![]() The action stops in its tracks when Harcourt-Reilly pontificates, but picks up, strangely, when stuck in the loneliness and stasis of ordinary life. But he adds a note of religious salvation that can make his play a sermon. Albee in making the point that our denial of ourselves crushes us more than it protects us. Written in the years between O’Neill’s “Iceman Cometh” and Edward Albee’s “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?,” this morality tale, which is more interesting to think about than actually to watch, is another play about delusions. He describes the good life this way: “Two people who know they do not understand each other, breeding children whom they do not understand and who will never understand them.” See, it’s a real laugh riot. ![]() ![]() Harcourt-Reilly is a preposterous device, the kind of thing found in a second-rate detective novel, where conflicts don’t evolve and resolve so much as they are explained away in tediously long monologues. ![]()
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