A harrowing classic robbed of passion
Wilson is clearly troubled by the strange reluctance of some British reviewers to acknowledge his genius as a director and designer. "You can't believe the things these Bugs Bunnies write," he observed the other day. "England is still in thrall to a naturalistic kind of theatre. You're used to seeing emotions being thrust upon the public."
The trouble with Wilson is that he comes across as a modish interior decorator rather than a director. In his hands, the story of a schizophrenic soldier who stabs his common-law wife to death when he discovers she has been unfaithful seems more like an installation in Tate Modern than a play of passion and terror.
Ah, so the 20th century, too, will be unsafe from Tamperers.