Terry Teachout argues in the Wall Street Journal in favor of Harold Pinter’s Noble Prize; his politics are atrocious, but he still merits recognition, says Teachout (are you listening, Acephalous?):
Granted, I can think of a number of other authors at least as deserving (starting with Tom Stoppard, an even greater British playwright whose politics are more or less the inverse of his older colleague’s). Even so, I have no problem whatsoever with Mr. Pinter’s having copped the medal this time around. If the author of such richly ambiguous studies of failed communication as “The Caretaker,” “The Birthday Party” (1957) and “The Homecoming” (1964) doesn’t deserve a Nobel, who does?
All this notwithstanding, it’s clear that the Nobels are frequently given for purposes less aesthetic than political, though more often it’s the peace prize with which the Nobel committee gets stuck on stupid. (Two words: Yasser Arafat.) And so I wouldn’t be at all surprised if one of the reasons why Harold Pinter was deemed especially worthy of this year’s literature prize was because his political views were so closely in sync with those of the rest of Old Europe’s chattering classes.
Maybe I’m wrong. I wish I were. But by now it doesn’t much matter. A prize that has been indiscriminately bestowed upon V.S. Naipaul and Dario Fo, after all, can no longer be taken very seriously, no matter who gets it after that.
Rick Moran feels much the same:
Pinter’s plays were like a splash of ice cold water on a hot day – a bracing and sometimes exhilarating experience. As the years went by, Pinter dramas have gone Hollywood (with uneven results) and the playwright himself has written some screenplays such as The French Lieutenant’s Woman. But in the end, Pinter’s brilliant originality and revolutionary use of language established the playwright as one of the most dynamic forces of the English speaking theater in the 20th century.
Well, there you have it…now, while we’re on the subject, here’s a pleasant diversion: Time Magazine presents the 100 Greatest English-Language Novels from 1923 - now…
October 17th, 2005 at 8:23 pm
Um, yes? (Although isn’t that what I said?)
October 17th, 2005 at 9:08 pm
That’s what I meant! I wasn’t jabbing you…just thought you might be interested…
October 17th, 2005 at 9:43 pm
I am. Sorry, spent all day editing and have, as per the usual on such days, lost my ability to parse any thought whatsoever. Again, sorry about that.
October 17th, 2005 at 10:49 pm
And I should add–but please don’t think of this as link-whoring, since I’ve already had Kos and Instapundit target my humble blog this weekend and I’ll have to spend another $6 (a significant amount of money on my budget) to compensate for the traffic–that I wrote about the problem with Pinter’s poetry again this evening, but in the context of a general assessment of the sad state of evaluative criticism. (Artistry? Pffft. We’re all about the message. “The,” sir? Yes “the,” where have you been all this time. Alright, I “understand,” sir. Don’t you scare-quote me, you insolent beast! Yes sir, I mean, I mean, “No sir,” NOOOO! Please stop hitting me sir, PLEASE!”) Or something like that. Such is the state of evaluative criticism in the academy. Not because English professors are necessarily leftists, mind you, but because they have agendas exterior to the subject they’re supposed to be teaching. (Granted, as someone writing a dissertation on the impact of evolutionary theory on Gilded Age and Progressive Era American society, I can’t say I pay any mind to those who would have, say, ID in the classrooms. But I do recognize that capitalism isn’t the Devil, as did many of the people whose work I study. I say this because, like Clinton, I’m all about building bridges. You’re rational; I’m rational; let’s not call this whole thing off.)