I went to a performance of Harold Pinter’s Monologue last night. The actor was Henry Woolfe, for whom the part was written in 1972. It was a brilliant performance, very moving. Afterwards, Woolfe talked about his experiences working with Pinter. They have had a long, fruitful association.
Woolfe, who is a delightfully entertaining speaker himself, said that Pinter is using words to stake out territory, words not to communicate as we expect it but to express the interiors--of rooms, of the mind of the characters, how people feel between the usual lines of speech. He also said that people too often do not connect to the humor in Pinter’s writing. This audience did. The laughter was definitely there. As was the pathos of the character on stage. But it is never quite clear in Pinter’s work who is feeling exactly what, who is on the other side of the door, or in this case, who is in the room and where that room is.
The saddest part of the production was the scarcity of audience. Apparently this little burg of Halifax cannot support serious theatre. Even when it is (at times) very funny.