Being in a rehearsal room with Tom and our director, the brilliant Mike Nichols, was one of the
most memorable aspects of the experience, both of them whip-smart and witty. It was elevated company. I always compared the production to a flight to Paris on the Concorde.
Actors speak of Tom with such genuine affection and admiration. He shared his brilliance with such ease. He was a good listener—curious and never condescending, despite his daunting intelligence. He leaves behind a varied, truly original body of work, from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Travesties, Jumpers, The Real Thing, Arcadia, and The Invention of Love, to The Coast of Utopia and Leopoldstadt. His subject matter spanned a wide breadth of subjects. His language and ideas have muscularity. They challenge us to think wider, feel deeper. At a time when language and conversation have become abbreviated shorthand, he takes the long and winding road of thought clearly and elegantly expressed. Words, language, and ideas were deeply important.
When asked by the English critic Kenneth Tynan why his work is often charged with a lack of genuine feeling, Tom gave the following response:
“That criticism is always being presented to me as if it were a membrane that I must somehow break through in order to grow up…. I think that sort of truth-telling writing is as big a lie as the deliberate fantasies I construct. It’s based on the fallacy of naturalism. There’s a direct line of descent from the naturalistic theatre which leads you straight down to the dregs of bad theatre, bad thinking, and bad feeling. At the other end of the scale, I dislike Abstract Expressionism even more than I dislike naturalism. But you asked me about expressing emotion. Let me put the best possible light on my inhibitions and say that I’m waiting until I can do it well.”
We will not see the likes of him again. Good night, sweet prince.