popular st<lr, exi~ting in the
spectade she offered--that drives her. Mid·wa)' in the action of the play, she loses most
attributes of her art--lhl' ahility to sing and danee--except the ability to be on the stage.
But, ut the end of the play we ,Ire certain that when she returns this time, the spectacle
she will of/er or herself is maeabrc--a heap of hones. On another level. there is something
dramatic in her returns to the stagc--the dormitol)'. Her returns ereute suspense for her
audience in the play as well for us. 8y the cnd of thl: play, the central question is "will she
relurn with the fish that will prevent her eviction from thc dormitory?" Given her physical
state as she ru.shcs oUI.side at the whistle of the hoat, she is unlikely lo do so. Her physical
disintegration expressr.:s her loss of artistic powers, here. the compulsion to act, to gel
hc:rself on slage.
Ifthr.: sense of the theatrical that tmllspircs wilh Ihe frtiulein is peeulim, it remains
evocative or Williams' dramatization of the way he tried 10 use his anistic power lO
survive in thl: midst of the jungle of the sixties theatrical world. Compulsively jumping
ilHo aClion. the Frtlulein recalls Williams' own compulsion to write and rewrite his plays.
[vcr since he discovered writing as a form or therapy, it hecame an irrcsistible
occupation. Always rewriting his plays, he sought 10 keep himself continuously at work,

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165
and dreaded the momems he W<lS about la finish a new play, for he leared that if he
sLopped, he might not be able to start again (R. B. Parker 1985516). Till his death he
ncvcr broke the habit of writing sewral hours in the morning, amazing more than onc
traveling companion or colleague. On the other hand, ever since early in his career in Se
Louis. when he disl.:overL'u the "incontinent blaze of live theatre" (Bigsby 1984 145),
being in the the.lIi.:r was his mode of life. When in Oclobcr 1971 he claimed that "he felt
only haJr alive when he was ml! working in the theater" (Sputo 332), he expressed
s011lL:lhing deeply ingruincd. During his blter career, this found expression in his absurd
slubbornness to keep producing his plays in the midst of a chain of failures and of the
pain or bringing his plays on Broadway. This is onc of the paradoxes of his laler career.
In the last sCl.:tion, I will rcturn to SOIllC consequcnees of [his for himselfas an individual
and
his carcer as a playv..Tight.
For now, lel liS turn
to
role-playing--acts of
theatricali7..ution with a connotation of consciolls acting.
The theatrical impulse, thc act or seIC-thealricali2l'ltion in Williams' plays. Bigsby
aptly argues, is a way of counterposing "the destructive reality of death," an ad whereby
"the invcnted self hopes 10 dcccive demh" (144). In many rcgards, this cxprcsses the
meaning of role-playing in Williams' later plays. In the manncr of Blanche and like a
stage manager-culll-actress, Mrs. Gororth stages her act of rcsistance. Whcn Chris
manages to get to the villa, he must slill go !hrough other hurdles in order to reach her.
Slarting from the verandah, he must move to lhe blue villa. thcn to the library and finally
to the bedroom. ( have noted how the very dramatic action of thc play is lhus controlled
by her. In this sense she is a creative Sla~e man..q;er shaping the flow or [hc aclion--whk:h
is synonymous wilh encroaching rcality--and thc drama's spatial organization. This
appears to be un act of resistance, a bid 10 protecl what. in her sclr~isolation, she dcems
esscntial. But soon, she muSl (ace the illusion of dramatic plot. Chris's advance proves

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166
irresistihle. Ingeniously, she quickly adopts thl..: role of an actress in order to seduee him.
BUl of Course this is lO no ;lvnil. The kabuki dance that she uses to demonslrate her acting
ahility, or (paraphrasing her) to parade her "anatomy" \\vhile praising it verhally ns she
used to do. capture her failure, for she eannol execute the dance (43). Her role-playing
ultim<:ltely stands <:15;:1 dramatization of her fall, her death both as a person and as an artist.
Thc Man fares no better in Kil'che even though, unlike Mrs. Goforth. he does nOl
experience physical destruction. His sense of theatrienlity shows, on onc level, in the
way. like a stage dcsigner, he tries to perfect his "secnrily" in the house. The structural
scpOlration between the Kirche and thl..: Ktichen is a ba<;ic one. He equips thc Kirehe with a
complex lighting system to warn him of any external intrusions. and paints thc \\\\,<1[[5 in
different colors to ohjeelify different threalcning realitil..:s. If red means danger lurking
outside, yellow, the c.:)lor 01" the day-limc keepcr (the giant daisy), represents the "vibes
of existence in this lhrce-walkd enclosure" (63). As a play of the seventies Kin'he's
reliance on color is perhaps indicative of the emphasis on visual effects then current. l !
The bright colors and the grotcsque symholism contribute to heighten the Man's physical
ellvironmcnt--thereby also revealing the uttcr f<1ilure or bis scheme of sclf-proteetion.
Like Mrs. Goforlh before him, dcspite his effort and artistic ingenuity, the M,m \\,;annol
blot out the exlernal world. His wife's intrusions into the Kirche and the awareness of the
passage sYJ1lholizcd by "the giant daisy and the night-blooming vines" (30). are
unstoppable.
In the same way the Man's ro1c:-playing us an actor, an expert in prclcnse, his "bit
of theater:' as he calls it (45) proves useless. At the end of the play. i{ hc\\,;omes elear to
him that his earlier statemcnt that his wlc-rlaying has helped him lo "both endure and
:mrvive" his wife's prcsenee (10) was premature.
NOl~worthy also is the rcsult of his
role-playing as a teaehcr. Whcn his kids--"Kinder" in the play--rcturn home expelled

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167
from kinderg;Irten, nfler fiflecn years or attendance, he handles the situation not by
disowning them as his wile does but by using his "rich experience" in the thcllter. He
IC;Ichcs lhem "all the worldly knowledge" he ever knew prncticillg in the theater (3 J). l3y
the end of the play. however, as the kids return from the venture completely emplY
handed, he has just more proof that the cnicacy of the "thealer" is but illusory. His is a
chain of failures in all insl,mees or his artistic experience, a~ J designer, an actor, and a
director-teacher. The whok point of the action here as in The Milk Train or in The 7'wo-
Character ?lay, is indeed a demomaration of the failure to sllstnin a Jignified self in the
midst or a hostile world. His theatrical ingenuity is. in short, a rt:presentation of the
proecs~ of his failllrl:. Through the parodic mode, WiJliams is laughing at the Man--and
himself--whose endcavor, aimed al creating J "sanctuary sueh as onee sought in places of
worship" (l J). is frustrated.
When Fclicc and Clare find themselvt:s not al home bUl prisont:rs of the 1hcater, it
bccomes clear that they net:d other ways of survival. As Ruby Cohn says, tht:y try to
"support each other in continued play \\vilhin a meaninglt:ss cosmos" (1984 343). Their
talents as aclors, perfomlcrs, becomt: primary assels. They embrace tht: ddinition of
pcrformam:c in the lheah:r JS J mutually supporting prol.;CSS. To pJrapbrJse Bigsby,
acting and being bcwme interchangeable. To rerfonn The Two·Characrer Play or Jct out
other roles indced becomcs for Ihem synonymous with J quest (or order Jnd protcction.
Fclkc and Clare uo nol. howevt:r, Jchil.;ve anything close to that. Wbile Fclice is
desperulely eager 10 pla:-', Clare is utterly reluctant. Willy-nilly, they do perlorm, but with
WIS, and much stumbling over lines. The lack of hannony ill tht: execution of their roles
<IS actors is indicative or a [ailure to impose order. The improvisalions in which they
indulge are a sign of the "threat of dissolution" (19&4 134). They do nol "gJin the
wnsolnlion ofJrtislic lonn."12 On the other hand, JS I have shown. when Felicc and Clare

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16X
lake up the roles of actors they are ollly toying with d~i.l.lh because the play itself is Lt
death play. Also relevant at lhi:; level is the way lhey try to dominate their rem, warming
lip for the interior play. As Fclicc slarts a tape recording of a guitar and [lees the
audience, the)' begin the following exchange:
Felice: And Fear i~ a monster vasl as night-
CI:\\I"e: And shadow'C<lSling as the sun
Felice: It is quick silver, quick as light-
Clare: 11 slides benc::Hh lhe down·pressed thumb (311).
Francis Gillcll's unCllysis of the exchange is judicious. The "obvious use of rhyme
;md the rhythm of the music both suggest the attempt to assert control through art. Fear
it~c1C spoken about and presented on stage, is fear already begun lo be brought under
control. But such control br~3ks down quickly in the (ncl; of {he cham; of their situation"
(228). Their attempt is rcminiscent or thc way August's resistance again:-;t the producer
comcs Ollt through verb'll p:::lrallelism (infra, chapter 2). A significant variation on their
use of vcrbal hmgu'lge appears in the frequent w'ly they complete onc 'lnother's Sentences.
It is all part or their continuous ro!c-playing--'lnd their eontinu'll failure.
The fate of Feliee and Clare is paradigm'ltie. In several significant ways, their
role-playing f(..'veals the way in which artistic pmcliec is a rorm of self·destruetion.
Taking up their different roles, they simply further expose themselves, on onc level, to
thc chill of their thealer building, and on the other, to
Ihe scorn or 'llienalion or thc
audicnce. Their role-playing is, thus, one or the importalll ways in whieh Williams
1I11estions art itself. I will return to other functions or role-playing in exploring the
communicative dimension nrart. For ])O\\V, I w'lnt to stres.~ some possible motivation,'; in
Williams' own use or role-playing, as a form of being.
The obvious source for Williams' inspiration in thc pnrticular use of folc-playing
explored here is his knowledge of lhe thcatcr. By Ihis I do not simply mean thc way he

---

\\(,9
knew how to write plays. WilllillllS was also an ill.:tor in the li(l"TaJ sense of having
appl.:ared in the perfornml1ce of his ,S'ma/l Craft Warnings in 1972, but also in the
I
,metaphori<,;a[ sense of assuming roles. !-k knew whal and how to do or say things in order
\\
10 draw attention Lo himself. III a sense, as I have sug,rcsll.:d earlier, the [rait of
.
I
I
.
~xaggeration appa~cnt in his rattitude when talking or eomplaining about lheater people
.- ..
,
,
. ',--
partakes of his sdr·thcatricalization::- his role-p1£l))ing. His "mysterious" disappearance
,
'
heightened hy the note hI,.' wroLe to hi5 brother may hmie been the result of a paranoid rit,
but jt achieved just the dramatic effect he longed for wh~n appearing on TV or such other
public arenas. In his acts of extravagance, laying out his private lire, and in his displays of
self--pity, insisting on his sufferings, Williams demo,nstrnted a keen sense of the dramatic.
,
r
But again. pt:rhaps he believed too 1l1w:h ilYLhese roks, as some have poinled out.
,,
Overdoing, he perh:1ps numbed the public's sen;iti'vity to his ease and his plays; if so, he
contributed 10 the destruetion of his own credibility. His appearance in Small Cft~(r
IVarnings allegedly to promote his GI/t Cry 110t o~lly marred the rehearsal (Spato 334),
but was itself a pathetic sl1o\\-\\/ that simply fed his already notorious public image, SpolO
also remarks ha,",", in May 1979 :.lppearing in a couple of universities to address their
students, Williams did not do much to "increase ,the reSpl.:Cl of a younger generntion for
an older playwright" (374). Willi;Jnls' acts of the:urieality WCl'e indeed acts or self..
dt:sLruetion; they damaged his career where he most wnnted to hold it high---bcfore the
general public. This leads liS to the theme of communication,
The specilically cummunicative purpose or .In was of importanee to Williarns
hmh as a person and an artist. This, however. is neither peCUliar 10 Williams nor speciJic
10 his later plays. Silence and aplmsia constitute a recurrent themntic line in contemporary
American drama ;md Cullill various fUllctions lhat Hig~by has explored more or less

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170
extensively (1992 J).
\\Villiams' concern
with communication coincides with
his
conception or the illldienr.:c and
the Other Itl!' that maller, as <l vital source or life. The
(Ot.h~r exists <15 <:Ill image of God. "WiIJinOls conceives of God <.IS anthropomorphic. made
in man's own image and likeness ... the way wc conceive of God is also [he \\'t'ay wc will
.
j
sec our Ilclghhor aJ,ld ourself."13 Our hope for protection against fear and death lies in our
. ~-r'
search for the other; hence the fcc~ri-cncc ih his,w&;k' of the theme of interdependence.
• J
•
As long as
the anist can COml1111llic[llc with a significant other there is hope for him or
hcl'. There loo lies [he vital function of drama that, as(1 have shown carlier, Williams
disl:ovL'rcd personally earlier in life. The audience t'oregrounds his sense of drama, for his
,
interest in drama resulted from his discovery of it as a "wuy to communicate with large
audiences" (PcJse 1977 105). Essentially, \\\\'ri~irig for the theater he sought to use his
,-,
drama [IS (he lyric poet uses his poems. He endeavorcd 10 convert his lyricism imo drama
in order 10 spe,lk to all audience larger Ihan himself. He aspired tll rise "above the singulur
to plural concern, from personal to gCl1cral import" (Pease Op. Cil.). On the whole, he
bdieved that though his individual experience is inevitably thc depaning point of his
praclice, it is always symbolic, never an end in itself(Whae I Live 109).
In his latcr car('cr be "was always interpreting himself ,md the "'orld he knew or
,
imagind··trying to undcrslaml,
trying
tll communicate, trying
to
help others to
understand what may [It l[l~t he beyond rational comprehension" (Loney 1910 76). But he
had become aware or the fundamental problem of cOlllmunication between him and his
audience. In 1971 hc expressed the idea thal as an artisl, it \\Vas his "frightening
responsibility ... to
make
what
is
directly
or allusively
dosc
to
his
own
being
communicable Hnd undersL,mdable, however disturbingly. to the hearts and minds of all
whom he ;lddresses."J~ Drnmatizing the artist-ligurc's predicament or revisiting his own

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171
past, Willi:'lIns constantly addressed hi~ plight. Significantly, in his earlier plays, though
protagonists are often eloquent speakers and inddaligable actors and aClresscs--Blanchc
nnd i\\manda come to l11illd~-"Ill()rC often 11he artist-ligurcs] prefer silence" (Bigsby 1992
42) like Tom, Scbnsti:.m (who is absent physil:ully from the adion), Val or Brick.
Charnclerislically,
Williams' later ;)rt;.~t-figurcs want lu be exuberant verbally or
dramatieally, but typically also, they are impaired by the vcry state of their un. Silence
and aphasia hecome suspicious. the sign of the failure of their arl. If performances arc
"masks. action imcndcd for communication" (Bigsby 1984 140), the inability la perform
bCClllnl:S a l'<Iilure to communiculc. [f wmmunicution is un instrument of power l5 ;1nu
language is thus power, (hI: "absence of language jg an index of rcl<Itive powerlessncss"
(Bigsby 1992 3). All thest:: ehameteristie~ ;lpply to William.s' later artists. Realistically or
melaphorically. Williams explores the status of art in his latcr plays. through the urtisl-
figures' failure to communicn!c lht::ir ideas or views. or simply to connccl with their
audience, with others.
Very onen. the idca of the medium
of artistic expression as itself inadequalc
comcs [IJ thc li)re. Will~ams' dramatic hlnguage was not alwllYs adequate 10 the tasle of
those whom he primnrily addressed. In Snwll Craji Warnings Quentin the scripl writer,
who ;1ppems only hrielly in the action, lells the origin or his "sethaek." It occurred, he
explains, "when they found me too literate for my first assignment. .. eonverting an cpie
into :.l vehicle fur the producer's daxy, a grnmmar school drop out" (256). This is clearly
the story of Willinms' experience as a script writer when <In MGM manager hired him in
the
19305 lo write a play for a lovcr who turned out to he an ineompeknt actress. In
Kirchc the Man's lnnguage is nol imclligible to his children and his wife is quick 10
remind him: "address 'cm in words of a single syllable" (53). This is a clear pnrody hy
Williams of wh:lt he :o.aw as Ihc approvcrg' inabililY to appreciate his later plays in \\vhieh

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172
un experimental dramatic hlllguugc is deployed. Consciously or unconsciously Williams
drev..· from his experience in the tlll:;ltcr world, dramatizing what the theater people
considered to be an ohstacle to their appreciation orhls art.
The l.:haracler who is a performing artist alTers Williums two main ways in which
10 c;\\plorc the communicative dimension of art: use of the body (as in dancing or acting)
and lIse of the voice (language on stage). With performance, he gels the dynamism
inherent in the process of communication and the sense of immediacy necessary in the
themer. Physical ahility and choreographic cOlllrol arc hasic to performing. The ability to
execute choreography correctly reveals the artist's control of his or her medium. Therein
lies the intelligibility of his or her art, and his or her hope 10 communicate happily with
the audience. Invariably, Williams' later characters arc unnble to dance or act. They have
lost Iheir physical and artistic abilities. Dancing, perfomling, they further distance
themselves from their audience. Williams knew what this amounts 10 in the thealer. As he
:said in a letter in 1971, "the failure to discipline the sclfto achieve its goal is the impUlse
toward sclf-destruction."16
I have already noted how ill failing to execute the kabuki dance for Chris, Mrs.
Goforth fails Lo seduce him. She has several counterparts, In The GniiJiges Friiulein, the
Fraulcin keeps stumbling through hcr demonstrations of her craft. To Polly and Molly
this is a further proof that she is u "real personage" to bc admired only for her
grotesqucries. Onc of the reasons Miriam, in In fire Bar, shuns public appearanee with
Mark is that he contjnu~IJy bumps into people \\..'hcll he is 1I0t simply l~llling as he dues on
lht: sw.gc. In lhis, wt: see an image of the distance that separates his art from the public for
which hc so longs. Zeld~'s fate in Clothes is simil~r wltcn
she decides to show her
t:strangcd husband an excerpt of her venture into dancing (220-221). In this and her
theatrical ization of her Ii rst cncounter with him (212), Scott re fuses to play the Hud ience--

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173
Olll: more indication of
the denials of whidl she has long been a victim. Whether she
means to impress SCUll ur to arouse his sense of guilt, she (ails to bring home her roint.
Unable to express herself colll:rently and intelligihly, she cannot hope to dicit Scott's
admiration or 10 hurt him. Instead, she further exposes tbe [<lct of her insanity--lhe basic
reason for their initial separation. In '<"'omelhing Clolldy, sensing his failure to play out his
past. Clare urges August to "drop the metaphysics" and to pluy it "straight pIu)' it..as i1
V,inS then" (24). In the same play the thcml: or Kip's dance is voyage, hut he never
voyages because he cannot put his d,mce together. As indications or the lack of structure
or cohcn:ncc of the dancer's m.:di urn, stumbling and loss ur balance evoke the difficulties
of the theatrical actor, As we have seen, Clare and Feliec perfectly illustrate lhis. Their
ellts [1Jld improvisations ruin the structure of the interior play and kad the .mdience lo
desert them. Oy analogy, on the level of Williams' own practice, tbe effect of the cuts or
stumbling suggests the lack of narrative slruelUre in his (ater plays whieh so much
annoyed both audience and critics.
An instrumental communicative Iou I fur the performing artist IS the phonic
medillln--voicc and tilL' lIbility 10 lIse \\vol'ds meaningfully 011 tbe stage. Most ofWilliaJlls'
laler perfonning eharo.l.:ters fear losing their voice--litcrally und metaphorieally--or
acLually lusl' it. One reviewer ur The Gnlitliges Frlilllein defines thL' FriiuLein as ""an aging
Soprano \\vl1o is forever straining to demonstrate lhat her cracked voice can still hit the
high pure notes 111<11 won her famc."I? This is not an accurate assessment of the Frnulcin,
for she is nol aspiring \\0 anything. She is just playing oUl the game for which she has
been accepted in the dormitury, ofrering ~l spectacle of the present condition ut' her art and
herself: She is not performing hut "demonstrating," la use Molly's word (233). She has
lost the ability both La speak intelligibly and, for that matter, to hear; Molly's use of a

---

J 74
loudspeaker is a hyperbolic dramatization of this, in perfect aCl;lln.lance Wilh the drnmatic
mode orlhe play.
In The Two~Characler Play. Clare is not far from losing her voke or anyway so
she claims: "My voice is going, my voice is pmctically gone!" (316). fclice continually
reminds her la "stop wearing out" her voice (314). The meaning behind this emerges in
Felice's sarCU!'irn: "yes, you never come on stage before an opening night performance
without giving me the comforting news that your voice is gone ..." (316). Should Fclice
bl.:l.:omc ,1 solo aclor as a rC!'iult of the loss uf her voice, it would be the end of the
pcrfonnancc.·inJeed or their art. It would be a quicker way to alienate themselves from
their approvcrs. Studying The Two-Character Pia....', Thomas P. Adler asscrts judiciously
that "tt is a ramble about the <trlist whose \\'ery significance and self identity depend upon
being heard by others, and yet because of fcar of continued rejection by those who do
hear is afraid to expose his work and thereforc himself to an audience" (81-82). Francis
Gillcn secs a similar si!{nificam:e in thc central fact orthe confinement in the same play.
"Confined," hc argucs, "suggests not only bcing retained with an institution, but an
author whose anguished mcaning is no longer being heard"
(229). Gillen further
elahorntes on the significnncc of Cl<lre's and Fdiee's attitude to the word "confined"
ilself. Taunted by C!>lre, felice refuses to say it and explains: "I won't do lunatic things"
(339). Not until thc desertion orthe audicnce, when their confinement becomes rc"lity, do
(hcy make lip their mind about saying thc "forbidden" word (364). Left unspoken, as
Fclicc explains, "its silenee incrcases its size. Tt gets larger and Iargcr till it's so enormous
that no hOllsc can hold it" (338). Spoken, the word is no less frightening, for then it
literally makes their c.)ndition present. As actors. their choice to say the word and face its
consequences is morc than a sign of madness. [t has existential Illeaning. Voice <:lnd the
use of it are a symbol of identity and activity for the itC10L The irony in this casc is that

---

175
since they 'lrc sllrrolllld..:d by dHlOS ~I)lJ live in nbsollllC solitude, their voiL~es simply bring
back echoes of their exislentiall:onJition, not the vital response from God-the-Other, here
the audience.
Zdda's predicament also shows in her inabilil}' lO get her words Deross to Seott,
and morc~generrilly her auJicn~~~·l-;he windy atmosphere serves uS a pretext 10 umrnatize
...
F
' . ' .
)v-'~
'
\\
•
her dillicullics. In the slage direction, Wil~1.ll1s strongly insists that this mllsl be very
apparent in the scene where Zehla tries 10 communicale wilh the audience in a din::ct
,
address:
In this scene Zclda must somehow suggest the desperate longing of the 'insane' ID t:<Jl1Illlulliclllc
something or their priv;l!c workl 10 those from \\yholll they're .~ccludL:d. ThL: words are Inoslly
blown away by the wind: but the cyes--imploring lhough proud--the ge~lUres--lrembling though
rigid with thL: urgency of their huge need--must .win Ih,;o: audience to her ineseapably from this
[Joint through the pl~y: the present wurd~ given h~r~lre lCnLative: they llIay or may not suffice in
themselves: the [Jrcscntlltioll--perl'flrlnilnCC--muSI (230).
This amounts to an injunction, whidl stresses communication as crucial in Zelda's
.
(
predicamenl. I1 indicates her artistic impotcnce. It s,ignals her dca/h. In Kirche, as I said
earlier, the Lutheran minister's loss nrvoice i:; a symbol too ufhis professional death as a
preacher. In this panicular play, till.: dc-empbasizing of verbal languagc leads tu a strcss
,,
on physical action a:; a substitute. This is, o1l0_crilic argues, Williams' "privilte joke [or
the public .:md criticul vultures,"tl'\\ parodying dramatic language from the experimental
Lbeater when: they thoughL his later works belonged.
This is to :;ilY Ih~t Williams' practice was also influcm:ed by the contextual reality
of the experimental cheater, especially its use of language. Though Williams sumetimes
denied Absllrdist"infIuel1l.:L': on his dramaturgy. his use or lungungc
is very often
reminiscent oflhe works ofwrilers like Hnmld Pinter. 19 ExpL':riments like the incomplete
SL':ntcnces in In fill! !Jar capture the lroubled pL':rsonaJity of his protagonis(~, artists and
otherwise. They dramatize an inahility to formlllatL': their ideas or views or simply !o

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176
communicate efficiently wilh others. If the foreign origin of the Japanese Barman is the
pretext to dramalize his difficulties with the English language, for Mark stammering is
morc simply an indication or the present status of his art.
To a signilicanl extent, Will iams' exploration of the artist-ligure's diflicultics with
the notion of language reflects his own Icars, if not his entire experil:t1i.;e in the sixties and
seventies, as a person rind an artist. Pcrsol1uHy the sixties and sC\\'l.:nties saw Williams
unable (0 communicale satisfactorily with his audiences. "I don't complete sentences
these days," he told interviewer Drill Isane in 1969 after a long silence (Cr)f7)'er,ralion.\\'
137). He was nn anxious man who had grown to fear public appearances. Like his artist-
figures, he otkn stumbled or fell in public. He ~lImmed up his preJil:amellt in the sixties
in this way: "The most painful aspeel of the depression was "Iways an inability to talk to
people. As long as you call communicate with someone who is inclined to sympathy, you
retain a chance 10 be rescued" (Menwin 204). Above all, wc must seek the genesis of the
communication problems in his plays' I~tilurc to appc"l to audience. Some have nrgued
that he had become unable la shock his audience because he either olTered them deja I'US
or his plays were "too personal, too autobiographical to communie<lte the inner world of
[their] creator."20 To Williams himsclr--supporled in this by some pereeptivc critics, as
wc have seen--his later experimental work WilS simply beyond the understanding or liking
of the specific Broadway audience and erilies he so much sought to communicate wilh
(Ruas 1975 81). With his incomplcte language and his experimentation with memory,
play-within-the-play and other theatrical devices all through the late part of his career, he
soughl ncw and more adequate ways of expressing his own artistic voice. To paraphrase
him. when an author employs unconventional tcchnilJ.ues. he is trying new ways of
interpreting rcality.2! How effective or inefTective these were on the Broadway stage is
apparent in the constant rejection h~ met.

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177
The truth was thal Williams' voicl: rang in new LOnes, and that for mosr people
this \\-vas not till.: authentic Williams voice they wanted to hear. Il "is so bloated, so static,
so tedious·-unlill doubli.:-checked my playbill I was sure I'd wnlked into a play about Ed
and Pcgeen Fitzgcfald hy Tennessee Ernie," ironized .Iod Siege I aboul CIOlhe.l'Jl At the
centcr of Williams' plight was indeed a communication problem, and the new aesthetics
of his medium, his laler work. was u crul.:ial part of it. Overall, in dranHllizing the urtisl-
figure's inability to know how to conneet with the audience. Williams made a crucial
slatclllcnt ahout art's failure to serve the artist· figure. nul certainly the artist-figure him-
or herself is nol blameless in this. Before gelling at this, wc must look at some other
signitkant destrucLive aspcels of art.
HI. 2. Art as itself a Ocstructive Force
WilIiams often said [haL "Any artist dies two deaths, not only his own a~ a
physical being but that or his creative power" (Memoirs 242). In his later pbys the two
Lypes or death occur and arc ollen related. To some extent, the laller dl.:ath has heen my
canl.:ern in the previous section: Lhe \\vay art falls apart under various hostile pressures.
Here, I want to focus on the artist·figure's physical death and its relation ta his ar her <:Irt.
For the first time, in some of Williams' later plays, art itself functions not as a refuge or a
sLrugglc Lo eommunicale but us sumething destructive and hostile to the artist. For
instance, in In the Bar, by embracing his art Mark destroys himself. 23 This tclls much
about the natun: of his art. With this particular represelllation of art, Williams expresses a
dcep levcl orhis disillusionment with art itself: Imagc and metaphors of lin: and bestiality
espl.:cially, hut .11:-:0 of other forms of destructive force dramatize tbe desfructivcnl.':ss of
art. Bestial metaphor is not altogether new in his wark or imagimnian,24 In Suddenly Last
Summer. for inst<lIlee. cannibalism and the carnivorous birds or the Galapagos symbolize

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17R
bl.:stial, destructive forces in tIll: pluy. But here he personifies an and often achieves a
form of vital ism or animism, as some religious scholars would argue. 25 In any case. hl:
correlates the particul:.lr vitally destructive power or hcslialiLy of ;Jrt to the artist-figufc's
preOCCUp<lllon.
The act of painting is for Mnrl~ a process of struggle against some living thing.
ivliriam complains that he talks to his canV<lS (28). for Mark himself: the reason is simply
that, "colar isn't passive, it, il hns a frr.:rcr.: life in it!" (24). By Miriarn's nccount, his
artistic practice is il lile and death struggle: "('YC heard him shout at the studio canvas.
'You bitch, il's you or me!" (38). Figuratively, the paint smearing his body and clothes
represents tht: blood ht: shcds in combat. But thc worst ror him is that he is tht.: loser. Onc
or his main complaints whcn he comcs on stage is that he cannot control the CJnvas,
which likc somc fcrociolls bca:-!. trics to run out (18), For ;mother thing. to cntcr his hotel
room filled with thc canvas is to cnter the spacc of a beast lying in wait. On a literal leveL
all this translates as 101l0ws: the practice of his art, the intensity uf work and
experimentation, is it process or self-dcstruction. Sounding likc Willinllls about the
demnnding cmture of production on Broadway, made all the more difficult by the attrition
of lime ~\\t\\ his person, Mark says, "I've always bccn e;xcitcd by work. But this timc the
excitemenL and the tension are." [sic] (15). When hc falls dead in the middle of the bar, he
regurgitates blood. By way ur the analogy cSlahlishcd earlier, this is a dramatic way or
linking his death with "color"··the panicular level at which, as a painter. he intensified
his experimentation.
Like Mark,
Fc1ice and
Clare cxpenence
artistic
reality as an enchantcd
phenomenon in a very consistent and distinctive way. As if by cnch,mtment, the theater
building closes in on them arter the audience has deserted thcm. The dream-like quality
of the pluy, mixing different levels of reality, should not obscure the idea of enchantment.

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179
For vitalism. in the sense defined earlier, is 1101 (.'3sual in this play as the recurrence of
,animal metaphors tcslities. The daisy is :l grotesque two-headed creature who
grows
gigantic overnight; the statue that ;H onc point Felice grasps for help is a giant monster,
~1t1d the audic.f!cc appears to Clarc in a bestial light. The dynamic ..mu cavernous
appearance nf the building proj~cts, thS ~J11age o!)he_g.llls or the mouth of some gianl
.,
crealUre. Death is indeed plausibly the ullim,ite fate or Fclicc and Clare. Closing its
mouth, the giant creature seals (heir fate.
It is possible to attribute Williams' inspiration here as elsewhere to some abstract
notions about the bcsli.d, or to assert lh<l[ bestiality as a device is not a new phenomenon
in his work, as I pointed oul earlier. The: fact rem~ins, however, that in the case of his
~
later plny.... hestial symbolism is cunsistent with hi~ perception of the thenler world as a
jungle and the theater people a5 beasts. Extending the hestial image, here, he applies it to
.
,
art ilsclfto show Ihat it hns become an equally de.st;uctive force.
,
Bestialization. however, is only one among many devices for drnmatizing the
artist·figufe's experience or perceplion of his or her art as a destructive force. Scoll's
cxpcricncl.:. wilh writing comes vcry close to Mark's. Seott's wife, has been the main
!
material for his writing--and at Ihis moment s~e is to him what eolor is to Mark. The
Zelda that we see, the insane Zclda. defines hcrscll'judiciollsly, nol simply as his wife
,..
but Illllfe as his hcroinc--Daisy. In other words, the insane Zelda is the creation of Seoll's
art; <.tnd the fact of insanity i.s an indication that, in renlity. creation is just a synouym for
deSlruction. In onc instnncc; she asks rhclorically: "If he makes of me a monument with
'.
.
hi.,:; .l:arefl.llly arranged words, is thelt my life?" (24R). In ,mother, shc asserls, "What was
important to you, was to ahsorb and dcvour!" (245). Zelda's asscrtion call:; forth the
metaphors or both lire and animal. hUI rh at of lire is espccially relevant. Buth
dramatically and verbnlly, fire occurs as one of Zclda's worst fears. She will nol l:ome

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180
close to the "Jlames" on the stagc:, and the asylum doctors report that she has a fixation on
[he :.;aJamandcr--thc cn.:alure mythologicnlly believed la he immune against burning. That
it is Scatt who, so fa speak, unravels the meaning of her fixation is significant in that it
points 10 the origin of her insanity, linking it to him--his art, thal is. The fire she dreads is
that of Scott's art. And so, hecause, as she says, she is not a sa]<Ullan,.!l:r, she must indeed
keep away from Scatl at the end of the action. Unlike Scott, Mark in In Ihe Bur perishes
in firc--thc fire of his own art. ror, what he cn':,1Ies through his art is not a cirt.:1c of light
but a hurning tire.
Apparent in this picture of Mark's art is the notion or bClrayal--an aspect of an
personi lied; and in C/o/he,l', too, wc have noteworthy images of this dramatization 0 ran's
dt:structive po\\\\'~r. Created hy SeoU's art, by ddinition and extension, Zelda embodies
ils very destrlll.:Live qualities. In this way, when she rc:bels against Scott, it is his art
Illshing at him. Thus when in the scene of the hotel room :;h~ asserts that she "Inust
resume the part created for me .. ." (248), she deserihes how her infidelity is indeed Seolt's
art hetraying him. Looking oul at him from the window, she exclaims. "How like him,
how terribly like him, patiently seated outside while his wife and heroine of fiction
betrays him upstairs" (246). Her extra-marital love~rclation is a dramatization of the
Lragie Gatsby-D<lisy relallon--an cnaUment of the author's own lragedy. On another level.
when at the end of the action, she withdrav,'s into her asylum, telling Scott to find himself
another book, \\....e see a dramatization of urt rebelling, as in the ease of Mark, against the
Bnis!. ,standing outside the asylum, prey to the clemcnts. Seolt IS left with no alternative
but to follow the path carved out by Mark.
The similarity bdween Mark's fate and that of Scan is not far-fetched. They also
resemble each oLher in the way their l1lonomaniw.:al commitment to artistic quest has led
tu a situation where art, personified here, kills their sexuality. "What about my work?"

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ISI
(240), Zclda miks, when Scull daims his need of artistic discipline. Failing to perform his
duty_ he led her, as wc have .'icen, to search for someone else to do i1. Even mon; explicit
is Miriam's articulation of Mark's plight: "Call me that lbitch] but remember that you're
Jcnoul1l.:ing a siJc of)'ol1rscll~ dcnicJ hy you!" (JO). In both cases. it is as ifm1, a living
lhing, takes the form of
;j jealous woman--or
for that matter the femme J(lfale--who
"aosorbs" the artist and emasculates him. Indeed ns Marks puts it, '\\;<lIlVas"·-art, that is--
"is loo demanding" OD).
1\\'1<lrk's is a severe judgment or his art, hut he is nol alone in this altitude. (l will
later lnkc up the betrayal theme in another aspect.) More relevant here is why August, in
Something ClOl/{fv, Something Clear, hDtes his writing for wb;]! it bas become. A
religious symbolism underscores his experience of its destructiveness. He experiences his
writing like a rilual enactment. Ohscrving him from a distance, Kip ami Clare can see a
man in a trance (22). But instead of the blissful quality of a succcssful trance, August
experienccs his possession as an aet orprolanation (21). Allhis instance, August is like
Murano or the sacrilegious drivcrs ia Wok Soyinka's 'f1U! Road,2(, invaded by the
destructive energies of invisihle forces. His art Ihen beeomcs a destructive inslrument or
process. Significantly, the play closes on Kip throwing a gull's skdelon onto Angusl
accompLlIlicd by thc following comment: Make "something like this with" your art (12).
A dead gull is a gull no longer able 10 soar. 27 What Kip's gesture and words suggest is
the reality of August's writing; it can do nothillg else now but to l1estroy. Thc skelelon
itself prefigures August's J~lte. Reliving his experience of forty yems earlier, the older
August linds it illuminating in rhe sense thar it tells him much ahout the prcsem condition
of his practice: a process or self-destruction. As an image of Wil1iams at the end of his
eareer, Older August's rclntion 10 his writing projccts his charaeterislic pessimistic
perception of his art.

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IH2
No matter tht: particulnr form in which Williarns' later artisl experiences the
practice or hi~ or her an, and independent of the meaning he or she attaches to it, the
dominant fael remains that it means an encounter with a destructive force. This is
consistent wilh the apocalyptic mood that characterizes the world ufthc !<ller protagonisl.
and wnstitutes all ultimate expression of it. One dimension of my point here has been
thallhc vcry artistic practice of the author himself. as he hoth perceived and experienced
it in the sixties and seventies, oriented his imaginatil1ll. Cl1ntinually rejected by his
audiclH:c. the pructiee or his art became for him a dramatization of his own destrucrion.
An appropriate qllery at this point would be 10 know if he had 10 go through this self-
deslruction. 111 the next and final section, I will try to answer this, exploring lIis
drnnmtizmion of the urtisl-figure's [-tilure, and linking il 10 Williams' own sense of guilt.
Ill. 3. Artistic Sins and Apologies: Thc Arlisf-ligure's Failure
As I have observed earlier. Williams helieved tbat the artist can never retire, for
some pcr~011i:ll reasons. But to a large extent he also had a certain sense of family or
gentlemanly pride. He liked 10 say that "1 don'l come from people \\vho quit."28 Following
the disaster of A Slap.f/ick Tragedy
in 1966, his mothcr who had allended the opening
suggested: "Well Tom, you enn always teach!" Of course, he "was not amused."
ClllllmCIHs his biographer (Spoto 295). To the last moments or his JifL' not only did he
believe that writing was ingrained in him as a way of life, but also stubhornly continued
[0 practice an art that had become synonymous with self-lorturc. "My obligation is for me
to cndurc" (SpOIO 344) he kept rcpe<iting lhrough his l.1s( yenrs. To some ex lent, this
caplun:s thc t:rux of his experience. On the otlH:r hand, in 1960 he defined, in a
Hnwthornian cast of mind, what he always saw as the artist's unforgivable sin: "When the
work or art hccomes tyrannicnlly ohsessive la the poinl of overshadowing his Iife, almost

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taking the place of it, he is in J hazardous situ:ltion."29 Through the sixties and seventies,
this hazardous situation was his own because of his obsessive commitment to his work.
Solipsism is dangerous bCl:<Juse, as Williarns once said. "when you ignore people
completely, that is hell" (Arller 1977 139). AI the end or his career, Williams l;ould sce,
and so can we, that hi: had long committed the artist's sin, probably .IS carly as till' 19305
when he and lhe theater "found each other for better or worse" (Mem()irs 42), but most
certainly as orlhe 19605. When trying to understand things. in 1981 he looked back at the
lra,icc!ory or his career, he could scc a singled-minded, solipsislic and almost tragic
devotion to work: "From onc period to {he other il has all happened behind the curtain of
work. And 1just peek out from behind the curtain of work now and then and Iind myself
on totally different terrain" (Conversation 332). He clearly understood his predicament.
Having wedded himscl r to the theater or ohsessively committed himself to it, he made of
his relation with his art a life-and-death story that he had to keep going as long as he
lived. Only death could separmc them, and so it happened. His belief in the status of his
art in his life was his own deadly fiction, thc one lhat shaped his art and with which he
died in 1983 in New York, the home and symbol of American {hemer.
Some analysts have argued that his later pb,ys are acts or apologia to all those,
1101ably his sister Rose, whom through lhe practicc of his art he had hurt. 3D Like Zelda for
Scott, Rose offered Williams much of the material Il1r his writing. Ckarly, what
motivated his apologia was the failure of his art to live lip to his expcctnlians--
<':ol11Jncr<.:ially and thcrnpeuticallyM-in the sixties and seventies. (Again we can think of
Seatt at the end of Clo/hes envying Zelda's insanity when his art (aikd him, or also or
Quentin ill ,S'ma!! Crqfi Warning,I' 1260-261 J who, discovering Gohhy's nui vetc, blames
himsclf I()r picking him up in the mistaken belief or olTering himsl.:lf solace.) II' it ,,",'ere
sincere, Williams' apologia required (hat he recognize his own guilt. This is something he

---

never failed 10 do. I-le always "accepted his weakness and sinfulness" lSpoto 399), asserts
K~lznn.lndeed, he never ceased lalking about his guilt regarding the lobotomy of Rose; he
tell he could have prevented it had he not been out in Iowa preparing his career.31 To
some extent he does so also in his creative art by variously insisting on the m1ist·figure's
guilt. The artist-figures' guilt does not simply stem from some abstraet notion, held by the
author, about the nature of the anti-heroic protagonistY It is inherent in his or her
practice.
l:kcalls~ artistie pracLlce lakes plac~ at the encounter between the l..)bj~dive realily
and the practitioner's sllbjce[jvc expecLations,33 the artist's expeetations affect his or her
lull:. We may note that in The Glass /Llt!nagerie it is parlly Tom's commitment to art, his
expeetations fJ:om it as a way of life, that motivates his decision to desert his family. In
,)'lIddenly LlIs! Summer, discovering the bLe or turtles, Sebastian "mistakenly equJtes his
savage vision with a cruel God" (Adlcr 1977141) and reverts lO <l predatory life. In the
end both Tom and Sebastian stand guilty of their n,;spectiv0 fates, or the hurl they bring
~llhcrs: ihe first reco£n;,zcs his rcsponsibiHty by the vcry <lcl of remembering those he
[ried 10 leave behind, the second by his tragic end, his self-sacrifice in che cannibalistic
ritu;..d. In the later plays, the artist-figures' tragic sin is of two kinds: their commitment to
their former identities as celebritics, and their unrestrained passion to create. Th..:se
themes
develop along the two interdcpendent lines elicited by the aUfhor's own
experience: a refusal to retire, and the substitution of art for life.
Though the [wo themcs that I h,we est<lblished ::nc decply intcrdependent, often
one or tl1C other comes to the fore. Either way, the artist-figure's mistake is apparent. For
the mosl part, all of Williallls' later artists arc stricken by a sense of stubbornncss and
<.lbsurdity. WiIliams otten pusbed logic to the limits of absurdity and surrealism. In his

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IS5
unpublished ghost play Will Mr. Merriwelher Relurn from Memphis?, he resurrects
RimbauJ anu Van Gogh to have them long for continuation of their artistic activities.
because withoLlt these "existence" is impossible, "The only thing I want is light again and
paints and brushes," says Van Gogh's app,uition (1-1-9). With ex-stars like :rv1rs. Goforth
in J11f? kfilk Tmil1, the Fraulein in The Gmidigcs Friiufein, or the Man in Kin.:he, the plays
stress a refusal to retire, though their characters have done so. Mrs. Goforlh lives wilh the
illusion of the omnipresence of her former identity us a star actress and an international
beauty. B1ackie lllakes the point clear enough: "Oh, no! Won't face it! Apparently never
thought that her legendary--cxistence--could go 011 less than for ever!" (30). As an artistic
compulsion, lhc Fraulein's sense of endurance constitules her own deadly failure in her
art. J have. for insranre, noted that in The Gm"idige.I' Frdu/ein what Molly and Pally find
attractive in the Friiulein's demonstrations is their grotesqueness, In her past, she made the
[,ltal mistake of loving someone who hated her (256). In the drarnatie present, her lr~gic
mistake is her <Jhsunl <Jllm:hment to a space and pral:lil:t: that no longer bring anyrhing but
sdr...tleslrudion. Th~ Man in Kirche tlespises th~ pre[lx "ex" for what t\\ telb about his
present status, discovers the illusion in helieving in his bits of theater, and yet delves
deeper in the pursuance of "practice" as he eventually leaves So Ho for Uptown.
1n many regards too, Mark and Clareffelice, display SOme form of delusion and
absurd stubbornness. Like the ex-stars, they are no longer physically or artistically able to
sustain continued practice, yet they will not quit. In this way, they actively contribute lo
the destruction of their art, and fur limt matter, of themselves. In In fhe Rur Miriam
eloquently and ironically explains Mark's obsession and illusion. Mark, .o:.he says, "hasn't
shown any preference Jor figurative or conventional styles," and hllS now "arrived at a
nen' oeparturc that's a real uepilrture" (41), anu he will nol slOp until he has controlled it.
In this instance, Miriam is like a mouthpiece of Williams commenting on his own

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186
practice. We hear, through her, Williams tcUin.g John Grucn (Conversations 1965 \\23)
thut he had tried all dramatic styles--the result W;lS••as we know, critical rejection on the
ground of rehashes. The portrayal of Mark is a self-parody.
Sel (l"l[l is the portrayal of Fe/ice's and Clare's refusal to retire or their new
perception of the significance of their art. Reinforeing their continued practice is their
never-ending [OUT despite a chain of f3jlurcs: "You know," cxpl<lins Clare, "after last
season's disaster, and the one before ];Jst, we should Imve taken a long. meditative rest on
some Riviera instead of touring these primitive, God-knows-whcre places" (316). Clare's
hatred of the theater is apparent in her choice of words. Out as relice tells her, "you
couldn'l stop anyrnore than I could, Clare" (316). The reason why not is worth
investigating, bt.:causc, with it, the thcmc of art bccoming a substitute for life comes to Ihe
lore,
The irony inherent in thc situation cIf Clare and Feliee, or the other artists, for that
mattcr, rcsnlts from a paradigmatic tragic llaw: when the artist-Jigures achicve one-ncss
with their art or begin to believe that they have. For art then b,,:,collles a substitute for life,
sh;Jping it, dominating it. or cr":<lting the condition of a dangerously solipsistic life. It is a
do..:adly mistake to allow onesclf to losc contact with reality. For Clare and Felil:e, there
are no mClrc houndarie8 between their lh'es as individnals and their vocation as artists.
The plny-within-the-play <Ilhm;s Williams to render Ihe merging of life and art. Past and
present inextricably and confusingly interpenetrate each other, as do thc settings and
structures of the two plays. The identities of thc two characters in lhe two plays are the
same; their very gender identities appear difficult to establish from their names. Clare
tOLlt.:hcs Oll a crucial fact when she explains to Fclicc, the author of the interior play and
also its director in the present action, that "sometimes you work all the play by inventing
situmions in lil"L: that correspond 10 thosc in the plays, you're so skillful at il that even ['m

---

_m1ft• ."
'r
-
n·,. .,
187
taken in ... " (365).
For Clure and Felice. the interior play, their "fiction" becomcs the
reality that life has to endlessly imitate. It is possible, Fclice suggests, "for a play to have
no cnding in the usual sense of an ending in order la make a point about nothing reaJly
ending" (360). And because the intcrior play is a death play, their life is an iJJlil~tion, a
reproduction of death. Also becuuse, literallY, their theater has be<.:omc their home, to stop
heing in it now is to commit suicidc hy freezing themsdves, as Clare points out (363), or
by imitating their parents. In the interior play, when their mother locked up their hnher's
"quadrant and chart of night skies and psychic paraphernalia" (341), depriving him of the
iustrument of [lis vocation as au astrologer. he shot her and killed himself. This fate hangs
right above them in their presenl lives. At the end of the <lction they stand vidims-~of
their own fiction, and partly by their own design.
The idea of home is tragic here becanse it conveys the theme of a refusal to retire
,md of art invading liJe, (Invariahly the ex-stars, Mrs. Goforth, the Fraulein, and the Man
transform their homes into "lheaters" and death-beds.) Here, I want to stress the etIed of
the passion to create. By way' of their passion to ereate, art invades the homes of Mark
and Scott too. Literally. Mark's room becomes his \\vork studio, his canvas becomes his
wife, and p<ijJl(ing becomes;:l sexual activity. When she lH:ard him talking to his canvas as
to a person (28) or saw him crouching "n;:lkcd
over the huge canvas" (17), Miriam
"naturally felt a little excluded" (28). Mark eventually
recognizes his mistake: "I've
undcrstood the intimacy that bas to cxist between the. the--painter am) lhc--I! It! Now it
turned to me or I turned t() it. no division between us nt all <inymMc" (17). He seeks an
impossible compromise wilh Mirjam. agrecing to "lake a chance of lhe interruption" (24).
But she resolutely refuses, stressing instead, Zelda-like, her "need ofsomt: space between
myselt', and" him (39).

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\\88
SeaLt's cCluivalcnt lo Mark's pllssioll Jor color is his compulsive obsession with
artistic Jiseipline. His studio hecomes. as one of the ll<l.shbacks shows, a spncc forbidden
,
10 ZelJa. Like Mark, ut the end of
C{olhn", Scull acknowledges his mistake in his
assessment of Zelua's·insanilY as a beller fate than his 0\\\\11 art, or when, like Williarns
.
,
ahout his wedding La his arl, he reassesses their marriage: "The mistake of our ever
having md! The monumental error of the effort to channel our lives together in an
institution c"lllcd marriage" (277). Like Miriam, Zeldn refuses any compromise. She \\vill
no longer suburdinate herself to his disciplining arl despite her acknowledgment of his
upology: "Something':. heen accomplished: ~j rCl.:ognition--puinful hut good thempy is
often painfnl" (278). Left musing on his plight, Scott is in a predicament not much
differenl from Mark's; and he too has himself [0 hlame, Seoll ha.-; seveml other
companions in guilt.
In Vieux C'ane and Something Cloudy, the passion to create is an irresistible and
tragic pO\\ver in other aspects, In the first pl,ly, j( pulls the Writer into an uncertain
adventure in the West Coasl. Earlier, l showed how standing at the door of 722 Toulouse
Street, he dreads taking the first step outside. The fear has a familiar motivation: how can
he kno\\\\' that he is not about to make Cl tmgic mistake? He seems justified when we
consider the l.:xpericnee of Scott, a writer pmetieing on the West Coast, or of August in
.- - -'
r_'
Something Cloudy. Like Scott; August's passion for creation shows in his obsession with
~
aesthetics, namely, poelic drama. This obsession is, as obsl.:rved earlier, the very root of
his failure. Nobody, {i'om actors to producers, wants the poetic dmma so dear to him.
r·
.
When he resigns from his quest under the pressures previously analyzed, it is an implicit
acceptance of his mistake in trying to be creative within an environment totally closed to
'\\;rcativity." August's ultimate reulizatioll has its counterpart in f..:.ip's in the same play.
railing to lind a space for the practice or his dance or to summon the necessary energy

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189
from within himself, Kip typically responds to Clare's comti:)fIing \\vords: "I think 1 made
a mistake trying to geL <lway. I tficd la justify it hy telling myself that [ belonged to tJw an
of dancing. not a war, but. .. " (17). We know the rest. And these arc the confessions ofa
disillusioned and guilt-ridden artist. Typically, Williams' hlte protagonists acknowledge,
or, ;:ne made aware of their guilt. I have shown Ih;:11 the author himself typically
recognized his own. His re/urn [0 his earlier experience, like Tom's in The GI(Jss
Alenagerie, is of importance in that regard. The Jct or recognition was also a crucial
governing moral and subjective principle in his pradice.
11 is Williams' Idea that "we love and betray C<ll.:h other in not qnite the same
br~ath but in two breaths that occur in fairly closc seqlJellCe" (Where! Live 51). This is
especially true with organi..: artists, "thosc who write close to life. I'J4 More than others,
they risk betrnying the material or their art which is often someone or something they
love. Betray:..tl is a lorm of destruction with lllany sides. In the disintcgrating world of722
Toulouse Strcet, the Writcr experiences his writing as a process of "self-exposition" (69).
Self-exposition here brings to mind Williams' sense of "self-immoLuion" inherent in
anistic pmctiee, something he admired in Rimbnud's writing (lv[emoirs 250). It also
evokes the way \\.:ritic<; talked or Williams' latcr plays as ullerly "confcssional," a laying
out of his privatc life, a public betrayal of himself. The renl or supposed destructive
dimension of such n writing resides in the fact that it leads, as in the case or both thc
Writcr and Williams himsell~ to a critical rejection of the finished work. But above all, it
is an act or self-betray'al. Altistic impulsc oceurs to the Writer under the unpleasant light
of betrayal in another respect: "Writers arc shameless spies" (95), he observe;.;, when he
realizcs that he has eavesdropped on .lake and Tye and made them the subject of his arL
TIle artist-ligure's moral sense docs not escape the corrosiveness of his art. Betrayal. it
WOl.11d seem, also justilicd Williams' intcrest in thc stories of ScoH and Hemingway in

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190
ClOThes il~ a meditation on his own. Much of their dramatization in the play stresses their
self-justitication as organic writers. As Seott betrays Zclda, Hemingway betrays himself
and further tells Seott th81 he may someday do the snrne to him. This shows, as he argues,
that "I can betray even my oldest close friend, !he one most helpful in the heginning"
(271 ).
The betrayal inherent in organic wriling may--as when, in the case of WilJiams'
later artists or himself, il tails in significant respccts--inductably bring self-destruction.
Commenting on his suicide attempts, Hcmingway, says: "Yes, I may have pronounced on
myself this violent death sentenCe to expiate the betrayals I've strewn behind me in my
solitary, all but totally solitary--" [sic] (271-72). This is so because "the art \\vork that
results can never he in itself a sufiicient reeompcnse for the hurt it causes, and final1y
only selfdeslruetion can assuage the guilt" (Adler 198710). That Mark and Scat! must
die is therd<lre morally justifiable here.
In his own creative work, the chOices Williams gives his protagonists are a
testimony of his mood!11 the bter )'cars. 35 Indeed, Williallls eventually came to believe
in death as an ultimate form ofsalvalion or a meaningful gesture. In 1975, he arg.ued that
"when alllhe possible options have expired, wc must attempt to accepl [death] with as
much grace as there remains in our cl1mlnand" (Memoirs 247). In [980, he recognized
that the only possible "release from other people's fiction" (Bigsby 1984 142)--that is,
from the grip of Broadway, from the lheater--was through death. In the seventies he took
to reading works celebrating the triumph of death, for instance, S\\rindberg's Dance (~r
f)calh (Spoto 323-324). Hearing of Yukio Mishima's act of hara-kiri. he justi tied it saying
thal Mishima "had completcd his major word as an artist" (Spoto 328). That he himself
never came to that WIAlld seem paradoxical, but is certainly understandable, especially if
we consider his view of the root of his sense of guilt. Indeed, he saw his plight. his work's

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191
loss or cachet, as typical, just another illustfLllion of the plight or great American artists
condemned, unlike Europeans, la critical rejeclioll. 3(' This perhaps diluted his guilt and
theret{)re restrained him from an expiatory self-destruction. Furthermore, contrary to what
he says about Mishima, he never fclt that he had completed his work. These qualifICations
may notjustjfy him but, apparently, they made sense la him.
The reasons that kept Tennessee Williams clinging to his art are, as I have tried to
show, numerous and understandable. However, wc may also legitimately raise questions,
as Sl)rne have actually uone, as to the wisdom of some of his choices. Glenn Lonel'
sumnuJrizcs the argument of the critics who wished he hall retired: "Some Williams-
watchers would ha vc been happier with him if he'd settled into an august posture llS
America's oldest-living Grcat Drammie Poet, giving gracious audiences, awarding
playwriting prizes to young hopefuls, delighting the denizens of major universities with
spritely sallies at seminars, llnd generally enjoying the role of Grand Old Man of
American Letter, without feeling the need to write ye! another play" (1984 74). Though
the underlying statement of Williams' "mistake" is a judicious one, it is nol at all clear
that the prohlem lay in his writing )'d another play. It appears to me that it lay in his
failure to make an adjustment when, as he and others pul it, he found himself on new
theatrical [errain. As Zclda puts it, "Adjustments h;J[veJ to be made to faiths that ha[ve]
faded" (275). h is alle;ed that he wrote Period o(AJjllstment (1960) and The Night oIthe
IgulJna (1961), with, for instance, a "genlle" outlook and happy endings,3? trying to
compromise with Broadv·iay. If'so, in a sense, he succeeded, since they were indeed his
last Broadway hits. In the subsequent years of the sixties until his death, Williams failed
to adjust his expecLations to the new ohjective reality and tlh.'reby let himself become
imprisoned in certain fictions about Broadway.3~

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192
When he tirsl wrote anout Ihe t.:utaslrophc of SUCl,,;CSS in 1947 folluwing The Glass
Menagerie, he nolcJ that "the public Somebody you arc when you 'have a Imme' is <.l
Jiction created with mirrors" (Where J Live 2]). Dy the cnd or his career. Broadway
mirrors had enclosed him. Wc must agree with David Grcgory that Williams' self-
identiftc:.uion with Broadway was a mnjor obslacle: "If you live al the top or fame and
lllOlterial SUCt;css. or course, it's hard to live anywhere else."]') for Williams Broadway
was where his theJlcr could find its meaning, in every way that theater practice mallereJ
for him: large <luJicncc, pnpulariry, material gain. fame. As I have tried to show in the
first and second chapters. hy the seventies, these could be gained elsewhere than on
Broadway. He realized this and tried to adjust, but it was to no avail. Had he
acknowledged early in the sixties that OfT·Bro<ldway
(which incidentally he helped
rcvivc)~(I was not just (or minor plays, but also for experimentally "challenging new
works" (Berkowitz 1992 I), he r..:ould hJve created a saner condition for the reception of
his work. Perhaps it is umealislie to .<.;ugges{ this to an established writer, and perhaps
[hen he would no! have produced plays that explore mtistic practiee, wi{h a special
hearing on his own experience. lJut the idea lhat Williallls should have stopped writing is
too extremc. There \\\\-'ere other ways that hud the advantage of nol compromising his
writing uitogether.
As onc whose reputation had heen long and solidly established, Williams would
have been belter oiT dropping his cheap strategies [or whining about his plight. He could
have risen nbove the negative Bro:.tdway criticism by ignoring il (ilS some ef1'cetively
did),~1 or mon: profitably, turned to other types of approvcrs. For, as I have shown
elsewhere, in the midst of persistent negative critienl responses to his later work, there
were voices claiming his lilerury nnd dramntie aehievcmenls.41 Those voices could be
heard among newspaper erilics, for instance, Clive Barnes and Waiter Kerr. But for lhe

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\\93
most part they were increasingly coming from the academic field:!) ESlher M. Jackson,
Phillip Jcrrold, Leland Starncs, Fran..:is Gillcn, AlberL Devlin, Christophcr Bigsby are a
few among them. For :..Ill these critics, Williams' later plays were experimental and
constitute ~ fairly successful exploration of a ncw subject matter--the nature of reality
(Bigsby 1984 131; Devlin 1989·90 15). Williams, however.....'as almost literally dUlnb to
this criticism of his plays. simply dismissing them as not money notices Of lambasting
them as openly as he did New York critics (Spoto 387). Perhaps he always had in minJ
aC<ldcmic critil..:s like Signi Falk
who, as we have seen, rcjCl.:LS almost all of his latcr
work. I want to suggest other possible reasons.
He often f.;xpressed his h<ltrec1 for New York intellectuals (Conliersations 9).
Perhaps he did not mean simply
New York critics, or perhaps he was aware of
aeauemia's relative lack of interest in the thcater. For one thing, I3igsby asks: "Why is it
that lit..:rary critics, eulLura[ historians, liter~ry theorists, those interested in the evolution
of genre in discourse anu iueology find so little to say ahout the theater in general, and the
American theater in particular?" (Bigsby 1992 I). There may be a bit of exaggeration in
Bigsby's claim. But whatever the case, as some have argueu, acauemie interest in the
theater is a recent phenomenon. It came only with the rise of not-for-profit theater.44
Focusing on Willimns' critical reputatiLm. John McCann45 nlso shows that it is long after
popubr criticism established his reputation thnt the academy took interest in him, starting
in the late 1950s. E\\"en then, notes G. Rogol1", the literary monthlies long "Jisdaincd
him," and the "middle-class intelligentsia has always consiJered Artllur Miller a lllore
importulll playwright. "4(,
Williams may therefore have hau some good reasons beside the fact that theirs
were not "money notices" to avoid listening to the academic voil:cs. But, a posteriori, we
can see that it is ilc<luemia that Illtimatcly appears as the <lgcnt ror securing his place in

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194
hislOry, ::;0 dear to him in his Itlter years. I have pointed alii the increasing rcvi\\'als \\)[ his
later plays in <Icademic institutions. The 1980-82 study in productiull, at the University of
Wisconsin, of [h~ !;Iter play that he always considered his majl-1f \\.me--The Two-Character
I'Iay--was an important milestone in the rediscovery of his laler plays. The several awards
he received fi'om Harvard, Bmndcis and several other universities across the country47 are
a recognition of his Illerit, though ;IS wc know, he oflen cynically alleged Ih:.!t it was just
prouf that these legitimiz.ing institutions were asking him to retire. Too, [he universities
of Harv;Jrd, Delaware, and Texas (where he left his papers) are sure places for posterity to
rediscover his plays through textual study. The Tcnnllss('c Wiliiams Literary Journal,
housed ill New Orleans, is principally the creation and the responsibility of aeademics. It
is regrettable however that up to today a latcr play like Something Cloudy, which some
pcoplc4R compare to
Long Day's Journey into .!'-,light as a major late work, has not yet
been published.
It is certainly true that, hecause plays are meant for the stage, they tend to make
Iheir place in history primnrily there. BUI rel:ognilion of the texts or the authur by
n:sp":l:ted institutions oflegitimatil1n may do just as well. Ln any case, Williams' failure to
sec and grnsp the rope (\\vhatcvcr it might have heen) Ihill wuuld have saved his later
career in his own eyes and time resulted from the fact that, like his artist-protagonists, he
was blinded by his (Jbscssion with commercial the~ler and what it stood for. His quotation
of the Song of Solomon as epigraph to The Two-Character Piay--"A garden enelosed is
my sis[cr"--may well apply to his own Ia(er career. However, it is not so much that
Willin01s was trapped in the "!heater endlessly recreating texts rather than rcaching out
into an experience external to art," (Bigsby 1984 147), but that he only believed in one
kind 01" theater. frauds Gillen's rhetorical question about the resolution of that same play
aptly hints at my point: "is it Williams the playwright, him~elf reflecting 011 his own

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195
CCH1tincmenl. ..coHsideril1g his recent bilun.:s and wondering if anyone care or listens
anymon:?"~<) Williams had a mistaken belief that Bromlway was the only place where he
could be heard or, for that malkr, where he could be ignored.

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CONCLUSION
196

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198
lyric theatt:f with its particularly personal and symbolic significance pVhere I Live 140-
i 41). My larger ide<.l has been lhut in the [asL two decades of his career, the theater world
became the nUlin suurce of his tensions, and that, being an organic and lyric writer, he
tr<.lOsl<:lIed them into his dramatic work.
Central to my study has Ix:en the idea uf Williams' later plDYs os cultural products.
With the
notion of the theatrical world as a lidd, I have elicited not only Williams'
position in it :I.S t:haraclcrizcd hy rclDtivc powerlessness. but also facets of the forces that
stood in his eyes as antagonists, his strategies to resist and assert his ambition, and the
ultimate transformalin]l of the vcry meaning of his art. His representation of the artist-
figure and its correlation with his own plight lcads us, synechdochically (.fames Clifforu
1985 38). inlo the ideology and politics of the 1960s and 1970s theatrical culLUre. The
financial, aesthetic, and prodllc!lLlll dilliculties lhat sustain his portraits of Ihc artist-figure
are dramatic manifesliltions or Williams' own troubles. That Williams may have imagined
some of thesc makes liLl1c difference, because imagination is groundl:d in experience. His
real or imugillcd experience gh'es a picturc or dramatic practiec in a theatrical culture
dominnted hy marketpllH:e idcology.
The very nesthelies or his plays themsclvC's tell their own cultural story. Indeed,
heyond Williams' cndcavor to get at the essence of his subjec! matter, we can pen.:civc a
dramatic practice current in the time. f have shown that the apocalyptic mood of his plays
may he found, albeit with diflcrent motivations, in the plays of David Rabc. The "evils"
of the artistic world that he represents obtain in {he plays or Albee, Mamet, and Shcpard.
The functions of languagc arc eCnlral Lo Williams' dramaturgy as to theirs. The episodic
structure characteristic of Williams' p~ays bccame a staple in the 19705, as dramutists
turned to c:\\ploring reality with a sense or frugmentation, isolation (see, lor installce,
Alhee's A Delicate Ralrmce 1t}o(i or Mark McdLlrt's Children of {/ Lesser God 19S0).

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199
When Williams chose to probe the plight of the artist, using new dramatic styles, he was
jusl a playwright of his time. G. Rogoff's observation isjudicillllS: "\\Vhether [WilliamsJ is
'current' with allY given play, whether he succeeds or fails with technical experiments, he
is surdy J modern in temperament" (1987 86).
for Williams, aft is "a criticism orLhings as they are" (quoted in Bigsby 199238).
His target
in his Inter plays is
the primary source of his tensions, the contemporary
theater world shaped by economic, social, and political contingencies. Harold Clunnan
asks a pertinent questilln when, insisting tm Williams' LW.}) 'invu\\vement in the llC\\V sLate
of the theater world that he so scathingly criticized, he said: "Where has Mr. Williams
be~n living that he has just disco\\'cn.:d that 'lhe experience has made me realize that it
p~roadv..·ay theater] is just a marketplace where middle-aged men get their jollies looking
at Ann Miller'?" (The A'ew York Times 1980 J). It seems obvious that Williams himself
had long bought into lhe system of commercial thealer.
But does Ihat disqualify him
from criticizing it? Not if he was not happy with it. And what is more, the commercialism
or Broadway had rcached such extremes that many heside Williams lamented it as
·vehemently as he did (sce, for instance, William Goldman
1969).
The main reason for Williams' dissatisfaction had to do with his own position in
the new theatrical world, suhsequent to his critical dcmise. Early in the 1930s, he had
suspected the destructive nature llf commercial theater. CompJring it to the frontier
wilderness, he hall projected his likely future experience into his grand-parents', picturing
j( as "somc\\\\ling ~imilar to the defense of a stockade again~t a hand of savages" (Where 1
Live 59). In the sixLie,:; and seventies, hc felt and la some extenl rightly so, thal he had the
proof of his suspicion, but contrary to his grand-parents' experience, the "band or
savages" had the upperhand. lIntil his death, he never enjoyed or reeaplUred the
recof,rnition on Broadway that, in the forties and fifties, he alnwst look for granted. He

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200
remained in limbo, slanding between Broadway and non-Broau"'iay. at once rejecting and
coveting aspects orbuth theatrical subficlds.
In the sixties, Ofr·Broadway was the arena of experimentation, but Williams
never agreed Ih;Jt his new plays belonged anywhere else but Broadway. By the seventies.
perhaps with the help ora pervasive individualized sense of reality, he came ta accept and
even encourage OIT~Broaclw;JY or Off-Off.Broadway productions of his plays, but it was
100 lute. By then he had characteristically become a subject of sensation. Images of
failure, rehashes. bad ta3tc hung heavy between him and those that he saw as (he (heater
people.
Williams' error granted. the 1~ltc of his later plays eleurly rema1l1s a powerful
slatel11t:nt about the sixties and scventies theatrical culture, and espeeially of the
Broadway arena. Esther .Iaekson is right stating in 1980 that WilliuITIs "appears to require
at this momenl an experimental thcatcr devotcd to his own work, onc in wbich his
innovative texts can be translated in concrete language of the theater tbrough carefully
designed and executed process of development" (58). There is a deeper dramatic and
literary value to Williams' later plays that the discourse of commercial failure tends to
bmy too easily. It is therefore admirable that he kept writing and changing rather than
retreating into some respectable position as an old and famous writer. He displayed a
sense of endurance thut
is a central thcme in his writing. And more importantly, he
produced a diflcrcnt kind of drama which. taken in its own right, challenges some of our
assumptions about his creative power, and offers insights into the complex theatrical
world of the sixties and seventies.
Perhaps,
the
contl:xlual
approach
adopted
here
tends
to
underscore
tbc
victimization of Williams and not enough of the weaknesscs of his plays, or even of
himself. Enough of this emphasis may be fonnd in most popular cririeism nnd a

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2111
substantial share ot" academic criticism loo. But a contextual approach is only one among
many ways through which Williams' laler plays can yield their significance. 1 reviewed
some of these approaches in the introduction. Whatever pCfspeclive is adopted, wc should
not lose sight of the 1'<lct that, in his later career, WiIJimns did not keep repeating himself.
He explored new themes and created new plays.

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202
NOTES
Introduction
I Pierre llourdieu, The Field <!lCultural Production: Essayx on Ar' (lml Literature. New
'{ork: Columbia University, 1993.
1
S. AJan Chesler, "Critical Response to Williams' Later Pby~." Tennessee Williams
N(;.wsleffer 2. 2. (Fall 1980): 56
J George Niesen, "The Anist Against the Re<llily in the Plays of Tennessee Williams."
TeJlnessee TVilliams: A Trihufe. Eel. Jl1C Tharpe. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi,
J977.
·1 Christophcr Bigsby ,1SCS this idea in his "Valedictory" (1984). Modern Crilical Views:
Tennessee H'iIliams. Eel. Harold Bklom. New York: Chelsea House Publishers. 1987.
Nicscn .'l150 sOll1clinH:s uses it, especially in his article under consideration herl?
5 Fclicin H. Londre, Tennessee Wiiliwns: L!le, Work, Criticism. New York: UngGr, /979
(, For::;[cr Hir::;ch, A Por/raN q/the Artist: the Plays o/Tennessee WiJliams. New York:
Nation.1[ Univcrsity Press, 1979,72
7 Signi ralk, Tennessee Williams, 2nd cd. I3oston: TWGyne Publishers, 1978.
H Ruby Cohn, "Latc Tennessee Williams." Modem Dmmu27 (September 1984): 336-344
9 Albel1 Ka]son, "Tennessee Williams Enters Drngon Country." A10dern Drama [6 (June
\\973): 61-67
10 Christopher Bigsby, Op.Cif.
11 Richard I3rodhead, Cul/un:s olLeller.\\': S'cenes (~/Rellding and Writing in Nineleen/h-
CenfuryAmerica. Chicngo: The University of Chicago Press, 1993, 8
12 Tennessee Willinms, A4cmoirs. New York: Doub1eday, 1975, xvii-xviii
]1
Esthcr M. Jnekson, "The Idea of a Cbanging Form." Tennessee Williwns News/cuc/",
Op. Cif.. 57-SS.
Chapter One
I RLl:hard Gill, Mas/ering English Lilerafllre. London: Macmillan, 1985, 106.
2
I30nnie
Marranca,
Theafrewriling;o,·.
New
York:
The
Performing Arts
Journal
Publications, 1984, 71.
3 See "You CGn't Retire from Being An Artist." Performing Ar/s JOl/rnal7 {1(83): 86.
4This is the conclusil1n reached by Esthcr Jackson in her 1982 study of
The 1'11"0-
Characfer PIu)'. Quoted by Betty .Tones in her "Tennessee Willial11s' 0/11 Cry: Studies in
Production Form at the University of Wisconsin-Mndison Part 11." Tennessee Williams
Review 3, 2. (19~2): 10.

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203
5 RocJney Simard, Pus/modern Drama: Contemporary Playwrights in America and
Brjfain. Lanham: University' Press of America, ItJlot4. 13.
o Richard Brodhead, Cultures (~r Lefler:f Scenes u/Reading (lnd Writing in Ninefeenlh-
Century America
Chic:Jgo: The University of Chicago Press, 1993.
Studying the
different lypesof writings, ranging from Theodore Dreiser's journalistic writing to
the
ethnic \\vriting of Charles Chesnutt. that arose almost simull<lIleously in the latc 19th
century, Brodhead argues that "A work of writing
comes to its particular form of
existence within the network of relations that surround it: in [Jny aclu;J] instance, writing
orients itself in or against some understanding of what writing is, does, and is good for
(hat is culturally composed or derived" (8). Stressing the essential function of the artist's
"literary situation" or milieu, Brodhead's
point has much resemblance with Pierre
Bourdieu's field theory that founds my approach to \\Villiams' later plays.
7 Gerald Bcrkowitz, New Broadways: Theafre Across America 1950-1980. Totowa (N .
.1.): Rowman and Littlefield, 1982, 82.
l\\ Garff B. \\\\'ilson, Three Hundred Years (?fAmerican Drama and Theater: From Ye Bare
and Yc C,,!Jh to Choms Line. r::nglcwood Cliffs, N. .J.: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1982,330,
') Thcodore Shank (American Alternative Theofer. New York: Grovc Press, Inc., 1982, I)
elicits several types of (heater organizations at work hy the mid-1960s beside wlmt he
calls the alternative theater: theater as part of the training programs in colleges and
universities, n::creational and amateur theaters, commercial Broadway lhe:ltcr. Of1'-
Broad...vay and regional theaters.
10 For the sixties theJtrical world, sce Zoltan Szilassy,
American Theater (?lthe 1960..."
Carbondalc & Eclwar::lsville: Southern Illinois University Press, 1986. Sce
Berkowit2,
Gp. Cit., Ruby Cohn,
N('w American Dramati.H 1960~19))o. New York Grove Press,
1982, and Bigsby Gp. Cif., for a survey of both sixties and seventies theater. Bonnie
Marranca (Gp. Cif.) focuses on the sevcnties alternative theatrical aesthetics. John Wesley
Ziegler studies
regior,al thealer in his Regional Theatre. The Revolutionary Stage.
Minneapolis: University oftv1inl\\esot<l Press, 1973.
11
See G. Berkowi!z
Op. Cif.
and William Hcrman, Undl!rsIanding Contemporary
Amaican
Drama
Columbia:
University
of South
Carolina
Press,
1987,
9-10.
Investigating the roots of1he change, most attribute it to the w:ming or the counterculture
movement and the economic crisis of the early seventies. The interrelationship between
the economic and the cultural finds justification, theoretically and otherwise,
in the
works of
Edith Blau as well as Pien'e Bourdieu. The latter for instance writes that
"external
detenninants-·for
example,
the
erred
of
econorni<.:
crises,
technical
transfonnations
or
political
revolutions
(... l--have
an
e1Ied
through
resulting
transformations in the structure of the field" (1993 182). Blau shows how cultural
changes have paralleled economic and social change in the US. since the 19th cenlury.
See her The Sh'lpe (~rCII'lllre: A .','fudy (?lConfemporary Cul1l1ral Patterns in fhl! Unitl!c/
Slates Carnbrjd~e: Cambridge University Press, 1989, 180-182.

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204
"S'l
Zl assy, (Je"
p. ,11., 5'J.
]) Ruby Cohn, Op. Cil., 5.
14 Szilassy, (Jp_ Cit., 46
l~ Different analysts tend to use dilTcrenl Icrminologies. Thus, Szilassy uses rebellious
drama for OtT-Broadway (Albee, Kopit) Jnd lntermedia for OIT-Off~Broad\\Vay. I will use
alternative. new or experimental Iheater indiscrimin<ltely 1o refer to Off-, Off-Off-,
Beyond Broadway and performance theaters. What they hold in common, especially
against Br,ladway and in terms of their dram<llUrgical outlook. is of primary concern here.
1(, Brl10ks McNamar;l, Jcrry Rojo, Richard Sdlechner. Thealres, 5/}{Ices. Enl'ironmel1/s;
Eigllleell I)/"(~fec'~·. Nc\\l,.' York: Dr:lma Book Specialists. 1975, 35.
17
Szilassy,Op. Cif., 5-27, 72. Simard, (Jp. Cif., 9-12, and Cohn.Op. Cif., 25~27 also
gi vc evidence of this.
III Concerm:d prim<lrily with performance groups,
Shank (Op. Ci/.) identities \\wo main
tendencies. first, there wen,: thosc who, having come to lite theater vi<l politi(,;al activism,
had an outw[lrd look in their exploration of social issues. Second, there were those who
originated from Cafe Cino and Care La Mama and had an inward look. and there/ore
(';llIlL'erned themselvcs with "how we pt.:rceive, kc!, think, the structure of thought, the
nature of consciousness, thc self in relation to an" (3). For most analysts, lhe latter
tendency, not (he former, survived and expanded in the seventies, \\vhen the Vietnam war
ended and H new sense ofre<lJity imposed itself
19Q1Ioted by Gerald WcaJcs, in "American Thcater, 1979-1980." The Georgian Rn'iell' 34
(Fall 1980): 497
20 John McC:lnn, The Crilical ReIJII/a/ion of Tenne,l"see Williams: A Reference Guide.
Boslon: G. K. Hall and Co .. 1983, xv
21 D<lvid Savran, In their Oll'n Words: CIJI1/emporflry American Playwrights. New York:
Theater Communit.:ations Group, 19RR, 254.
22 Gcrald M. Derkowitz, Op. Cif., 65-67.
23 Andrc\\Y B. Harris, Broadway TlIC:alre. New York: ROlltlcdge, 1994,100-104
2-1
Kenneth Tynan. "The nroadw<ly Dilemma" in c.:wto;ns: Selec/ions from Drama
Criticism and Other rJ'ri/il1J{.\\'. New York: Athenaeum, 196 L 365
:'.5 'I'he New York 'times 8 May 1966: )
26 Tennessee Williams, Five O'Clock Angel: Leller,\\· of Tenllcssee WillialJls 10 l\\1aria SI.
.I/1SI, 19-18-1982. New York: Alfred A. KJlopl~ 1990, 234. For all subsequent quoted
rererences, I shall use lhc abbreviation Fin: O'Clock.
27
Williams interviewed hy Lewis Funke (1962) in Conversations with Tennessee
WillialJl.l'. Ed. Albcrt Devlin. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi. 1986, 98. For all
sub~equenL quolations, I sh<lll use the abbreviation Converso/ions lollowed by the dale of
the interview in the tex\\.
2X Stantey Hoehman and Eleanor Hochman, A DicfilmolY (?f COnIempormy American
History: 19-1510 the 11resen/. Ne\\v York: Penguin Books, 1993,216.

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205
29 William Goldman, The Season: (I Candid Look at Broadway. New York: Harcourt,
Brace & World, Inc., 1969 1 \\2-113. Goldman calls this "snob hit" phenomenon.
Berko'witz, Gp. Cif., 171 ::Ilso touches on this phenomenon.
30 The New York Times 21 Dec. 1975: 18
31 The New York Times 18 SepL 1963: 32
32 Arvid F, Sponherg, Broadway T(lik.\\-:
JVhat Professional Think About Commercial
Tllmler in Amerh:o. New York: Greenwood Press, 1991, xxviii
33 Raymolld Williams, The Sociology f?l Culture. Chicago: The University or Chicago
Prl's,:;, 1995, 106.
]4
Richard Jenkins (Pierre /Jourdieu London: Routledge, 1992) elaborates on this as
follows: "condemned to differentiate themselves from those immcdifltely helow them in
rhe class system," they are also constantly f1spiring lo the values of those immedialely
above them (139). The mjddlc~c18ss is the most eu[turally avid class. Aspiration lo or
acquisition of legitimate lifestyle und taste is for that class a sign of upward mobility
( 144).
35 The l"/ew Repubj;c 26 March 1986: 34
Jr, Henmm William, Op. Cil., 9-10
.17 John Booth, The Critic, Pmver, and IJn: Perfimning A,.ls. A TM/enlielh Cenllll:v Fund
Essay. Ne\\1,! York: Columbia University Press, 1991,31; Andrew Harris, Op. Cit., 123.
3~ The New York Times 21 Dec. 1975: 5
3') 1n practice the term "criticism" generically stands for both "reviewing" and "eriticism,"
hut fundamental differences separate these two terms (see Booth xiv or Richard Palmer,
The Critic's' Canon: Standards of Thealrica! Reviewing in America, New York:
Greenwood Press, 1938, 1-2). "A review focuses on a specific performance and carries
time value, being written for publication
or broa<.kust us soon as possible aHer the
performance. Criticism may refer to specific performance but takes a broader, more
theoretical view
1
:.llK .
commonly Jeuls with a numbcr of productions. all 'ideal'
performance, or the script apart from its manner of presentation" (Palmer I). More
SCholarly anJ theorelicul. criticism is meanl for the elite, the intellectual community.
Williams, as I have poinled Ollt, haJ less interest in this criticism whose concern for his
work, by the way, C:lmt bte in the liHics when he W<lS alrcady a popular and estahlished
playwright (John tv1cCann 1983 xv). Having a more direet link wilh thc<:\\tric<ll
productions and looking at them from "the point or view of the auJienec" (Palmer 1),
rcviews were for Williams the rtalily of criticism.
,10
Among others, OourJieu, Op.
Cil., 30-34, elaborates on the JilTerences that
characterize tbe role of the consecrating
or legilimizing <lgcnl in the two
iielJs of
eommereial and non-commercial arts. Fundamentally, he sccs connivance belween
audience anJ critics or belief of audience in the critics' value as that which explains the
latter's power. The critics have rar less power in non-commercial artistic subfielJ.
41 The N~w York Tim~s 13 July 11)80, sce. 2: J, 10.

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206
42 Judilh Clavir Albert and Stewart Edward Alberl, The S';xlies {Japers: Documents of (/
Rchelliolls Decade New York: Praeger, 1984,28-29. This
concerns
the foIe of both
radical media known as the "underground press" [mu the traditional media in the political
;mu civil rights movements. The Albcrts also refer us to ToJJ Gillin's The Whole World is
IYa/ching (Bcrkclcy: the University or Califomia Press, 1980) as a recent crilical an:.llysis
of media influence (60). This said, ch;:Jpters 9 and 11 of Present Tense: The Unifed States
SinL'u 1945. Boston: Houghton Mif1lin Company, 1992, by Michnel Schaller, Virginia
Schafl"l" and Robert D. Schulzingcr, also give some insight into the role of the media in
the sixties ::md especially in th~ politie:.J1 s..:andals and the popular eultur~ llf thc sevcntics.
43 Paul Lauter. "V~rsions of Nashville, Visions of Amcrican Studics: Presidential Address
to thc Amcrican Studies Associations, October 27, 1994." American Quarterly 47. 2
(June 1995): 198-200
44
Saturday RevieH' 44 (29 April 1972): 28
45 Brucc Smith, Co.\\'tly PeJjhrmances: Tennessee IVilliwm'. The Last SIage. New York:
Paragon Housc, 1990, 73
4', The ,Vew York Times 22 June 1980: D 7
47 Rudney Simard (Op. Cif.) cxplClres the apocalyptic dimension of Rabe's plays in depth
(I 17-118). On the othcr hand, JClhn V,)\\1 Szelcski, quoted by Simurd ~ 1"25), states that in
Alb..:c's A Delicate Balance (19G6), "we have the most signific:mt reprcsentation.of a
world view of thc 1960s :md 1970s"; a \\vorld in which the individual faces threats from
all sides. and of isolation.
4S
Christnpher \\\\'. E. Bigsby, Modern American Drama,
lY-I5-/9YO Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1992,317
4<) Tennessee Williams, Dragon CounllY New '{ ork: N..:w Directions, 1970
50 Many other analysts date the beginning ofWilliams' estrangement from Broadway with
the difficulties be had with this play. See tor instance Henry Popkin, "Tennessce
Williams Re-examined" in Arf.l' in Virginia 11 (1971): 5.
5\\ Williams acknowledges in an interview (Conversation.\\' 1973 235)
that his failure on
Broadway as well as Fr,'lllk's death contrihuted to his mental hreakdown.
~2 Slgni Falk, Tennessee Willfwl/s. 2nd ed, Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1978: 129.
53 SO/llrday Review 46 (2 Feb. 1(63): 20
54 Her role~playing and sel(.. theatricalizations will specifically concern mc laler in chapter
three.
55 Donald SPClto, The Kindness o/Srrongers: The Life ojTl!nnl!ssl!L' Williams. New York:
Ballnntine Books, 1985,295.
5(, Gilhert Debusscher, "The Gntidiges Frtiulein:
Williams's Self-portrait Among the
Ruins." t\\'L'li' ES.W1yS on Americol1 Drama, Eds. Gilbert Debusscher and Henry I. Sehvey.
Amsterdam: Ropodi, 1989,71.
57 The na[Ure of her :mtagonists in the interior and exterior spaces
will com.:ern me in
chapter two.

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207
58 The l'lew York Times 23 Feb. 196(): 42
~'.J Saturday Review 12 March 1966: 28
61J The Village Voh:e 30 May 1974: T3
61 Nation 202 (14 Mach 1966): 309
(,2 The flew York Times 4 March 1973, sec. 2: 1
(,J
Alber! J. Devlin, "The La\\I.:;T Career of Tennessee Williams." Tennessee Williams
Liferar.v Journal I. 2 (Winter t 989-90): 14
64 Sy M. Kahn, "Listening la Outcry: Dird of Paradox in a Gilded Cage." Gilbert
Debusschcr et <11., Op_ Ct't., 45
(,5 Phi lip French in "the Nell' SIlIICsman 74 (22 Dec. 19(7): 87
',(, Felicia H. Londre, Tennessee Wi!liams. New York: Frederiek Ungar Publishing Co.,
1979,IR5.
f,7
Gcorge Nicsell, "The Artist Against Reality in the Plays of Tennessee Williams."
Tennessee WiIliaft/s: A Trihllfe. Ed. Jae Tharpe. Jaekson: University Press of Mississippi
1977,4RX.
I'~ TI.'llllessee Williams, ~Vhere I Uve: ,)'e!eL'red Essays. New York: New Directions, 1978,
9.
f,Y ThL' Vii/age Voice 8 Mareh 1973: 58
711 Pall 1 K. SrmJfJiH:her, "Designing Tennessee Williams'
Out Cry." Tennessee WiIliams
Reriew3.2 (1982): 17.
71 "j'he :Ve~t' Yurk Times 13 Dec. 1967: 54
72 The New YOl'ker 10 March 1973: 104
73 The New York Times 2 Mareb 1973: 18
74 Variety 7 March 1973: 70
75 Haro~d Clurman, NUlioH 208 (2 June 1969): 710
76 Jerrold A. Phillips, "Williams' Later Plays: The Area he Carved Out." (in) "Tennessee
Williams: A Rc-Evaluation (ATA Convention)."
Tc-nnessee Wi//iam,I' News/eftcr 2. 2
(Pall 19RO): 54
77 Pierre Bourdieu, Op. Cif., GO.
7H Saturday Review (31 May 1969): 18
79 The New York Times 12 May 1969: 54
xo Stephen Stanton, TU1l1essee Wil1iams Ne Ills/eltel' 2. 2 (Fnll 1979): 24
Hl Nel-v York Rel1iew (?f Books 5 Feb. 1976: 14
H2 Richard Hornak, "Reviews ofPruductions: Kirche Kutchen und Kinder at the Jc"n
Coeteau." Tennessee Williarns Newsletter 2. 1. (Spring 1980)
ID The New York Times 22 May 1977, sec. 2: 5
M4
Wittiam Prosser, "Vieux Card: The Education 01'.111 Artist." Tennessee Wi!1iams
Review 4. 1 (Spring 1983): 55
H~ Review of L. A Shreveport production (July 17-26 t 980). Tennessee Williams Review
3.1 (Spring 1981): 31-33

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208
g6 Saturday Rel'iew, (Jp. Cil., 25
~7 The New Yurk Times 21 Dec. 1975: 4
~M Time 2J rvfay 1977: 1O~
89 The A'ew )'ork Times 5 April 1983: C 13
'1(1 Plays and Player.\\·]u[y 1978: 21
91 Tennessee Williams Rl!view 4. 1. 1983: 54-58
':J2 Michiko Kakutani, "Williams, Quinlero Anu the Aftermath or a Failure."
The New
York Tillles 22 June 1980, sec. 2: 1.7: The New York f'osll1 March 1980: 42.
93 Plays and Plwvers June 1980: 33
94 I will elaborate on other ilsreets of Zelda's insanity in lhe section about Williams'
uramatization of refuge worlds.
'J~ InPfaybill. Val. 63. University oflowa. (June 19IW): 22-24.
'J6 Village Voice 7 April 1980: 74-75
')7
In .')'omething Cloudy he l.:xplorcJ, through August amI his relation to the rast, ho\\\\'
myth is morc true and crushing Lhan reality itself.
'i~ Though ueeJaimeu by critics <lS a belter pl<lY, the popular Sllceess of S'ma!! Crl?/is
Warnings was rather limiteu.
'oN The Sunday Times (Lonuon) 17 March 1974: 35
I [1(1 Plays and Players June (980: 33
1111 The New fork Alagazine 7 April 1980: 82
101 "Tennessee Williams' Clolhes jiJr Cl Summer flote!: fcminim: Sensibilities and the
Artist." Publications o/tlle Mississippi Phi/ologicul Association. 1980, 2
10J
S'omelhing Cloudy. Something Clear, 14. This is a yd unpublished play. The
pagination is mine, f')r practical purposes, I numbered them in the order I received tbe
manuscript.
1114 Chic;ago Tribune 9 April 1979: 2
IIl5 In real life Williams' eyc problem always kept occurring, and he often used it as "a
gauzc mask" (/'Vhere j Live 18), an excuse to withdraw from eompuny.
106 His lotal rejection of the American theater is perhaps more symptomatic. This i5
developed lurther down.
107 See chapter tWtl tor more on that aspecl ol'thc theatrical \\vorld.
II)~ The lv'ew York Times 11 September 1981, sce. 2: C 3
I [ll) The lV'ell' York Times 27 September 1981: D 7
I If) Tennessee WiIIiwl1s Newsleffer 2. 1. (1980); 33
I11
Conversations with Americ;an Writers. EeJ. Cbarles RU:ls. Ncv·,:
York: Alfred A.
Knorf, 1985: 85-86,
III TheAbv York Times
13 March 1977: 51
113 Glcnn Loney, "You Can't Retire From Being An Artist." Performing Arts .Journal 7
(l9~)): 85
114 Tbls rather unsympathetic name makes apparent Williams' di5tru5t of award-giver5.

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209
115 S'alurday Review 44 (29 April 1972): 28
I j(, Chrisfopher Slreel 5. 10 (1981): 32-40
IP Rj~hard Hornak in Tennt!sscl! Wil/iams Newslelfer 2. 1 (1980): 33
liS
Tennessee Williams, Three hy Tennessee Williams. New York: New American
Library, 1976 104
11'1 "Rdlcdions on Moon Lake: The Presences of the Playwright."
lac Tharpe, Gp. Cif.,
832-833.
Chapter Two
I Pierre 13ourdieu, The Field (!lCullllml Pmduc:fion: Essays on Art and Literature. Ne\\','
York: Columbia University Press, 1993,266.
2 Willi;:lm Goldman, Ihc .'5'easol1: A Candid Look al Broadway. New York: Harcourl,
Brace & World, 1969, t03.
3 The genesis of social practiec is a central concern in Bourdieu's theory of the field.
Improvisatiun not rul~s, Bourdieu believes, guides saci,,] practice. His account of agency
encompasses both the conscious and the unconscious as determining factors. Cf. Pierre
Bourdieu, Gp. Cit. 134,137; Richard Jenkins writes: "... practice according to Bourdieu, is
not consciously--or not wholly consciously--organiscd and orchestrated. Nothing is
random or purely accidental but, as onc thing tol!LlWS 011 from another, practice
happens .... " Pierre []ourdiell London: Routledge 1992, 69-70
4 The notion 01' strategy here 1'ollo\\'.'s l3ourdieu's definition. Cr. R. Jenkins (83, passim).
In the artistic world specifically, it is u function of its inherent competitiveness. As an
aspect of practice, strategies may he conscious or unconscious, but always. they involve
the agent's habitus (Bourdicu 1003 131), constitute a form of action, and are ineluctably
purposeful (Jenkins 71, 83).
S Bourdicu hdps understand the distinction when he explains that "symbolic goods arc a
two-faced reality, a commodity and a symbolic object." Cf.
The Field (!!" Cullural
Production. 1993, 113.
The difference calls for a distinction between commen:ial and
non-commercial art.
6
Arvid r. Sponberg. Broadway Talks: Whal Pn?/i.~ssic)lw.[s Think About Commercial
Theater ill America. New York: Greenwood Press. 1991, 202-203
7 Andrew H. Harris, Broat.bt<·ay Thealer. New York: Roueledge, 1994, 125
,<.: As owner of an art gallery, Leonard Frishie in In the Bar may perfectly be subsumed by
this paradigm. But bc-;ausc of the peculiarity llf his QveralJ significance in relation to the
artist. he belongs to a distinctive heading. ef. sub-chapter "A hero in the midst of the
jungle. "

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210
'I Fire O'Clock Angel: Letters (!lTc!lncssce Wi!!iams to Maria St. .Just, /948-1982. New
]'llrk: Alfred A. KnopJ', 1990,272. Leller dated 1972,
For all other references, I shall
give page numbers in1hc text within parentheses.
lO Na/iun 202 (14 March J966): 309
11 Quoted in David Birch, lhe Language (d'Drmna: Critical Theory and Practice. New
York: SL. Martin's Press, 1991, 104
12 Alan Schneider, Entrances: An American Director's Juurney. New York: Viking, 1986,
368.
13 The New York Times 28 May 1969: 34
I~ Interviewed by Tom Buckley in 1970. Cr. Conver.\\'atio!/s wifh Tennessee j}'illiwlIs. Ed.
Albert Devlin. Jaekson: University Press of Mississippi, 1986. 164-165. for subsequent
quotations from this collection, reference shall be given within parentheses in the text.
l~ The New Re/JUhlic.3 May 1980: 27
1(, Perhaps more than any other, William Goldman hus probed this image ol'lhe producer
in many of its subtletie". Cf. his The ,')'eason: a Candid Look at llroadway. 1969, 103-
]23.
17 Sec for instance. :i\\1<Jrie Mc Bride, "Prisoners of Illusion: Surrealistic Escape in The
.~Ii/k Twin doesn't Stop Here AnYllwre." Tennessee H'illiams: A Tribute, Ed . .lac Tharpe.
Jnekson: University Press of Mississippi, 1977,341-348
Ik Fiddler on Ihe Roojby Jerry Bock was the title ora Broadway musical hit in the late
1960s. ef. Goldman, OjJ. Cif., 109
,.. This is .1 yet ull[Jublislled play. The page numbers given here as well in subsequent
quot.1tions are my own numbering of the manuscript. See the theater collection library,
'·Iarvard University,
20 \\Villiams tried sevewl names before settling for Fiddler, whieh makes my illterprl.':tation
of its signi ti~an(e even more [Jlausible.
21
C011lJers(Jrio!ls with American Writers. Ed. Charles Runs. New York: Alfred A. Knorf,
1985, 87
22 Gardon Rogoft: Th..:aler is not Safe,' Theater Criticism 1962-1986. Evanston (Illinois):
Northwestern University Press, 1987,81
23 The NeH-' York Times 15 July 1975: 5
24 Quoted in Goldrnan, Op_ Ci/.. 110
25 The New York Times, Op. Cif .. 5
2(, Gore Vidal, "Selected Memories of Glorious Bird and the Golden Age." New York
Reviewo[Booh 5 Feb. 1976: 13
27 He repeatedly begged for the (ollperatilln llf the casts of his plays. He did so wilh the
casts of In the Bar (1969), ,(,,'mal! Cralr JVarnings (1972) and Creve Coeur (l979)--Cr.
The New York Times 14 May 1909: 36; his corres[Jondence with his artistic agent, and the
director and producer or Small Craft Wamings in The Theoter (~f Tennessee Williams,

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211
\\'01.
5: 293-300. Sce <llso Donald Spa to, The Kindness (~f Sfrangers: The L{fe of
Tenne.\\:\\'ee Williams. New York: I3allantine Books, 1985.371.
2~ Lyle T:..tylor, "The Two-Character Play: A Producer's View."
Tennessee WilIiams
/V~JwslL'!la I. 2 (Fall 1979): 21
~'! Ihid.
30 Na/ion 202 (14 March 1966): 309
31 The Village Voice 30 May 1977: 87-88
.12 Time
23 May 1977: IOS
33 The l\\·bll York Times 22 JUI1L' 1980, sec. 2: 0 I, D7
34 Christians en Rich:.ud, Chicago Trihune 9 May 1982, sCC.: 5~6
35 Chicago Tribune 5 April 1980. sec. 6: 25,38
36 Marlin Gottfricd, Opening Nights: 'f'heafer Criticism (?lthe 5'ixfies. New )'ork: G. P.
Putnam's Sons, 1969,40; scc also GcralJ M. Bcrkowitz, New Broadways: Thealer Across
America 1950-/98U. Toto\\vJ (Nc\\v Jersey): Rowman and Littlcficld, 1982,25-28.
37 There is a distinction bdwccn artistic and biologie<ll age. Scc Pierre Bourdicu, Gp. Cil.,
107. But in Williams' later plays, the distinction collapses. His older artists arc so
allistically and biologically.
3l<. David Gregory, quoled in Spoto, Gp. Cif., 370.
5') Quoted in Spoto. Gp. Cif., 290
·10 fhid 290
~I fhid 32J
41 The New York Times June 22 1980: D 7
~J fhid 360; Sylvia Sidney interviewed by Spoto, July 30, 1983. See also Devlin's
Converso/ions (1973 232) for his complaints abollt his growing diffieulties in finding
travcling companions.
~4 fbid. 362; Sidney quoted,
45 The New York Times 18 Sept. 1963: 32
46 The New York J"iml's J 7 Dec. 1987: 169
-'17
Gilbert Debusscher. 'The Gniidiges Friiulein: Williams's Self-portrait among the
Ruins." New Essays nn American Drama. Eds. Gilbert Debusscher :,md Henry I. Sehvey.
Amsterdam: Rod0pi, 1989,71-72
-lH Harold Clurrnan. lVi/lion 202 (14 rvlarch 1966): 309
49 Willimns' use or action as a dramatic language here goes beyond the simple distrust of
wrlxd language and looks more toward Ofr-Off-Broadway and its seventies variant that
Bonnie Marranca (1984) calls Theater of Images. In this the[ltcr, the "performer, then,
does not imitate; he serves as a symbol. Gesture and 1ll0VelllL'nt arc ahvays symbolic,
retlecling the nco-plutonism of this the,ller Ih::ll replaces discursive language with a
~ra\\l1l11ar of symbol.s. Onc confronts spati<ll and gestural motives instead of dialogue"
( 120).
50 Harold Clurman. Na/ion 230 (19 April 19RO): 447

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111
51
This is particularly remHllscent of WiUial11s' convlcllol1 repeateuly asserted in
inll:rviews ilnd his correspond~ncc in which he argues that Europeans unuerstand and
treat their mti::;ts better than Americans. Sce Conver,\\'t1tio!J 1975 296-297; see also the
excerpt of a letter dated April 1976 to :m unnamed French artist included in the file
containing the unpublished play A Housl' NOI Meanf 10 Stand (Horvord University
collection of Tennessee William::;' papers.)
52 The l'lew York Times 21 Dec. 1975, scc. 2: I
53 P/ayhil!. vol. 63. University ofIowa. (June 1984): 24
54 Donold Peose in Jerwld A
Phillips, "Tennessee Williams: A Re-Evalualion (ALA
Convention)." Tenlll'ssl'1.' Williams Newsletter 2: 2 (Fall 1980): 59
55 Graig Anderson, inlerviewed Sept. 1983; quoted in Spoto Op, Cit., 369-370
56 Several authors h..lve concerned themselves with the subject. See for instance Andrew
B. Harris, Op. Cif.. 8~ and [Jassim; Pierre Bourdieu, OjJ. Cit., 260-261; John Booth, The
Cri/it:, Power, and the Performing Arts. Ncw Y('Irk: Columbia University Press, 1991;
Richaru H. Palmer, The Critic's Canon: Standard\\ (?l Theatrical Reviewing in America,
)\\kw York: Greenwood Press, 1981:L
~7 For instance nO one would deny thot In (he Bar is a little bit too conversational or that
Willial11s uid not away with his tendency to overuse symbols in The Tlw-Characler Play,
Vieu" Carn! or Clothes/cH a S'mnmer HOlel.
5~ Quoted in Judith R. Blau, The Shape o.fCullure: A Sludy (~rConft!mporary Cultural
flollems in (11l' Unifed Sfales. Cambriuge: Cambriuge University Press 19H9, 176.
59 Gordon Rogoff in The Village Voice, quoted by J('Ihn B001h, (Jp. Cif., 23.
(,0 Harold Clurmal1, No/ion 202 (16 March 1966): 309.
(,1 C()mmmlt~'..:1ll77
(\\ 963): 5 i 5-517
62 Quoteu in Booth, (Jp, Cif., 5.
(,} lnuced, in 1973, he took up the parl ofDoc in the Off-Broadway performance of ,)'mal/
Craft ~Yarning.\\', allegeuly to promote his Out 0)'. Cl'. Sy M. Kahn, in Gilbert
Debussehcr and Henry 1. Sehvey (eds.), Op. Cif., 44
~4 in 1969, he said that he knew Clive Barnes did not like him lCrml'er,mfions 136); in
1973, he remembrred that C[audia Cassidy revived
Out Cry in 1971 with onc review
(lbid. 239). European crilics, !le alleged in 1975, were beuer than American critics (lbid.
296-2(7); ilnd among the Americans, he preferreu regional critics to New York critics
(lbid. 1979 319).
(;;'; Glenn Loney, "You Can't Retire From Being An Artist." Performing Arts Journal 7
(1983): 86
(,(, Nation 19(i (2 [<'eb. 1963): 106-107
(,7 Time 23 May 1969: 75
(,H The Village Voice 30 May 1977: ~7
(,9 The New S(afemenl 25 (August 1978): 251

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213
71) Here, this perhaps evokes the prc-opcning night enthusiastic clUdicnccs of the Milk
Train (New York 1964) and Out Cr)' (Chicago 1971), or of the opening night of Clofhes
(26 March 1980) which spurred Williams on.
i l
Francis GiIlcn, "Horror Shows, In::.ide and OUlside My Skull: Theater and Life in
Tennessee Williams' Two Character Flay." Forms (?lthe Fantastic: Selected A\\.I'oY:i'jrom
the Third Internathmal Conference on the Fantastic in LiferalUrc and Film. Cd. .Tan
Ht)kenson and Howard Pearce. New Yark: Greenwood Press, 1986, 229.
72 Esther Merle Jackson, Tennessee Williams Newsletter 2.2 (Fall 1980): 58
73 Nation 202, (Jp. Cit., 309
7~Quotcd by Sy l\\."hn. Op. Cif. 46
75 See among others his CO!lvcrsnlil111 with Rl1berl Jennings (Conversation 1973241,
248). This use of intl?rviews, \\\\'e must nole, roughly corresponds to his period of "artistic
rebirth" and WLlS tberdorc ;Jl;l;rntllaled by it.
7(,
See for instLlnce, rhl! ..Velf York Tinli.:s 6 March 1966, sec. 2: 1 on The Gnddiges
Friilllein and The Village Voil:e 30 i\\1ay' 1977: 87-89 on Vieux Cm're,
77 The ATew S'fafeS!Han 74 (22 Dee. 19(7): 886-R7
7K The l'iew York Times 10 June 1969. :--ec. 2: 2
79
Kil'che, Kurchen und Kindel" (first performcd in 1Sl71:J) is a yet unpublished play. The
page numbers provided are my own numbering of the manuscript that I gol from the
university of Debwme.
sil.Jerrold A. Phillips, (Jp. Cif., 55
81
Norman FedJer
offers the mos( systematic exploration of this in his "Tennessee
Williams' Dramtltie Tedmique" (in Tharpe Op Cif,. 1977795-812). Jean Coctcau, for
instancc, once described Kirche, thl? play that l\\.:aring the critics, Williams and his
director preferred to advertisl? as a \\....ork in progress. as "a poetry of the theater," as
opposed 10, explains Roger Boxill, "onc in the theater, that, is nol verse drama, but a
symbolic usc or non-verbal elements witbin a theatrical \\vhole." Roger Boxill, Tennessee
Wil!iums. New York St. Mal1in's Press, 1987, 163.
,,2 To ILlke the case of ploLlcssncss, wc know that it is Ll dramatic
mode characteristic of
1nl.: plays of such influential playwrights as Checkhov or Breeht, and th<ll by the sixties it
bad penetrated American theatrical culture--noL just "serious" theater but olso musicals.
l3y the mid-70s a new kind of musical had settled. It sought to integrnte, S<lys Slephen
SonJhein, nol "the RoJgers and I'bmmerstein kind of song in which the eharal"lt:rs reach
a certain point and then sing their emotions," but all the "songs had (0 be uscd ... in <l
l3rechtian way as comment, a counterpoint" Cquoted in I3erkowitz 161). Taking COnJp(lJlV
as an example, Berkowitz himself argues that "it is an unchronological sIring of vignettes
with no real story, hut raLher a sub.iec1--marriagc-~and altitude--lIlixed respect ond
wariness--toward il" (161). Concerning serious plays, onc just has to look at sueh plays as
Albcc's The Zoo Sfory (1958), Landford Wilson's llOf L Baltimore (1973), David Rabc's
.','treamers Cl 977) or David Mamet's A L{je in the Theafer (1977), to convince oneself.

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214
83 Variefy 23 Jan. 1963: 72
~4 Nu/ion 202, (Jp. Cif., 309
x~ Saturday Rel'ic\\\\' 49 (12 March 1966): 34
M, Reported in The Nc,1! York Times
13 December 1967: 54
~~ iVe\\1'SlI'<.'l.'k 28 Jan. 1963: 79
RR Na/ion 196 (2 Feb. 1963): 106-107
,~<) ,"'/eH' York Magazine 19 March 1973: 66
'I() Variety 23 August
1978: 90
91
The Daily News 27 March 1980, published in New York Thealer Crific~\\' Review 41.6
(24 March] 980): 310
92 Henry l-Icwes, S'a/urday Review 46 (2 Feb. 1963): 20
93 The Ne It' York nmes 13 May IlJ77: C 22.
')~ nu: ;'vew Leader 20 June 1977: 2 [-22
<J5 lVel'IISWeek 13 .Inn. 1964: 70
9(j
The l\\lew Yorker [0 .tYlarch 1973: 104
'17 The New York Thl/es
8 April 1973, sec. 2: I. There are those who, on the other hand,
think 1h;11 Broadway is an example of sophistication. The exchange betwe:e:n \\Valter Kerr
;l1ld Martin Gottfried otTers an account or both views. See respe:clivdy \\Valter Kerr,
"Why Revive Mourning flecomes Electra?" The l'v'eH' York Times 19 Sept. 1969: D 5 and
;-"'1artin Ciottfried, "A Critic
Challenges Kerr on BroJ.dwJ.Y's 'Quality.''' The New York
Times 5 Oet. 1969: D 7
'J~ Paralleling the impact of both types of criticism, Sponberg argues that "Criticism from
both acadcme and the media has been of little heir in getting American thcatcr out of its
prcdicamcnt." Op. Cil., xxvi-xxvii
SI') Signi Falk, rcm/cssee Wi!!imns. 2nd ed. Boston: T\\\\ayne Publishers, 1978, 161.
lOll "Dancing in Red J-Jot Shoes." Tennessee Wi!liams Review 3. 2 (Spring/Fall1982): 6
101 "Tennessee WiI1iams' Approach to Tragedy."
Tennessee n'ilIiams: A Collection of
Critical Essays Ed. Stephen Stanton. Englewood Cliffs, N. l: Prentice-Hall, Tnc., 1977,
34. Heilman's sense: or tragedy looks more toward the classic definition. Taking a
modernist perspective, reviewer Me! Gussow, for instance, sees J.11 "impulse toward
tragedy" in The Two-OIL/meter Play. Cr., The New York Times II March, 1973, Sec. 2: 5
102 Boxill, (Jp. Cit., 155
1(') Williams often denied that his plays had anything to do with absurd theater. This is an
opinion that his plays themselves contradict, and, on the other hand, his deniJ.1 may just
be a strategic claiming of the distinctiveness of his dr;Jmaturgy. Taken in the perspective
of the inherent struggle of the theaLric;Jllield, this \\",,'as rart of his search for legitimacy.
IO~ l1w New York Times 8 Nov. 1987, scc. 2: 5
I\\)5 Newsweek 13 Jan. 1964: 70
10r, The New Republic 24 March 1973: 22
107 Time 25 JJ.l1UJ.rY 1963: 53

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215
11l~ The New Yorker 7 April 1980: 116-118
11)'; Women'.... Wear Daily 27 M<lrch 1980 in The Nl!w York Theoler Critic's Review 41. 6,
Op. Cif., 311
110 Pllbli~hed in The New York 1nca/er Critic's Review 4l. 6, Gp. Cil., 314
III All/erica 145 (October 1981): 202
III III his Critical Canon, Richard Palmcr explores a whole r;mgc of common Haws in the
practice of American reviewers. An exhaustive study of the critical practice about
Williams' later plays in fight of these Haws would be enlightening.
II~ Players lvlagazine 49 (Fall-Winter 1974): 23
11') Catherine M. Arnot in Tennessee Williams on File. Ed. Simon Trusskr. London:
Methuen, 1985, 6
11 S The New York Times 2 March 1973: 18
116 The NelV York Times 12 May
1977: C 22
117 The New York Times 11 Sept.
1981: C 3
118 The Nel'.' York Times 5 April 1983: 13
I 1{) The NeH' York Times 8 Nov.
1987, sec. 2: 5
12D l\\nl1 St::lUff<lchcr, "Designing
Tcnnessec \\Villiams' Olll CI:V." Tennessee Wiiliam.l'
Review 3. 2 (Spring/Foil 1982): 19. Scc also, BcLty J~an .Ionl.:s. "Tennessee Williams' Out
Cry Studies in Production Form at the University of Wisl.:onsin-t-.laJison Part H."
Tennessee Wi/!iums RtTiell' 3.2 (Spring/FallI982): 15
121 "The 0141 Cl}' Qucstionmlirc."
Tennessee Wi/liams Review 3. 2 (Spring/f all 1982): 21
122 Jerrold Phillips, Op. Cit., 55
123 The New Yurk Timl:s IJ July 1980, sec. 2: 10
I~~ The NL'll' York Times 22 Junc 19RO, scc. 2: 1,7
125 Henry Popkin, 'Tennessee Williams Reexamined." Arts in Virginia 11 (Spring 1971):
3
Chaptc.... Th ....cc
This
has
been
"vidcly
documcnted.
See
for
instance
Christophcr
Bigsby,
"Valedictory"(1984).
Modern Critical Vinvs: Tennessee Williams. Ed. HaroJd Bloom.
New York: Chelsea House, 1987, 135 and R. B. Parkcr, "The Circle Closed: A
Psychological Reading of The Gfuss j\\1enagerie and The Two-Character Play." Modern
Drama 28 (19R5): 527,
2
See Tennessee Williams, Where I Lire. 125, l)[ Glenll Loney, "YOll Can't Retire Form
13eing An Artist," in Performing Arfs Joumal7 (1983): 75-87.
1 Sec Where 1 Live 53. Quoted also in Christopher Bigsby, Modern American Drama,
1945-1990. Cambridge: Cambridge 'University Prcss, 1992, 129.

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216
4
Nancy M. Tischler. "The Distorted Mirror: Tennessee Williams' Self-portraits."
Mississippi Quarterly 25 (fall 1972): 392.
5 Jcrrnld A. Phi[]ips, "Wi]]iams' Later Plays: The Area ht' has Clf\\'ed Out." (in)
"Tenncsscc \\Villiams: A Re-Evaluation (ATA Convention)."
TC:llne:isee Wilhams
A'Cl1's!cffer 2.2. (Fall 1980): 55
b
When in 1947 he wrote of the catastrophe of success. his point was lndeed the
inconvcniences that come with money, not the simplc fact of subsislencc. Sce, Where J
Live 15-22.
7 Chicago 'Ii'ibune April 9, 1979. sec. 2: I
~ Sec, lor inslanee, Rich,Hd Gwy. nu: Literature Qr ildemory: Modern Writers of the
American South. Baltimore: The Jllhn l-lopkins University Press, ]977,32-33; 38 w 39.
'J Quoted in Bigsby (Jp. Cif., 1992, 50-51.
10
Dona]d Pease. "Reflections on Moon Lake: The Presences of t~ Playwright."
Tennessee Wilfiams: A Tl'ihllh'. Ed . .lac Tharpe. Jackson: Universily Press of Mississippi,
1977: 835
1I llonnie t-.l<lrranea, Theafenvritings. New York: Perfomling Arts Journal Publications,
1984.78. passim.
12 ,\\Ibert l
Devlin, "The Later Career of Tennessee Williams." Temlessee WiJliams
U/('/"ory Journal 1.2 (Winter 1989-90): 15.
IJ Thomas Adler, "Tl'e Search for God in the Plays of Tennessee Wil1iams." Tennessee
IVi/Jii/llls: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Stephen St;mtoll. Englewood Cliffs, N . .I.:
Prentice-Hal1, Inc. [977, 138
14
Tennessee Williams, "Too Personal?"
The Thut.lll'e (!l Tennessee Williams. vo1. 5.
New York: Ne".' Direetians, 1976, 220.
i5
Michel Fouc<lult. "The Subject and Pov·.er."
Critical Inquiry 8. 4. (Summer 1982):
786
16
Tennessee Williams. "Notes
After the Second Invited Audience." The Theatre of
Tennessee Wilfi(/f}/s. \\'01. 5. Op. Cif., 289.
17 Ne11'sweek 7 March 1%6: 90
18
R. W. Hornak in Tennessee Wil/iwl1.1' Newsleffer 2. I. (Spring 1980): 33
19 See Adler Thom:.ts, "The Dialogue of Ineomp[etion: Language in Tcnnessee \\\\'iIliams."
Stcphen SU.lnton (cd.). OfJ- Cl!., 75-77
21) C;](herine Hughes about Something Cloudy in AlI/errca 145 (10 Oct. 19H I): 202
:1 In his introductory note to The Glass lvlenagerie, New York: New Directions. 1966,7
22 Tile reviewer of WABC-TV 7 t-,-lareh 26, 1980 in The New
fork
ThL'llfer Critic's
Re vie \\1-' 41.6 (24 March 1980): 314
:3 Albert E. Kalson. "Tennessee WilliLlllls Enters Dragon Country." Modern Drama 16
(June 1973): 63.
24 1 have repeatcdly n·.ent\\Gned his vision oflhe thcatcr as ajungle and the theater people
as beasts. Earlier in his career, when encountering success he soon realized its inherenl

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217
dangerous nature, he descrIbed it as: "a wolf at the door...the fangs of the wolf are the
little vanities rind conccits und laxities that Success is heir to ... " Where! Live 21.
25 Sec especially Reverend i'la\\:id Tempels, BanlU Philosophy. P,nis: Presence Africaine,
1959, and Mircca Eliad, Images cl ~~ymb()!es. Paris: Gallimnrd, 1952
2(, \\Vole Soyinka, The Road. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 1965
27 Williarns himself liked the image ofbciug bound to cnrth, in the way it expresses the
failure of his plays. "The Ml/tiluted," he says in Memoirs, is "a work that had potential
but never got off the ground" (212).
1~ The lVew York Times 22 June 1980: D7
?'J
Where J Live, 125. Quoted also in B;~shy, (Jp. Cif., 1984, 147.
J() Donald Spoto (The Kindness of5;trt/ngers: The Lffe of Tennessee Williams. New York:
BaJlantine Books, 1985) says this of C!nlhes /0,. a Slimmer HOlel, A !louse Not Meant to
Stand
(389), and of Something Clolllfv (394). Thomas Adler corroborates this in his
studies llfClothe,\\' "When Ghosts Supplant Memories: Tennessee Williams' Clo(hc:s/iw a
Summer 110tel." SOl/them Literary Journal 19 (Spring 1987); 8.
JI See for instancl.: SpOhl, Gp. Cir, 189, or Adler Op. Cit., 8.
32 ESlher ~...1. Jackson, The Broken World of Tennessee WiI!iams. Madison: the Unive:rsily
of Madison Press, 1965. See also her article in Sterhen Stanton, Op Cit. She has studied
the: lwtllln of the anti~hero, particularly, how it arr1ies tn Wil1iams' earlicr protagonist. By
virtue of the continuity that characterizes his work, the later artist~flgure is an anti~hcro
too. In his "dram.a the anti-hero engages himself 10 slIfler the agony of conscience, 10
confront hidden truth. and to accept the heavy burden of metaphysical guilt" (82).
Neccssarily related 10 his l1bjcctive condi!ion,
the later artist-figurc's
guilt, as r will
show, stands sharply distim:tivc.
J3 Scc Richard Jcukius, l'ierre BOllrdlell (5] ~52, 9] ~97) or Picrrc Bourdieu, The Field of
ClIltllraiilrodl/(.'tion, n<lnlely when he says lhat the practices of artists and \\.Vfilers "are lhe
result of the meeting of two histories: the history of the positions they occupy and the
history of their di spll5ilions" (61).
J4 Thpmas P. AJkr, Op. CII., [5.
3~
Beside the fate of his artist-figure which is our concern hcre, we may note two
significant examples. The first is in J Can't imagine Tomorrow, a very suggestive title.
The story of the small man and Death that Onc, one the two characters, tt:lls is a story of
death wish. The second is dramatic siluation llf his unfinisht:d play' The Lin~ering Hour.
Tt dramatizes "a violenl apocalyptic devastation and universal death." And significantly
enough, the "firsl earLhquake happens in California," and thc symbol of commercial art,
"Hollywood firsl disappears into the sea." (Spoto 401, quoting a reporter who got the
story from Williarns himself).
3(, LeLLer referred la earlier in thc manuscript or A [Jouse Not Meant to Stand.
37 Gerald Weaks, "Tennessee WilIiams' Achievement in the Sixties." Stephen Stanton
(ed.), Up. Cii., 61-63

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218
3~ Scc section in ch[lptcr 2 about the power of the audience.
JQ Quoted in Spota, Gp. Cit., 325
40 II is noteworthy that, to most analysts, it is the revival of Williams' Slimmer ami Smoke
by Geraldine Page ~md Jose Quintero that lat\\nch~d the n.:birth of OIT-Oroadway in the
late 19505. Scc, for instance, John McCann. The Critical Reputation of Tennessee
Wi{{iams: A Reference Guide. noston: G. K. Hall Co.~ t 983, xix.
41
See the following examples in Dil'vid SiJVf,Jn, In their Own ~Vord".: Contemporary
American Playwrights.
New York:
The Theater Communkations Group,
1988.
Christophcr Durang confesses he cannot help reading reviews hut that he knows some
artists "who don't read them and just do their work. J think that's healthy if you can get to
it" (27). Among those who get [Q it is perhaps David Rabe: "When I first started, I read
everything. Now I skim through or ask 10 bl? told. Revie\\....ers don't hi.lve time or space to
do anything very meaningful so I've slopped looking for Iha!" (202). Perhaps it is unlair
to compare Williams with these rather minor playwrights, but that they can do without
reviews indicates an attitude also available [Q Williams.
·12 Though comJncrcial sueccss scems la have preoccupied him more than anything else,
to his last d[lys Williams believed, and rightly so, in the intrinsic quality of some of his
controversial plays-~for instance, The Two-ChaJ'{{cler Play. He whined much about the
approvers, bUL he \\vas not always justified, unless perhaps \\vhen he meant his complaints
to be slrategic in lhc sense of drawing attcntion to himself. for, most often, his whining
was also a product of his paranoia leadmg to unwarranted exaggerations, the effects of his
general tendem;y towards the melodramatic.
~] SI:C lor ins1am;e, Jo l1l1 ivkCann's account in the introduction to his book (Jp, Cit.
44
Arvid r. Sponberg, Dl'Oadway Talks: Whal Professionals Think About Commercial
Theater in America. New York: Greenwood Press, 1991, xxvii
~5 Jolll1 McCann, Op. Cif. It is John Gassner who in 1948 "delivered Tennessee Williams
Lo the academy" publisbng in English College (xvi). Yct it is only by the late 1950s that
Lhe academic comtllUnit:i by Jnd Img,e took real interest in Williams, publishing on a wide
range of Lhemes on his theJler (xxiv). Through the sixties and seventies lhis interest
continued and even gre\\\\I (xxv, xxviii); but as McCunn rightly pUls it, "As far WilliJms
\\-\\'<lS concerned. his critieJI reputa1ion \\-vould reni.ain in [hc hands of those who gavc him
f:lme, those S:Hue ~rilics against whom he railed fix
what he considered their
pfllvinciJI ism, ir n"Jt their conspiracy [Igainst him" (xxx).
~(, Ciordon Rogoff, 1'hemrt! is not Sq/e: 1'lwatre Criticism 1962-1986. Evanston, lL.:
Nnrthwestem University Press, 19H7 81.
n S~c Spoto, Op. Cir., 445, f"Jr an exh[lustivc list of his awards Jnd honoes.
~K See for insfimec Glenn Loney, Op. Cif., 74.
~~ Francis Gillen, "Horror Shows, [nside and Outside My Skull: Theater and Life in
Tennessee \\Villiams' Two-Character Play." Forms 0/ fhe Fanlaslic. Eds. Jan Hokenson
and l-Ioward Pearce. New York: Greenwood Prcss, 1986, 231.

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219
Works Cited
I. Primary Sources
r. I. Plays
\\VJJlimns, Tennessee. The Milk Train Doesn't Slop Here Anymore (1963). The Theatre (~(
Tennessee WUliams. vol. 5. New York: Ne\\\\/ Directions Books, 197fi.
............ The Gnddigc,l' Fruu{r!ill (t 966). Dragon Counfry. New York: New Directions,
1969.
... ,.... I Can'! Imagine Tomorrow (1966). Dragon CO/m!ry. New York: Ne"\\' Directions
Books, t 969
............ The Tll,()~Ch(lrac{er Play (1967). The Theatre of Tennessee Williams. Vo!. 5.
New York: Ne"'" Directions Books, 1976
...... " .... In the Bar l~ra Tukyo Hotel (1969). Dragon COl/nlry. Ne\\v York: New Directions
Books. 1969.
""..... , Small Crafts Warni/J~ (1972). The Theacn: of Tennessee Wi{liwns. Val. 5. New
York: New Direclions Books, 1976.
........ Viellx earn} (1977). lhe Theatre of Tennessee WiII/allls. Vo!. 8. New York: New
Directions Books, 1992
............ Clothes for a Summer Hotel (1980). The Theatre of Tennessee Williams. Vol. 8.
New York: New Directions Books, 1992
......... 'l'he TruvefiHg Companion (198l). Chrislopher Street 5. 10. (1981): 32-40
............ wm .JUr. Merriwc/her Return from Memphis'! (1969). Tennessee Williarns
hlpers. Spel:ial Collections, University ofDelnwnre Library, Delaware.
Kirche.
KUJchen und Kinder (1979). Tennessee Williams Papers. Special
Colk:ctiullS, Univer~ily ufDcla\\'iare Library, Delaware.

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220
...... Something Cloudy, Somelhing C/<:ar (1981). Tennessee Williams Papers. Harvard
Thealre Collection, Harvard College Library, Cambridge.
I. 2. Correspondence
Williams, Tennessee. Five O'Clock Angel.' Lel/as of Tennessee Wi/{iams la Mar;a ..:\\/.
Just. 1948-1982. New YOlk Alli'ed A. Knopl': 1990
.......... __ 'Tennessee Williams Talks about His Play II7 the !Jar ora Tokyo !folcf." Letter.
The N(')I' York Tiu7t!.\\' 14 t\\-lay 1969.
.......... l'enneJ',n:e Wi/liams' Lellers to DO!1ald WiJl<llwm 1940-1965. Ed. Windham.
Donald New York: Holt, Rinehart and \\Vinston, 1976.
..... Letter to an unnamed French film maker. Tennessee Williams Papers. Harvard
Theatre Collection. Hilrvard College Library, Cambridge, 1976.
I. 3. Essays, Autobiographies~ and Interviews
Wil1iams, Tennessee. '''Happiness Is RclevJnt' to t\\-1r. Williams." The New York Times
24 March 1968: 1,3 .
............ Forward lo Thrcc hy Tl!Ilt1c.\\'Sec WilIiams. New York: New American Library,
1976, ix-xii
..... " .... "'I Have Rewritten a Play for Artistic Purity.'" The Ncw York Times
21 No"...
1976, sec. 2: 1,5 .
.. _
"Let me Hang It All OUl." 711C New York Times 4 March 1973, sce.: 2: 1,3 .
............ A1emofrs. New Yodc Doub1cday, 1975 .
... .,
Where J fille: .')'elected Essays. New York: New Direl:tions, 1978 .
............ "The Wolf and I." The New York Times 20 b'eb. 1966, sec. 2: 1, 5
........... "Let Me Hang It All OUL." 7he New York Times 4 March 1973, sec. 2: 1.3

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221
Corn'cr.W/lions
lI'ill1 Tennessee
Williams.
Ed. AlbCrl J. Dcvlin. Jackson:
lJnivt:rsity Pl'CSS of Mississippi, 1986.
........... CO/lversafions lI'il1J American Wrilers. Ed. Charles Runs. New York: Alfred A.
Knopf, 1985,75·90.
I. 4.
Biographies, Reports nod Other Newspaper Items on Tennessee
WiIIi.llllS
Anonymous. "Mr. Williums at thl: CrossfO;Jds." Timcs 19 J\\lllC 1957: 3.
........... "Williams' Well ofYiolcncc." The New rork Times 8 March 1959.
........... "Playwrights: Unhcaslly Williaffis." illlv'ewsweek. 27 June 1960: 96
"Fighting off the Furies." 'lhe Obst!I'\\'t!1' 22 May 1977: 22.
........... "Tenncss..:c Williams Turns lo Roman Catholit: Faith." New York Times 12 Jan.
1969, scc. 2: 86,
........... "WilliJllls to Give Papers to Texas U." The Neu-' York Times 23 Jan. 1963: 5.
o. "A Demand for Apology." The New York Times June 22
1969, se!.:. 2: 11 .
.. "Williallls Gels Theater Award." The Nn....' York Time.\\' R Dec. J972: 33 .
........... "\\I.,'iIJiams to Get Lilcrature Medal." The New York Time.\\' 15 Feb. 1975: 35.
Berkvist, Robert. "Broadway Discovers Tennessee WilJiams." 11IL' New York Times 21
Dec., sce. 2: 1,4-5
Blais. Madelainc H. "Tennessee \\VilJiams Gracefully Survives In Violent Kcy West."
Chicago Trihl/l1e <) April ]979, see. 2: 1,2
Buckley, Tom. "Tennessee \\~/illiams Survives." Allantie 226 (Nov. 1970): 98-108.
Can by. Vincenl. '''1 Never Depended on the Kindness of Slrangers.'"
The New York
Times 8 May 1966, sec. 2: l, 3.

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222
Christianscn. Richard. "Tennessee Williams: Sorrow. Success. and no Slowdown."
Chicago Tribune 5 April 1980, sec. 6: 24, 38.
............ "The Pain, Risk and Tumult of Staging Williams' New Play." Chicago Trihune
9 May 1982, scc. 6: 5-6.
Clurmnn, H:uoIJ. '''Did Sh::nv Quit? Or O'Neill?'" The New }'ork Timl.'s 13 July 1980. scc.
2 3-10
"Cume 10 Life." Thl! New York Times June 10 1969, sec. 2: I
FUllkc, Lewis. "Tennessee's Cry." The
Nell' York Times 3 Dec. /972, sec. 2: J. 27.
............ "Williams Revival? Ask tile Playwright." Thecate Ar's 46 (8 Jnn. 1970): 45.
Gussow, Me!' "Williams Still '-lopes to Bring 'The Red Devil' to Broadway Despite
Boslon Closing." 'l'hc: New York Times 15 July \\975: 339.
._
"Williams Looking to Play's Opening."
The New York Times 31 March 1972:
1O.
G<lines, .1im. "A T~Jk About Life and Style with Tennessee Willi~ms." Sarurdav Review
44 (29 April 1972): 25-29
Gilroy, Frank D. & Morpnrgo. Helga. "A DellWl1J For an Apology." n/(: New York Time.\\"
26. JUllC 1969, sce. 2: 11.
Hirsch, Fostcr. "The World Still Desires A Sfreefcar." 1'l1e New York Timn 10 June 1973,
sec.: 2: 4.
Hoffman, Peter. 'The LJst Days of Tennessee Williarns." New York Magazine 2S July
1983: 18.
Kakutani. Michiko. "Williams. Quintero and the Aftermath uf a Failure." The New York
Till/cs 22 June 1980. sec. 2: 1,7 .
........... "Tennessee Williams: 'I Keep Writing. Sometimes ( Am Pleased.''' The New York
Times 13 August 1981: C 17.

---

Klemsrud. JuJy. "Tennessee Williams Is a Reluctant Pl.:rI()rmer for an Audience of High
Sebo\\)l Studl.:llLS."
The Neli' Vork Times 13 March 1977: 51.
OaKes. Philip. "Return Tieket." Th/! Sunday Times 17 March 1974: 35.
Spoto, Donald. The Kindness of5;frangers: The Ufe of Tennessee Wiltiams. New York:
IhlhllltillC Books. 1985.
St,lng, John. "Wi lIiams: 20 Years." The NeH' }'ork Times 28 Mareh 1965: 1, 3.
Thornpson. J-Ioward. "TV: Caveu and Williams." The New York Times 22 August. 1974:
67.
Vidal, Gore. "Selected Mcmories of the Glorious Uird and the Golden Age." Ne\\'.' York
Review of Books 5 February 1976: 13-18.
Zolotow, Sum. "Willi~nls PI8Ys Shi ft Producers." The New rurk Times 6 act. t 964: 34
Wood, Audrcy. "Audl'cy Wood Deplores N. Y. Times' AL:ceptance or Life's Williams Ad."
Variety 2J July 1969: 67
Weal!.:.'>, Gerald. "American Thealer Walch. 1979-1980." The Georgia Review 34 (Fall
1980): 497-508
Williams, Edwin:l Dakin. Rememher Mc to 1'0111. New York: G. P. Putllmn's Sons, 1963.
1.5. Reviews
Tile Milk Tmin Doe.\\' Not SlOp lIere Anymore
Anonymous. "Tennessee's All Over In BasIon Next Week." Variety 5 Dce, 1962
........... "The Second lvlrs. Goforth." Time 10 Jan, 1964: 52
........... "Tile Milk Train Doesn't SlOp Ilere Anymore" Variety 8 .Inn. 1964: 272
.......... "Mr. Tennessee Williall1s's Two Steps BacK." Time (London) 6 Fcb. 1963: 13
.......... "Tallulah and Tennessee." Nell'sweek 13 Jan, 1964: 70
.......... "Tenncsse<.: Williams' Play Rc-written." Times (London) 28 Se pt. 1963: 12

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224
.......... "'Milk Train' Gets a Second Challce." The New York Times 18 Scpl. 1963: 32
.......... "Unwieldy WilIiLlIllS," Newsweek28 .1<111.1963: 79
.......... "To a Mounlain Top." Time 25 Jan. 196J: S3
.......... "Tennc5sl.:e Williams Work Ha-,,; Premiere at Spolcto." The New York Times 1 July,
1'162:19
CIllrman, J-1arold. Review of The Milk Train Does P'/ol S/O!J Here Anymore. Narhlll 196 (2
Fcb. 1963): 106-107
........... Review of The Milk Train Does NOI Slop Here Anylnorc. Nation 246 (23 .Jan.
19S5): lOO
DUl1nock, Mildrcd. "New York Critical Roundup: The Milk Train Doesn', SlOP Here
AnYII/o!'e." Variely 23 Jan. 1963: 72
Funkc. Lewis. "News of the Riaho: Williams." The ."',few York Times 4 Nov. 1962. scc. 2:
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The l'v'elll York Times 27 July 1965: 25

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........... "A Play Returns; Revised Milk Train by Willimns Opens." The Neu' York Time.\\' 2
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2~, 34
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......... "New Williams Play Due lo Open July 8." The New York Timn 10 March 1971,
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Bames, Clive, '''A Slatic 01/( Cry.''' The iVell' }"()rk Times 2 March 1973: 18
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Kalem. T. E. "Down and OUl in N. 0." Time 23 ivtay 1977: 108
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Sponberg. i\\lbcrt F. Brcwdl1'u)' Talks." Whl1l Professionals Think Abolll
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Szilassy, Zt)llan. American 'l'healer of rile
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Tynnn, Kenncth. "The Broadway Dilemma," Curtains: Selections from rhe Drama
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and Ve Cubh to Chorus Une. Englcwood cliffs. N. ,1.: Prcntiee-I-Iall. Inc., 1982.
Zeigler, .loserh W. Regional Thea(er: The RCl'ohllionmJ! Sta~e, Minnesota: University of
Minnesota Press, 1973
11. 3. GCllcn,1 Works
Birch, David. The LanRllage (~r Drama: Crirical The()/y and Practice. New York: SI.
Martin's Press, 1991.
Booth, John E. The Crilie, Power and the Pe/forming Arts: A Twentieth Cenlury Fund
E.\\·s£~v, Ncw York: Columbi:.I Uniovcrsity Press, J991
Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinctiun: A Social Critique (!lthe Jud;;ment of Taste. Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, IlJH4.
........ -... 'l1w Field of Cultuml FrodllCfion: 1;.I's{mr on Art and Urerall/re. Ncw York:
Columbia University Press, 1993.

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,
" "Intellectunl Field nml Crentive Project." Knowledge alld Con/rol. Ed, MichneI f.
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The
Predicamenl
(!f Cllflllre:
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Ethnography,
Literature, (I/1{1 An. Cambridge, Massnchusetts: Harvard UniversilY Press, 1988
Foueault, Miehe\\. "The Subject or po\\....l.:r." Cri/iea! Inquiry 8.4 (Summer 1982): 777-
795
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Gray. Richard. The .1.-iteralure of MemfllY: Modem Wrifers of rhe American 5'owh.
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Pnddy Scnnncl\\. (January 1980): 57-72
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University or Georgia Press, 1990.
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Kcrber. Linda K. "DiversilY and l11c Transformalion or Ameril.:an Studies." American
Qua/"lerl)' 41 (Septl.:mber (989): 415-429.
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Raymond, WilliunIs. The 5'ociology of Cllllltre. Chicago: The University or Chicago
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293-337.

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Curriculum Vitae
AMADOU BI$SIRI
oI RP. 4463 Ouagadougou 0 I, Buckina Faso
Education
Ph.D., American Studies (January 1996), Hos/on University. Dissertation: "The Artist-
figure in Tennessee Williams' Later Plays: A Contextual Approach." Advisors: Professors
David Wagenknecht. Scort Shershow, and Burton Cooper.
Doctornl 3e Cycle. African Literature. I'aul Vu/ery University. MOnJpellier Ill, Franee
1988.
Certificate of Pedagogy, Paul Vu/ery Universily. MOnlpellier Ill, France, 1986.
D. E. A lnterdisciplinaire. African Studies, Paul Vu/ery University. MUnlpellier /ll,
France, 1986.
D. E. A.. Anglophone Studies, Paul Vu/ery UniversifY. Montpel/ier /IJ. Franee. 1985.
Maitrise es Lettres: Anglophone African Liternture, University ofOuagadougou, Burkina
Faso, 1984.
Licence es Lettres:
Language Teaehing, University ulOuagadougou, Bwt.ina Faso,
1983.
Teacbing Experience
Lecturer in African Literature, University of Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, 1990-1992.
Taught courses on the Afriean novel (Chinua Achebe, Peter Abmhams, Ayi Kwe Annah)
and on Aliican drama (Wole Soyinka, John Pepper Clark, Efua Sutherland).
French Assistant, Bi/ston Community College, Wolverhampton, England, 1987-1988.
Introduction to Afiican Liternture, Wheelock College, Boston, February-Mareh 1995.
Research Experience
Dissertation for the
Freneh 3rd Cyele Doctorate: "Symboles de vLe et de mort dans
I'oeuvre dramatique de Wole Soyinka." Paul Valery University. Montpellier Ill. 1988.
Dissertation for D. E.A
Interdieiplinaire: "Le symbolisme de I'eau dans Les gem des
marais de Wole Soyinka." Paul Vulery University. MontpeWer Ill, 1986.
Dissertation for D.E.A Etudes Anglophones: Analyse des personnages de The Glass
Menagerie de Tennessee WiI11anlS selon les modeles de Annc Ubersfeld et Algirdas
Greima.l>aul Valery University, MonJellier 111,1985.

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241
Participant to a research workshop on Wole Soyinka's Drama, Universily Paul Valery.
Mon/pe"ier Ill, France. Fall 1985.
Dissertation for the Maitrise. "Women in Cyprian Ekwensi's Short Stories." University of
Ouugadougou, 1984.
Publications
"Plot and the Characlerization of Eman in The Strong Breed by Wole Soyinka."
Nouvelfes du Sud: Arts. UJferatures et Socieles. Paris: Editions Silex,l 993, 157-173.
"Ambivalences et fonctionnement de Tree al my Window." Cohiers du Centre de
Recherche en I.£tlfes, Science.{ Humaine et Sociale.~· 10 (Janvier 1994): 182-200
"Symbolisme aquatique et dialectique tragique <tans
Les gens des marais de Wole
Soyinka. n Cohiers du Centre de Recherche en I,ellre,f, Sciences Humoines ef SociaJes 11
(decembre 1994): 99-133.
"Aspects of Africanness in August Wilson's Drama: Reading The Piano Lesson through
Wole Soyinka's Drama.~ African American Review. Vo!. 30 Number 1 Spring 1996,
Indiana Slate University, Terre Haute.
~'
I' ,,-
Presentations
\\~ ...~'
~
"L'imagination au theatre: du dramaturge au metteur en sce .',f; rI!aiversity 0 ~'i1
OuagadfJugou. Colloquium on Images, Imagination, and Imaginary, M ' 19tf.'.14
~
0.111'1
....
ton'.. d
"Francophonie and African Development: Myth or Reality?" Boston ~'!.!f.~~'it1Y.1~1riean
Studies Center. Francophone African Research Group Conference, 8 QC :.:1'9 4.
,
,
,
..eo ft'
"Litterature Africaine: Le Nombril de la Terre de Marie-Ange Somdah." French
ultural
Center. Cambridge, Massachusetts, 28 Nov. 1994.
"The Question of the New Afriean Identity in Post-Colonial African Literature in
European Languages: Wole Soyinka and The Lion and {he Jewel." Holy Cross College,
Worees'er (24 Nov. 1995).
Membersbips
American Studies Association; Commonwealth
Language Competence
French, English, More, Dioula,. and Baoule.

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