Michael Billington

“[In] A Song at Twilight... Coward views compassionately a famous writer who, towards the end of his life, is outed by an ex-mistress. [Coward] argues that, by living a lie, the hero has recklessly maimed his talent. It is an Ibsenite theme and a moving coda to Coward’s career.”
― Michael Billington

“In a letter written to the play's director, Peter Wood, on 30th March 1958, just before the start of rehearsals, Pinter rightly refused to add extra lines explaining or justifying Stanley's motives in withdrawing from the world into a dingy seaside boarding-house: 'Stanley cannot perceive his only valid justification - which is he is what he is - therefore he certainly can never be articulate about it.' But Pinter came much closer than he usually does to offering an explanation of the finished work:

We've agreed: the hierarchy, the
Establishment, the arbiters, the socio-
religious monsters arrive to affect
censure and alteration upon a
member of the club who has discarded
responsibility (that word again) towards
himself and others. (What is your
opinion, by the way, of the act of
suicide?) He does possess, however, for
my money, a certain fibre - he fights for
his life. It doesn't last long, this fight. His
core being a quagmire of delusion, his
mind a tenuous fuse box, he collapses
under the weight of their accusation - an
accusation compounded of the shit-
stained strictures of centuries of
'tradition'.

This gets us right to the heart of the matter. It is not simply a play about a pathetic victim brainwashed into social conformity. It is a play about the need to resist, with the utmost vigour, dead ideas and the inherited weight of the past. And if you examine the text, you notice how Pinter has toughened up the original image of the man in the Eastbourne digs with 'nowhere to go'. Pinter's Stanley Webber - a palpably Jewish name, incidentally - is a man who shores up his precarious sense of self through fantasy, bluff, violence and his own manipulative form of power-play. His treatment of Meg initially is rough, playful, teasing: he's an ersatz, scarpegrace Oedipus to her boardinghouse Jocasta. But once she makes the fateful, mood-changing revelation - 'I've got to get things in for the two gentlemen' - he's as dangerous as a cornered animal. He affects a wanton grandeur with his talk of a European concert tour. He projects his own fear on to Meg by terrorising her with stories of nameless men coming to abduct her in a van. In his first solo encounter with McCann, he tries to win him over by appealing to a shared past (Maidenhead, Fuller's tea shop, Boots library) and a borrowed patriotism ('I know Ireland very well. I've many friends there. I love that country and I admire and trust its people... I think their policemen are wonderful'). At the start of the interrogation he resists Goldberg's injunction to sit down and at the end of it he knees him in the stomach. And in the panic of the party, he attempts to strangle Meg and rape Lulu. These are hardly the actions of a supine victim. Even though Stanley is finally carried off shaven, besuited, white-collared and ostensibly tamed, the spirit of resistance is never finally quelled. When asked how he regards the prospect of being able to 'make or break' in the integrated outer world, he does not stay limply silent, but produces the most terrifying noises.”
― Michael Billington, Harold Pinter