Word: stoppard
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...sweep the boards of the dusty verse drama that then passed for high seriousness, and of the cobwebbed comic conventions that served only a low commercial cunning. His eloquent partisanship opened the doors not just for a new moral consciousness but for fresh forms of theatrical literacy, like Tom Stoppard's bedazzling overstatements and Harold Pinter's hypnotic understatements. At Tynan's memorial service in 1980, the former turned to the critic's children and said, "For those of us who shared his time, your father was part of the luck...
...Roommate Holden, by Ward Stradlater. Borrowing a page from Tom Stoppard's "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead," the author tries to retell Salinger's Catcher in the Rye from a different standpoint. Stradlater explains that the reason Holden thinks everybody was a phony was because he was addicted to crack and suffered from severe paranoia...
DEATH CAME to me through the good offices of Tom Stoppard and the Dunster House Drama Society, which recently produced The Real Inspector Hound. A friend from the cast telephoned me one evening, soon before opening night. "We need a body for Hound," he said. Like the hotdog I am, I accepted the role with relish. After all, it sounded easy and fun--just lie on stage for an hour, then go to the cast party. While you only live once, I reasoned, here was an opportunity to die twice. Test driving the afterlife is a privilege granted...
...days before the opening, I sprinkled every conversation with casual references to "this Stoppard show I'm opening in Thursday night." "Do come," I said to friend and total stranger alike; "the supporting cast is quite good, and I'm on stage the whole time." This line got me through many a dinner conversation in the week before my death...
...FIRST it wasn't so bad--restful, really, lying there in the dim light with people doing theatrical things all around me. Occasionally I'd open the eye on the opposite side of my face from the audience for a worm's eye view of Stoppard, which I enjoyed. The floor was hard and my nose itched, but I consoled myself with the reflection that art is, ultimately, sacrifice. Then I heard the couch behind me begin to move...