Ahhh, the times when someone like Pinter could be a cultural player. When his "Monologue"s could air on the BBC and actually (one would imagine) get views. Pinter seems to come from a time when being a "writer" was an actual "occupation", it was a job, and probably the best job.
I don't think Pinter could be who he was today and get away with it (or in other words get paid for it, let alone handsomely). That doesn't necessarily mean his plays are no longer of worth, however. He has a cool style, even if it relies probably too much on Beckett. It's an accessible Beckett, which in a way is pretty awesome, and at his furthest from Beckett he reminds me of Ibsen set in the 70s of England, and that's not so bad either.
It could be a bit of a copout to call someone's work "ethereal." Reading Pinter is enjoyable and easy, it's quick, but it can be a common thing for me to wonder what in the eff this is actually "about." I found his intro––taken from a speech of his after getting an award, which strikes me as another anachronism––to be helpful: he said that he doesn't know what his plays are about either. He's moved to write them a certain way and he must analyze them like anyone else, albeit from a particular and exclusive position. Fair enough. I feel too like I know what his plays are about, even if I can't put a concrete, satisfactory summary of a particular play into words. Who would want to?