SEMESTER- II

Course No: ENG 201: Drama II (19th and 20th Centuries)

Unit 03: Harold Pinter: The Birthday Party

By

Shubhendu Shekhar Naskar

Assistant Professor

Department of English

Vidyasagar University

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I. Introduction

The Birthday Party is Pinter's first full-length play that was written in 1957 and staged for the first time a year later at the Arts Theatre, Cambridge where it did not succeed and was not given a standing ovation at once. Pinter had to wait for an avalanche of favourable reviews, when his play was revived by the Royal Shakespeare Company at the Aldwych Theatre, London, in 1964. This one-room stage play with only a handful of characters did not meet the tastes of a confused audience, who still suffered from the terrible aftermath of the Second World War. Pinter’s original style, obscured plot and psychological tension throughout the whole play, though familiar to the post-war society, was too much of a real hornet’s nest. It took almost a decade for the viewers to fully understand and appreciate the mastery of Pinter’s play, as well as to overcome fears and insecurities after the war.

II. Biography of Harold Pinter

Harold Pinter was one of the most renowned dramatists of the 20th century, esteemed for his inventiveness, originality, and formal innovation. His work is so influential that his name has been used to explain certain settings or situations—the "Pinter Pause" concerns relying on unsaid things to convey characters' motivations or personalities, and the "Pinteresque" refers to an inconclusive end to a comedy of subtle menace and absurdity. His work was influenced by Samuel Beckett, whom Harold Bloom identified as Pinter's "ego ideal."

Pinter was born in East London in 1930 to a Jewish tailor and had a working-class upbringing. Pinter's experiences during WWII, such as the blitz and relocation, informed his work. At the Hackney Downs Grammar School he excelled at sports and took up acting for the first time. After school ended, he took some odd jobs and managed to get out of the war by declaring himself a conscientious objector (this did not entirely work, but a judge fined him instead of imprisoning him for refusing to go). In 1949, inspired by the works of Beckett, he published his first poems under the pen name Harold Pinta. He studied acting at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts and the Central School of Speech and Drama, and began touring Ireland with a Shakespeare company and working in provincial repertory theatres in England.

Pinter wrote his first play, The Room, in 1957. It features many motifs that would be common in his oeuvre, including a situation that seems quotidian but is charged with ambiguity and menace. It was reviewed favourably and was mounted by the drama department of Bristol University. Pinter then went on to The Birthday Party, a play of muted anxiety and tension that bordered on the theatre of the absurd. In 1957, on the same day that his son Daniel was born,

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Pinter was paid 50 pounds for the play, which was soon produced at Cambridge's Arts Theatre to critical success. The play bombed during its London debut a few months later. Despite that failure, The Birthday Party remains one of Pinter’s most successful full-length plays, and it is considered the first of his “comedy of menace” pieces.

The Caretaker (1960) was Pinter's second full-length play and a resounding critical and commercial success. A fusion of the realistic and the symbolic, it led to his third play, The Homecoming, which was full of energy and power. In 1966 he was made a Commander of the Order of the British Empire.

Pinter also wrote plays in the 1970s, though his earlier works were more than enough to cement his reputation. This decade saw Old Times (1970), No Man's Land (1975), and Betrayal (1978). Pinter was the associate director for Britain's National Theater.

In the 1980s-2000s, Pinter continued to compose plays but also tried his hand at poetry, screenwriting, and directing. He explained that he wanted to look at politics at the end of his life, and he remarked that his twenty-nine plays were enough. In 2005, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in literature.

Pinter was married twice. He died on December 24th, 2008 of liver cancer. The lights of Broadway and of West End were dimmed in tribute to him. In 2011, the Comedy Theatre on Panton Street in the West End was renamed The Harold Pinter Theatre.

III. Style of Pinter

Pinteresque Style

Harold Pinter is known for his magnificent use of language, thus his style of writing was named after him "Pinteresque". His use of colloquial language, numerous clichés, unpolished grammar and illogical syntax create dialogues that reflect day-to-day speech.

Harold Pinter's style is characterised by the use of:

Pauses, two silences, repetitions, irony, oxymorons, paradox, vagueness, reference failure, semantic ambiguity, decontextualization

Pinteresque atmosphere of horror ignites the feeling of anxiety, but also arouses interest – a spectator can sense that something is wrong, even though the dialogues do not directly state it.

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It is through the combination of long pauses, repetitive structures and the use of illogical vocabulary that Pinter exhibits his great mastery in writing realistic plays, with ambiguous meaning. Language is a means of communication that lost its meaning and purpose. Characters talk, but the words are often devoid of any content. The action does not proceed smoothly or in chronological order, sometimes even though some events take place, the audience is confused on the proceedings. Pinter innovativeness evinces in the special use of language. Language which is used as a tool for presenting the absurdity of human existence. A small talk or a lengthy monologue gain new meaning and have frequently different purpose. They work as an example of human relationships, telegraph characters intentions and even negate the action.

Pinter’s plays usually take place on one-room stage, onto which a handful of characters enter and interact with each other. A constant feeling of threat can be sensed from the first words they utter, which emphasises the deliberate effect of conveying uneasiness, confusion and indifference. Power relations and problem of identity remain one of the most important themes, as well as people’s inability to communicate.

The Theatre of the Absurd

Harold Pinter is frequently classified as a representative of the Theatre of the Absurd, which appeared and developed mainly in 1950’s in France, England, Scandinavia, Germany and other English-speaking countries, under the influence of surrealism and expressionism, and as a reaction to Second World War. The term was coined by Martin Esslin, who in 1961 published a book under this title, in which he described a mode of drama writing shared by such European dramatists as Samuel Beckett, Eugène Ionesco, Arthur Adamov, and Jean Genet. Harold Pinter was added to this quartet of playwrights in the subsequent editions. According to Esslin, the beginning of this type of drama can be seen in the late nineteenth century, when in 1896 Alfred Jarry staged for the first time in Paris Ubu Roi (Ubu the King), a nonsensical play about the adventures of a brutal usurper of Polish throne. This play anticipates one of the main characteristics of the Theatre of the Absurd, its tendency to externalize and project outwards what is happening in the deeper recesses of mind [and] is grotesquely magnified and exaggerated.

Pinter used this exaggeration and explicitness of human psychological processes in his plays to present a realistic vision of the world deprived of faith in purposefulness of human existence. Following the M.H. Abrams’ A Glossary of Literary Terms a play written in the Theatre of the

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Absurd mode is grotesquely comic and also irrational and nonconsequential; it is a parody not only of the traditional assumptions of Western culture, but of the conventions and generic forms of traditional drama, and even of its own unescapable participation in the dramatic medium. The lucid but eddying and pointless dialogue is often funny, and pratfalls and other modes of slapstick are used to project the alienation and tragic anguish of human existence.

Comedy of Menace

As a playwright, Harold Pinter is an innovator of a new kind of drama which becomes famous as the Comedy of Menace. Unlike Coleridge, the famous Romantic poet, Harold Pinter begins his plays in our known, familiar world but gradually makes us move into the trajectory and psychodynamics of a world which is beyond our comprehension. In Pinter's Comedy of Menace, the laughter and elation of the audience in the same or all situations are immediately followed by a feeling of some impending disaster. An audience is, therefore, made aware, in the very midst of his laughter of some menace. The feelings of insecurity and uncertainty throughout the play also enhance the menacing atmosphere of Pinter's The Birthday Party. The menace in Pinterian drama is also produced by potential or actual violence or from an underlined sense of violence throughout the play. Pinter makes the audience feel that the security of the principal character (Stanley) and even the audiences' own security is threatened by some sort of impending danger or disaster. Actually the term 'Comedy of Menace' was first coined by David Campton who used the phrase as a subtitle of his four short plays The Lunatic View, published in 1957. However, in Pinter's hand, the concept of menace becomes highly symbolic and vague.

IV. Introduction to the Text

Harold Pinter was working as an actor in England when he stayed briefly at a dilapidated boarding house that would serve as his inspiration for both The Birthday Party and The Room. As he has explained in many published works, he wrote more from intuition than from intellect, exploring his characters without pre-decided narratives in mind, and this one encounter was inspirational not because of people he met there, but because of a certain visceral feeling it gave him.

Pinter wrote The Birthday Party in 1957, after his one act play The Room attracted the attention of Michael Codron, a producer who saw much promise in the quirky playwright. The Birthday Party is Pinter’s first full length play, and the first of three plays considered his “comedy of menace” pieces. The other two are The Caretaker and The Homecoming.

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"Comedy of menace," a term coined by critic Irving Wardle, describes a play which paints a realistic picture while creating a subtext of intrigue and confusion, as if the playwright were employing a sleight-of-hand trick. Pinter once said, “What I write has no obligation to anything other than to itself,” which both belies the designation Wardle gave his plays, and acknowledges the originality that inspired such a designation in the first place. Inspired by other unconventional playwrights such as Samuel Beckett, Pinter transcended traditional theatre by staging a familiar setting (the English home) and then throwing it into a state of confusion with lies, deceit, and chaos. These juxtapositions would be further explored by Martin Esslin in his seminal study “Theatre of the Absurd”.

The Birthday Party premiered in Cambridge's Arts Theater on April 28, 1958, with Willoughby Gray as Petey and Richard Pearson as Stanley. Pinter directed the initial productions himself, but Peter Wood took his place as director once the play hit the pre-London stage. Though the play was received well in Cambridge, it was a resounding failure during its run at the Lyric Opera House in Hammersmith. The avant-garde writing and the confusing subtext sat poorly with critics and audiences alike.

Despite its initial commercial failure, The Birthday Party has since proven to be one of Pinter’s most reproduced plays. It was revived by the Royal Shakespeare Company at the Aldwych Theater in London in 1964, to critical success. Pinter directed this rendition of the show and later wrote, directed, and appeared in subsequent productions, including the 1968 film version which starred Robert Shaw as Stanley. The Lyric Opera House celebrated the play’s 50th anniversary in May 2008, just months before Pinter’s death.

➢ The Birthday Party: Character List

Petey

Petey Boles is the owner of the rundown boarding house in which the play takes place. He is 60 years old and married to Meg. Petey works a deckchair attendant at an unspecified seaside resort near his home on the shores of England.

As the play continues, Petey’s character is revealed to be more astute. He realizes that Goldberg and McCann are more insidious than they seem, and probably knows of his wife and Stanley's strange relationship. While Petey seems to know quite a lot more than he lets on, he ultimately reveals that he will do little to compromise the comfortable, delusional existence he shares with Meg.

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Meg

Meg Boles is a kind woman who helps run the boarding house. She is sixty years old and married to Petey in a seemingly childless marriage. Absentminded and simplistic, Meg often asks repetitive questions and constantly requires attention. While she does carry on a sexually- tinged relationship with Stanley, Meg lives a rather humdrum life that allows her to maintain certain delusions about her attractiveness and popularity, delusions which she works hard to protect even as the play goes to darker places.

Stanley

Stanley Webber is ostensibly the protagonist of the play. He is the only boarder at the Boles' boarding house, and is initially defined by laziness, unkemptness, and smug cruelty towards Meg. The many details of his past are never confirmed - he might be a musician, might have been famous, etc. - although there is a sense that he has sins unatoned for. His aggressive depression transitions into a nervous breakdown when Goldberg and McCann arrive, until he is nothing but a bumbling idiot in Act III.

Goldberg

Nat Goldberg, also called “Simey” and “Benny,” is a Jewish gentleman who works for an unnamed "organization" that has employed him to take Stanley away from the boarding house. He is defined by his outwardly polite and suave demeanour, which stands in stark contrast to that of his associate McCann. However, he ultimately reveals an angry, violent streak beneath this suave demeanour.

Goldberg's problems seem to be connected to his past - he is nostalgic about family, and waxes poetic about the old days. To what extent these delusions explain and/or feed his anger and violence are left to the reader's imagination.

McCann

Dermot McCann is an Irish member of an unnamed "organization" that has hired him to take Stanley away from the boarding house. Unlike Goldberg, who uses words and charm to his advantage, McCann is a paragon of bodily aggression. He lacks much social skill, and is something of a simpleton.

Lulu

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A young woman in her twenties, Lulu is an acquaintance of Meg’s and a visitor to the boarding house. She is childish and flirtatious, and though she seems initially interested in Stanley, she is easily attracted to Goldberg's charms. Her girlish qualities become ironically unsettling after she is sexually assaulted.

➢ The Birthday Party: Plot Overview

Stanley Webber is the only guest staying in Meg and Petey Boles’ boarding house in a coastal resort town in England, where he has been holed up for the past year and has essentially no contact with the outside world. One morning, Meg and Petey sit at the breakfast table and make small talk. As Petey reads the newspaper, Meg repeatedly asks him if he’s enjoying his cornflakes and fried toast. Before long, she remarks that Stanley should be downstairs by now. She then decides to “fetch” him, finally drawing him from his room and getting him to the breakfast table, where she presents him with cornflakes and fried toast.

After Petey leaves for work, Stanley tells Meg she’s a “bad wife” for not giving her husband a fresh cup of tea. This conversation eventually turns into a back-and-forth in which Meg fluctuates between acting like Stanley’s caretaker and his lover. They switch between flirting and arguing until Meg mentions that two new guests will be arriving soon. “What are you talking about?” Stanley asks, unsettled, and Meg tells him that Petey encountered two men on the beach the night before. “Two gentlemen asked Petey if they could come and stay for a couple of nights. I’m expecting them,” she says, but Stanley claims he doesn’t believe her, since no one has ever visited the boarding house the whole time he’s been a resident.

Changing the topic, Stanley says, “When you address yourself to me, do you ever ask yourself who exactly you are talking to?” Then he groans and puts his head in his hands, but Meg fails to understand his question, instead asking if he enjoyed his breakfast. She says she used to like watching him play piano when he used to play as a professional. Urging him to get out of the house, she suggests that he get a job playing at the pier, and he unconvincingly insists that he’s been offered a job playing at a night club in Berlin. As he explains this prospect, he adds that he would actually travel the world. Talking about his past life as a professional musician, he says, “I’ve played the piano all over the world. All over the country.” Then he describes a concert he played where celebrated for his performance and his “unique touch,” though when he went to give a second concert, the performance hall was locked. “They pulled a fast one,” he says.

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A knock sounds on the door, and Meg goes offstage to answer it, having a whispered conversation in which a voice says, “What shall I do with it?” Without identifying what “it” is, Meg gives this person instructions and then goes on her way. At this point, the person ventures into the living room. Her name is Lulu, and she’s carrying a parcel, which she sets down on the sideboard and tells Stanley that he’s “not to touch it.” They then have a conversation about how “stuffy” it is inside, and Lulu encourages Stanley to go outside. Stanley lies and says that he went to the ocean early that morning, but Lulu hands him a compact mirror and points out that he doesn’t look like a man who has been outside in a long time. Looking at himself, Stanley is visibly stricken, suddenly withdrawing from his reflection. He then asks Lulu if she’d like to “go away” with him, but when she asks where they’d go, he simply says, “Nowhere,” and when she asks if he’d like to go for a walk, he says, “I can’t at the moment.” Lulu departs.

When the two new guests finally knock on the boarding house’s door, Stanley turns out the light and quickly exits before they come inside. Their names are Goldberg and McCann, and they talk about the “job” they have to do. Goldberg is clearly the boss, and he tells McCann that their task is “quite distinct” from their “previous work.” It all depends, he upholds, on the “attitude” of their “subject.” At this point, Meg enters and introduces herself, telling Goldberg and McCann about Stanley and saying that today is his birthday. Insisting that they refrain from mentioning anything, she says that they will have a party tonight in Stanley’s honour, and Goldberg expresses thanks for being invited. She then shows them to their room, and when she returns, Stanley is in the living room.

Stanley asks Meg about Goldberg and McCann, pressing her for details until she cuts him off and gives him his birthday present—the package Lulu placed on the sideboard. It is a small drum. Slinging it around his neck, Stanley walks around the living room table beating the drum, much to Meg’s satisfaction. As he keeps circling the table, though, his drumming becomes increasingly erratic, until the beat is “savage and possessed.”

That evening, Stanley meets McCann in the living room. Suspicious of this newcomer, he tries to discern why he’s come to the boarding house and begins asking questions about Goldberg, whom he hasn’t met yet. “Has he told you anything? Do you know what you’re here for?” he says, but McCann denies that he knows what Stanley’s talking about, instead focusing on Stanley’s birthday party until Goldberg himself enters and introduces himself. Desperate to keep Goldberg and McCann from staying in the house, Stanley pretends he’s the manager and tells them there’s no room, but they don’t listen to him, instead insisting that he sit down. When

9 | P a g e they finally force him into a chair, they start asking him strange questions, which become increasingly inscrutable. They ask why he came to the boarding house in the first place, whether or not he properly stirs his headache medication, and when he last took a bath. They then accuse him of betraying “the organization,” though they never specify what organization they’re referring to. Later in the conversation, they ask why he killed his wife, and he says that he doesn’t have a wife, but they hardly listen, moving on to ask if he recognizes “an external force.” “What?” Stanley replies, but they don’t make themselves clear, instead pushing on and asking him—among other things—if the number 846 is “possible or necessary.” Finally, in response to a question about whether the chicken or the egg came first, Stanley screams, and their conversation is interrupted by the sound of a drumbeat as Meg enters wearing her evening dress and playing Stanley’s drum.

Before long, Lulu arrives and Stanley’s party begins without Petey, who’s unable to attend. Pouring drinks, Goldberg suggests that Meg make a toast to Stanley. When she does, Goldberg and McCann turn out the lights and shine a flashlight in Stanley’s face. In her toast, Meg hardly says anything about Stanley himself, instead focusing on how happy she is to be having a party in her home. Despite the impersonality of this speech, Goldberg upholds that he’s quite moved by Meg’s words, and then he delivers his own toast. Next the group decides to play a game, though Stanley himself has yet to say a word, still reeling from Goldberg and McCann’s strange interrogation.

Producing a blindfold, the group decides to play “blind man’s buff,” a game in which one person has a scarf tied over their eyes and tries to find the other players, who are scattered throughout the room. As the game progresses, Goldberg and Lulu fondle one another while McCann and Meg flirt and Stanley stands catatonic on his own. When it’s Stanley’s turn to play the blind man, McCann puts the drum in his way and his foot breaks through it. Dragging the instrument on his foot, he falls over and Meg makes a noise. When he rises, he advances toward her, and then the lights suddenly cut out and he begins to strangle her. After great commotion, the others separate him from her, but he slips away. Then everyone hears Lulu scream and fall to the floor, having fainted as Stanley approaches. In silence, Stanley lifts her onto the table, and when McCann finally finds the flashlight, the audience sees that Stanley is about to rape Lulu. Goldberg and McCann wrest him away and back him against the wall as he lets out a psychopathic laugh before the curtain closes.

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When the curtain opens again, it is the next morning and Meg and Petey are having breakfast as if nothing has happened. Meg claims to not remember anything about the party and focuses on serving breakfast, but there aren’t any cornflakes. Finding the broken drum on the floor, she hits it and says, “It still makes a noise.” She remarks that Stanley should be awake because he’s going to miss breakfast, and Petey says, “There isn’t any breakfast,” to which she responds, “Yes, but he doesn’t know that.” She tells Petey she went upstairs to check on Stanley, but McCann and Goldberg were in his room having an intense conversation with him. She then leaves the house to get food for lunch, and Goldberg comes downstairs and talks about the party to Petey, who asks him “what came over” Stanley. “Nervous breakdown,” Goldberg says. He then explains that these kinds of breakdowns sometimes brew “day by day” before erupting, though for some people there are no warning signs because their spiralling mental health is a “foregone conclusion.”

When Stanley finally comes downstairs, he’s completely incapable of speaking. As he spews gibberish, Goldberg tells Petey that he and McCann are taking him to a doctor, though it’s clear from his tone that this isn’t the case. Petey is suspicious, but he finds himself unable to do anything as they escort Stanley out the door. When they turn to go, Petey calls after them, saying, “Stan, don’t let them tell you what to do!” When Meg returns, Petey tells her that Stanley is still asleep upstairs, and she says he’ll be late for breakfast. She then talks about how “lovely” the party was the night before, insisting that everyone told her she was “the belle of the ball.” “Oh, it’s true,” she says, though nobody actually told her this. After a slight pause, she says, “I know I was,” and then the curtain falls.

➢ Act-by-Act Summary and Analysis

Summary: Act I

One morning, Petey Boles enters the living room of the boarding house that he owns with his wife, Meg. As he sits at the table and begins to read the newspaper, Meg calls from another room, saying, “Is that you, Petey? Petey, is that you? Petey?” When she peers out through the hatch that leads to the kitchen, she looks directly at her husband and asks, “Are you back?” Petey confirms that he has indeed returned from the beach, where he works as a deck-chair attendant, and Meg gives him a bowl of cornflakes. Sitting with him at the table, she asks him to tell her what it’s like outside and what’s happening in the news, making idle chit-chat. “Is Stanley up yet?” Meg asks, and Petey says that he doesn’t know. “I haven’t seen him down yet,” Meg says, to which Petey responds, “Well then, he can’t be up.” As such, Meg concludes

11 | P a g e that he must still be sleeping and shifts the topic of conversation by asking Petey what time he went out in the morning. “Same time as usual,” he answers. “Was it dark?” she asks. “No, it was light,” he replies. Beginning to weave as she sits at the table, Meg points out that sometimes Petey leaves in the morning and it’s still dark, but he reminds her that this only happens in the winter, when the sun rises later in the morning. After a moment, Meg asks if Petey enjoyed his cornflakes, and when he says he did, she jumps up and fetches him a helping of fried bread, proud to have made it for him. “Oh, Meg, two men came up to me on the beach last night,” Petey says. “They wanted to know if we could put them up for a couple of nights.” In response, Meg says, “Put them up? Here?” She then triumphantly suggests that the strangers must have heard about their boarding house because the house is “on the list.” Getting to his point, Petey tells his wife that these two men will most likely arrive at some point in the day, and Meg tells him that she already has a room ready. She then decides to wake Stanley, and Petey asks if she already took him his cup of tea. “I always take him up his cup of tea,” she says. “But that was a long time ago.” When Petey asks if Stanley drank the tea, she says, “I made him. I stood there till he did.” Calling out, Meg warns Stanley that she’s coming to get him, and then she goes upstairs and the audience hears “shouts from Stanley” and “wild laughter from Meg.” When Stanley finally enters the living room, he is “unshaven” and wearing a “pyjama jacket” and glasses. He declares that he hasn’t slept at all, and Meg says, “Too tired to eat your breakfast, I suppose?” She pours him a bowl of cornflakes and tells him to eat them “like a good boy.” As he does so, he asks Petey, “What’s it like out today?” Interrupting their conversation about the weather, Meg says, “What are the cornflakes like, Stan?” “Horrible,” he replies, claiming that the milk is sour. “It’s not,” Meg insists. “Petey ate his, didn’t you, Petey?” Nonetheless, Stanley pushes the cereal away and asks for the “second course.” Meg tells Stanley she isn’t going to give him the second course, but he threatens to “go down to one of those smart hotels on the front.” At this, Meg jumps up and gives him his fried bread, all the while saying that he wouldn’t be able to get a “better breakfast” at a hotel. As she bickers with Stanley, Petey rises and says he’s going to return to work, and when Meg tries to stop him because he hasn’t had his tea yet, he waves her off, saying it doesn’t matter. Then, when Stanley and Meg are alone, Stanley calls her a “bad wife” because she didn’t make her husband a cup of tea. “You mind your own business,” she says in response. “You won’t find many better wives than me, I can tell you. I keep a very nice house and I keep it clean.” Stanley laughs at Meg for claiming that she keeps a “clean” house. “Yes!” she insists. “And this house is very well known, for a very good boarding house for visitors.” Laughing, Stanley points out that Meg hasn’t had any “visitors” other than him the entire time he has lived in her house. Changing the subject, she

12 | P a g e asks Stanley what he thinks of the fried bread, and he calls it “succulent.” “You shouldn’t say that word to a married woman,” she says, and this statement incites a strange back and forth in which Meg playfully calls Stanley “bad,” ruffles his hair, and brings him tea. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he mumbles, and she says that he doesn’t “deserve” the kindness she gives him. However, they then start arguing about whether or not the tea is over-steeped, and he calls her a “succulent old washing bag.” After several moments of dusting the sideboard and table, Meg turns to Stanley and asks, “Am I really succulent?” In turn, Stanley assures her that he’d rather have her than “a cold in the nose.” This delights Meg, but Stanley doesn’t take notice, instead crossing the room, collapsing in the armchair, and telling her she should clean the house because it’s a “pigsty.” Plus, he says, she should sweep his room and put up new wallpaper. “I need a new room!” he concludes, but Meg comes over and sits on the side of the chair. Petting his arm, she says, “Oh, Stan, that’s a lovely room. I’ve had some lovely afternoons in that room.” Hearing this, Stanley “recoils” from her touch in “disgust.” Nonetheless, she flirtatiously tickles him even as he tells her to “get away.” “Are you going out?” Meg asks. “Not with you,” Stanley says, and then she says she’s going shopping and that he’ll be lonely by himself. “Without your old Meg. I’ve got to get things in for the two gentlemen,” she says. At this, Stanley raises his head. “What two gentlemen,” he asks, and she informs him that she’s expecting guests. “Two gentlemen asked Petey if they could come and stay for a couple of nights. I’m expecting them,” she explains. “I don’t believe it,” Stanley replies, but Meg insists this is the truth. Advancing upon her, he says, “You’re saying it on purpose.” He then asks when Petey saw these men and who, exactly, they are, but Meg tells him she doesn’t know. “Here?” he continues. “They wanted to come here?” Once again, Meg confirms that this is the case, and after a troubled moment, Stanley says, “They won’t come.” Having decided that the two new guests won’t come, Stanley says, “Forget all about it. It’s a false alarm. A false alarm.” He then asks where his tea has gone, and Meg tells him she took it away because he said it was over-steeped. “Who gave you the right to take away my tea?” he asks. “You wouldn’t drink it,” she says, and then he tells her to come to him. “Come on,” he says, gesturing for her to come closer. When she refuses, he says, “All right. I can ask it from here just as well. Tell me, Mrs. Boles, when you address yourself to me, do you ever ask yourself who exactly you are talking to? Eh?” When she fails to answer, he simply groans and “falls forward,” leaning on the table with his head in his hands. Changing the subject, Meg asks, “When are you going to play the piano again? Like you used to? I used to like watching you play the piano. When are you going to play it again?” Stanley then points out that he can’t play the piano because the boarding house doesn’t have one. “I meant like when you were

13 | P a g e working,” Meg says, pointing out that he could play at the nearby pier. “I’ve—er—I’ve been offered a job, as a matter of fact,” he says, claiming that he’s “considering” the prospect, which would take him to a night club in Berlin. “How long for?” Meg asks, and he says, “We won’t stay in Berlin. Then we go to Athens.” Again, Meg asks how long Stanley would be away for if he accepted the job, but he doesn’t pay attention, instead explaining that after Athens, he would travel to Constantinople, Zagreb, and Vladivostok. “It’s a round-the-world tour,” he finally suggests. “Have you played the piano in those places before?” Meg asks. “Played the piano? I’ve played the piano all over the world. All over the country.” After a pause, he says, “I once gave a concert.” Elaborating, Stanley tells the story of the piano concert he gave, all the while using a tone that indicates he’s talking mostly to himself: “I had a unique touch. Absolutely unique. They came up to me. They came up to me and said they were grateful. Champagne we had that night, the lot. My father nearly came down to hear me. Well, I dropped him a card anyway. But I don’t think he could make it. No, I—I lost the address, that was it. Yes. Lower Edmonton. Then after that, you know what they did? They carved me up. Carved me up. It was all arranged, it was all worked out. My next concert. Somewhere else it was. In winter. I went down there to play. Then, when I got there, the hall was closed, the place was shuttered up, not even a caretaker. They’d locked it up.” Stanley insists that the people who wanted him to play a second concert hoodwinked him. “They pulled a fast one,” he upholds. “Well I can take a tip…any day of the week.” He puts his glasses on—since he took them off during his monologue—and looks at Meg. “Look at her,” he says. “You’re just an old piece of rock cake, aren’t you?” In response, she tells him not to go away again. “You stay here,” she says. “You’ll be better off. You stay with your old Meg. Aren’t you feeling well this morning, Stan? Did you pay a visit this morning?” Upon hearing this, Stanley suddenly “stiffens” and looks meaningfully at Meg before telling her that someone is coming in a van to collect her. Thoroughly scaring her, he says that these people will put her in a wheelbarrow and take her away. Telling Meg about these mysterious people with the wheelbarrow, Stanley says, “And when the van stops, they wheel it out, and they wheel it up the garden path, and then they knock at the front door.” He tells her that “they’re looking for someone,” and she shouts, “No, they’re not!” At this point, a knock on the door interrupts their conversation, and Meg bustles offstage, where she conducts a conversation in whispers with an unseen person. “Hullo, Mrs. Boles,” says the new voice. “It’s come.” When this conversation concludes, Lulu walks into the living room with a parcel in her arms. Greeting Stanley, she tells him that she’s going to leave the package on the sideboard and that he’s “not to touch it.” Lulu remarks that the boarding house is “stuffy” and suggests that Stanley should get some air, but he insists that he went outside at

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“half past six.” “I went right out to the head land and back before breakfast,” he claims. “Don’t you believe me.” Taking out a compact mirror, Lulu hands it to him and says, “Do you want to have a look at your face?” Looking at his reflection, Stanley quickly withdraws. “You could do with a shave, do you know that? Don’t you ever go out? I mean, what do you do, just sit around the house like this all day long?” she says. She then invites him to come outside with her for lunch, prompting him to go one step further by asking if she’d like to “go away” with him. “Where?” she asks. “Nowhere,” he replies. “Still, we could go.” “There’s nowhere to go,” Stanley continues. “So we could just go. It wouldn’t matter.” In response, Lulu says that they “might as well stay here,” but Stanley upholds that “it’s no good here.” After a pause, Lulu asks if he’s going to come for a walk with her, and he says, “I can’t at the moment.” Before leaving, Lulu says, “You’re a bit of a washout, aren’t you?” Lulu leaves, a knock sounds on the door, and Stanley exits as Goldberg and McCann enter carrying suitcases. “Is this it?” McCann asks, and Goldberg tells him not to worry. “Sit back, McCann,” he says. “Relax. What’s the matter with you? I bring you down for a few days to the seaside. Take a holiday. Do yourself a favour. Learn to relax, McCann, or you’ll never get anywhere.” In response, McCann says, “Ah sure, I do try, Nat,” and Goldberg tells him that “the secret” to relaxing is focusing on breathing. He then launches into a story about when he was “an apprentice” who used to shadow his uncle, who used to live in Basingstoke and would take him “after lunch on Shabbuss” to sit on deck chairs and watch the tide. After a while, McCann interrupts Goldberg’s nostalgic story to ask if he’s sure they’re in the correct house. As Goldberg continues to reminisce about his uncle’s advice, McCann grows increasingly worried that they haven’t come to the right house. “What is it, McCann? You don’t trust me like you did in the old days?” Goldberg finally says. McCann assures him that he does indeed trust him. “But why is it that before you do a job you’re all over the place, and when you’re doing the job you’re as cool as a whistle?” Goldberg asks. He then assures McCann that when “they approached [him] to” take this job, he specifically asked for McCann as a partner. Flattered, McCann says this means a great deal “coming from a man of [Goldberg’s] position,” and Goldberg agrees that he does have quite the “position.” “You’ve always been a true Christian,” McCann says, to which, Goldberg says, “In a way.” After complimenting Goldberg, McCann asks him if “this job” will be “like anything [they’ve] ever done before.” In response, Goldberg says, “The main issue is a singular issue and quite distinct from your previous work. Certain elements, however, might well approximate in points of procedure to some of your other activities. All is dependent on the attitude of our subject.” Meg enters the living room, and Goldberg tells her that he and McCann spoke to Petey about staying in the boarding house. “Very pleased to meet you,” Meg

15 | P a g e says, and Goldberg returns the compliment. “That’s very nice,” Meg says, and Goldberg replies, “You’re right, how often do you meet someone it’s a pleasure to meet.” Making small- talk, Goldberg asks about the boarding house, asking what Petey does for work and then asking her about the sole boarder, inquiring how long Stanley has been staying in the house and what he does for work. “He once gave a concert,” Meg says. “In…a big hall. His father gave him champagne. But then they locked the place up and he couldn’t get out. The caretaker had gone home. So he had to wait until the morning before he could get out. They were very grateful. And then they all wanted to give him a tip.” Meg tells Goldberg and McCann that she wishes Stanley could play the piano tonight, since it’s his birthday. “His birthday?” Goldberg asks. “Yes,” she replies. “Today. But I’m not going to tell him until tonight.” “Doesn’t he know it’s his birthday?” Goldberg asks, but Meg says, “He hasn’t mentioned it.” Thinking for a moment, Goldberg tells her that she ought to throw Stanley a party. She immediately takes to this idea, loving the thought of staging a celebration. Looking at his friend, Goldberg says, “What do you think of that, McCann? There’s a gentleman living here. He’s got a birthday today, and he’s forgotten all about it. So we’re going to remind him.” Meg then declares that she’ll wear her “party dress,” which she hopes will look nice. “Madam,” Goldberg says, “you’ll look like a tulip.” Charmed, Meg takes Goldberg and McCann upstairs to show them the bedroom they’ll be sharing. After showing Goldberg and McCann their room, Meg comes downstairs again and speaks to Stanley in the living room. “Who are they?” he asks, pressing for details. He asks how long they’ll stay, why they didn’t come the night before, and why they’ve come in the first place. He then urges her to remember their names, and after she tells him Goldberg’s name, she promises that they won’t bother him. “I’ll still bring you up your early morning tea,” she promises. “You mustn’t be sad today. It’s your birthday.” Looking up, Stanley insists that it isn’t his birthday, but Meg only says, “It is. I’ve bought you a present.” Meg hands Stanley the parcel that Lulu brought to the house. When he opens it, he sees that it’s a small drum. “It’s a drum,” he says, confused. “A boy’s drum.” Happily, Meg tells him that she got him this because there’s no piano for him to play. “Aren’t you going to give me a kiss?” she asks, and he obliges by hesitantly kissing her on the cheek before drawing drumsticks from the package and looping the drum around his neck. Marching around the table in a circle, he begins beating the drum. “Still beating it regularly, he begins to go round the table a second time,” Pinter’s stage note reads. “Halfway round the beat becomes erratic, uncontrolled. MEG expresses dismay. He arrives at her chair, banging the drum, his face and the drumbeat now savage and possessed.”

Analysis: Act I

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The Birthday Party is both extremely conventional and entirely unique. Most of its elements are easy to recognize and understand, but the relationships between those elements is slippery and difficult to pinpoint. Pinter's work is prized for the way it approaches and comments upon the limitations of communication, and The Birthday Party is no exception. The play, especially in performance, suggests that our attempts to communicate with one another are futile and often tinged with deep-seeded resentments that we are unable to fully articulate. The truth, in order words, lies in the silence, not in the words characters use.

To best understand the play, it is useful to know about the famous 'Pinter pause.' Even a cursory scan of the play will reveal how precisely Pinter uses silence and pauses in telling his story. While it is perhaps not accurate to interpret this silence as deliberately designed to communicate an idea, it certainly does create a general unease, a feeling of sinister motives, that has become a hallmark of the writer's work.

Act I of The Birthday Party opens with a traditional domestic scene of a husband and wife around the breakfast table. Their conversation is bland but comfortable. On the page, it can seem hardly theatrical: there is no conflict, no exposition, and no challenge to expectation. However, hidden beneath the surface of Petey and Meg’s morning routine is a heavy sense of apathy, a recurring theme within the play. Both Petey and Meg, like Stanley, have accepted their tedious existence to the point that they fear change, as proven by Meg’s reaction in Act III when she does not have breakfast ready. Her morning routine is disrupted and she is extremely upset. In performance, one can sense the undercurrent, which gives the scene tension if not conflict. Again, their relationship on the surface seems perfect - in the silence beneath it, however, an audience can sense a problem.

The specific setting of The Birthday Party is an English boarding house on an unnamed coast in the 1950s, but it is also set within the generalized idea of “the home” and “the family.” By establishing such a recognizable setting - the domestic home - Pinter sets the stage to reverse expectation and make commentary upon it. Effectively, he reinvents the domestic scene by adding elements of confusion and chaos. This juxtaposition led critic Irving Wardle to describe the play as a "comedy of menace," one in which a seemingly realistic scene is complicated by lies, deceit and confusion.

Stanley, as a character, represents the essence of confusion; he lies about his past, speaks rudely, lies regularly, and later denies any wrongdoing, even though Goldberg and McCann, who are also shrouded in mystery, strongly insist upon his guilt. Pinter establishes the layers

17 | P a g e of social norms so that he can later peel them back to reveal the ugly potential of the human condition.

Act I also introduces the odd relationship between Meg and Stanley. When Petey is present, Meg refers to Stanley as “that boy,” a stern but affectionate choice for her boarder. Of course, their relationship is far more intimate. Pinter explores the difference between her relationship with the men through the motif of "tea," or "making tea." Meg does not forget Stanley’s tea, but she does forget Petey’s. Stanley later calls her a bad wife for sending her husband to work without any tea, and what is implied is that she is far more interested in having tea ready when she is left alone with the boarder. Their sexual tension is abundantly clear, though the particulars of their relationship remain ambiguous. Meg is much older than Stanley, which allows the reader to create his or her own details: is Stanley taking advantage of a lonely old woman? Did they have a sexual relationship that faltered? An examination of their relationship reveals how ambiguous Pinter's play truly is.

Stanley openly flirts with Meg as she preens and struts about the room, fishing for compliments. Unlike her conversation with Petey, which centers on whether the food was "nice" and other pleasantries, Meg wishes to know whether Stanley finds her "nice." She wants intimacy with him; she wants to something deeper than her relationship with Petey affords. In effect, she is confessing the depth of her loneliness, her desire to break from an apathetic routine, but she cannot fully express this. Instead, we are meant to discover it while she is more than happy simply to be called "succulent."

It can be argued that Meg is simply delusional. Certainly, she harbours delusions about the quality of her house. She believes it is "on the list," but its shabby quality is mentioned by Stanley on several occasions. In Act II, Stanley will insist to Goldberg and McCann that it is not even a boarding house. Even if it is, its lack of boarders speaks volumes about its quality and reputation.

However, her greatest and most poignant delusions involve her relationship to Stanley. She may not have even had an affair with him. He may merely see her as comic relief, or as a way to ensure his security in the house. Her sentimental touches and her affectionate reminder of having spent “many lovely afternoons” in his room only inspire violent and rash outbursts from him. Is he tired of her flirtatious ways and delusions, or is he guilty of having entered into an affair with his much older, married landlady? Has Stanley taken advantage of her? They

18 | P a g e certainly seem familiar with one another, since Stanley allows her to enter his room uninvited, but again, Pinter leaves the exact details up to his audience.

Yet their conversation is barbed as well as comfortable. Meg worries both that Stanley will grow angry with her and that he will leave. The latter fear might connect to the pain of her own father's betrayal, as described in Act II. Regardless, it is rooted in a desire to break from the apathy of her life. Through the eyes of this younger man, Meg can see herself not as a generic housewife, but as something special - not as a failure (her business is quite meager, after all), but as a worthwhile woman. Stanley, on the other hand, is defined not by his fear but by his disgust. He is disgusted by himself, by the boarding house, and by Meg, who represents his guilty conscience, his jailer, or both. While she is comfortable because she accepts who he is, one could argue that she also makes him see himself too clearly, and hence does he hate her as well as accept her.

Pinter never confirms or denies the intimate details of Meg and Stanley’s relationship. Petey, however, offers some insight when he lies to Meg about Stanley’s whereabouts at the end of Act III. He knows she will be hurt when she finds that Stanley has left, and in an effort to spare his wife pain, he allows her to go about her domestic routine instead of telling her the truth. If nothing else, Petey recognizes her delusion, her need to find self-worth through the boarder. There is no specific incident within the play which conclusively determines what Petey knows of Meg and Stanley’s relationship, but lack of closure certainly aligns with the play's general ambiguities.

Confusion, one of the most dominant themes within the play, is perpetuated by the characters’ needs to maintain their delusions by lying to one another. Stanley consistently lies within the play. He tells Meg he has a new job and will be leaving, but in reality, nothing could be further from the truth. Stanley does not want to leave the boarding house, and yet he feels trapped there, stuck in the mindless and repetitive world of Meg and Petey’s relationship. He is both drawn to and disgusted by the safety of such a lifestyle. The exile is in many ways self-imposed, considering that he refuses Lulu's invitation to leave. His lies to Meg could be interpreted as yet another cruelty towards her, but they also reveal the extent of his self-hatred, and the brief respite these delusions bring. When he does cross the line into cruelty, telling Meg that she will be taken away by a wheelbarrow, he does not realize how poignantly he foreshadows his own fate within the play.

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Stanley, like the other characters, is not what he seems. His continued deceit discredits him as a trustworthy character, and yet he suggests that he might indeed have a shady past when he asks Meg:

“Tell me Mrs Boles, when you address yourself to me, do you ever ask yourself who exactly you are talking to? Eh?” Such an address could suggest one of two pasts: either an entitled, wealthy background, or the self-appointed swagger of a violent man. Further, he lies about his father, confusing even himself. Even he has forgotten what is true.

As he continues his story about the concerts, he begins to reveal serious paranoia. His passion during this part of the speech suggests either that his is speaking truthfully or that his delusions have taken over. Meg does mention that he used to play piano at the pier, so the talent itself is not an invention, even if it now lays dormant. Either way, Stanley seems to believe he has been forced from his career and vocation. Perhaps an initial nervous breakdown forced him from a high life (real or imagined) to this secluded seaside boarding house. Regardless, he has certainly left his old life behind, and now sees fit to reinvent the particulars of his old life. The question is whether, for Stanley, the difference between the reality and his delusion really matters.

Adding to the play's confusing atmosphere is the miscommunication manifest in Pinter's use of language; miscommunication is another recurring theme throughout the play. Each character uses language not only to express himself, but also to further his own cause, lie, mislead, and simply cause pain. Pinter once reflected that he had used too many dashes in The Birthday Party, and not enough dots. Although his example is esoteric, his meaning is clear. The language serves to confuse us, even as the characters give lots of information. For instance, Goldberg’s long-winded speeches reflect on a past which may or may not have relevance toward his current circumstances, and may or may not suggest a deeper interpretation. The dialogue is outwardly conversational, but his deliberately paced silences and carefully chosen language suggests a deeper turmoil than the characters mean to express. Consider how the superficiality of the opening dialogue hides deep apathy, or how Goldberg's charming demeanour only makes his presence doubly sinister. Similarly, Stanley’s hesitancy masks a deeper turmoil. His rash outbursts represent his fear, or perhaps his guilt. One of the most telling moments of the Act uses no dialogue at all - Stanley's possessive beating of the drum not only feeds the foreboding atmosphere, but foreshadows his own descent into madness.

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Goldberg and McCann’s conversation in Act I showcases Pinter’s use of language as a dramatic element. Their entrance creates chaos, as they throw the seemingly unoriginal day at the boarding house into a state of perplexity. Goldberg and McCann’s friendly but business-like conversation ironically create an ominous atmosphere. They are here to “do a job.” By avoiding the particulars, the audience is left to construct their own sinister details, an effect made doubly effective when performances utilize the rhythmic silence and pauses.

Goldberg’s cryptic message is partly for the benefit of the audience. Pinter certainly does not want to give too much away, and yet Pinter himself may not know what the job is. He was famous for following his characters intuitively, learning about them as he wrote, rather than determining their identities before writing. If we accept this approach as true, then Pinter himself would have discovered the existence of a "job" precisely at this point of the play, and continued writing to determine its conclusion. As there is no conclusive resolution within The Birthday Party, one can assume that Pinter did not know what happened to Stanley after he left the boarding house. He may not know what Goldberg and McCann’s “job” is, or if they successfully completed it. What this suggests, then, is that plot is far less important than atmosphere, and the general commentary on the limits of communication.

Pinter’s later works would examine characters similar to Goldberg and McCann, who represented a corrupt 'organization.’ However, in this early work, the two gentlemen only represent a potential organization from which they may have been charged with a job. At its core, The Birthday Party is frustrating from a story perspective but wildly successful in terms of atmosphere. Its sense of confusion and delusion are all the more powerful for its narrative ambiguities.

Summary: Act II

Act II is set later that night. That evening, McCann sits at the table and slowly tears a newspaper into “five equal strips” while Goldberg and Petey’s voices drift in from outside. Stanley enters the living room and greets McCann. “Were you going out?” McCann asks, and Stanley says that he was indeed planning on doing so. “On your birthday?” McCann says. “Yes,” replies Stanley. “Why not?” Trying to make him stay, McCann informs him that there will be a party for him. “Oh, really?” Stanley asks. “That’s unfortunate.” “Ah, no,” McCann says. “It’s very nice.” All the same, Stanley asserts that he’s not “in the mood for a party tonight” and that he plans to go out to “celebrate quietly” on his own. However, McCann is blocking the door and won’t move. “The guests are expected,” says McCann, explaining that the party will be an

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“honour” that Stanley won’t want to miss. “Excuse me,” Stanley says, moving to leave. However, McCann doesn’t let him pass, saying, “Why don’t you stay here?” Giving up, Stanley sits at the table and notes that he feels like he’s met McCann before. “Ever been anywhere near Maidenhead?” he asks, but McCann says they’ve never met and that he hasn’t been to Maidenhead. “There’s a Fuller’s teashop. I used to have my tea there,” Stanley says. “And a Boots Library. I seem to connect you with the High Street.” Still, McCann denies any connection, so Stanley starts talking about what it’s like to live in this coastal town. “I like it here,” he says, “but I’ll be moving soon. Back home. I’ll stay there too, this time. No place like home. I wouldn’t have left, but business calls.” When McCann asks if Stanley is “in business,” he says, “No. I think I’ll give it up.” Stanley reiterates to McCann that he intends to return home, saying that he “used to live very quietly.” He suggests that, though he doesn’t look like someone who would lead “such a quiet life,” this is only because he’s been drinking a lot while living in the boarding house. Still, he insists he’ll be “all right” when he goes home. Focusing on McCann, he asks why he came to the boarding house, saying that it’s a “ridiculous house to pick on” because it’s not actually a boarding house at all. Interjecting, McCann points out that Stanley seems rather “depressed for a man on his birthday,” but Stanley maintains that it’s not his birthday and calls Meg “crazy” for saying so. “That’s a terrible thing to say,” McCann responds. Stanley becomes visibly shaken by the fact that Goldberg and Petey are lurking outside. “You want to steady yourself,” McCann says as Stanley rushes over to him and grabs his arm, saying, “Listen. You knew what I was talking about before, didn’t you?” McCann simply sits down and insists that he doesn’t know what Stanley’s talking about. “It’s a mistake!” Stanley says. “Don’t you understand? […] Has he told you anything? Do you know what you’re here for? Tell me. You needn’t be frightened of me. Or hasn’t he told you?” McCann feigns ignorance, simply saying, “Told me what?” to which Stanley says, “I’ve explained to you, damn you, that all those years I lived in Basingstoke I never stepped outside the door.” Recognizing that McCann is Irish, Stanley invites him to a nearby pub that serves Guinness, but Petey and Goldberg enter and interrupt their conversation. After introducing himself, Goldberg launches into a long description of his mother. “‘Simey!’ my old mum used to shout,” he says at one point, and McCann says, “I thought your name was Nat.” Explaining that his mother called him Simey, Goldberg asks Stanley to talk about his childhood, but Stanley doesn’t respond. Filling the silence, Petey informs his guests that he has plans for the evening and won’t be able to attend the birthday party. When he leaves (along with McCann, who goes to get alcohol), Stanley suddenly shouts, “Don’t mess me about!” When Goldberg regards him, he claims to be the manager of the boarding house, saying, “I’m afraid there’s

22 | P a g e been a mistake. We’re booked out.” Goldberg ignores Stanley’s assertion that the boarding house can’t accommodate new guests, instead approaching him and saying, “I must congratulate you on your birthday.” He says that he believes birthdays are “great occasion[s]” that are “taken too much for granted.” To him, though, birth is a wonderful thing to celebrate. When McCann enters with an armful of bottles, Stanley tells him to get the alcohol out of his sight, but Goldberg simply tells him to sit down as McCann sets the bottles on the sideboard. “I have a responsibility toward the people in this house,” Stanley says, refusing to sit. “They’ve been down here too long. They’ve lost their sense of smell. I haven’t. And nobody’s going to take advantage of them while I’m here.” Again, though, Goldberg tells him to sit. Stanley refuses to sit, so Goldberg tells McCann to force him to do so. When Stanley holds his ground, McCann repeats the command: “Sit down.” “Why?” Stanley asks. “You’d be more comfortable,” he says. “So would you,” Stanley points out. With this, McCann agrees to sit if Stanley will join him, but when he lowers himself into a chair, Stanley says, “Right. Now you’ve both had a rest you can get out!” Hearing this, McCann bolts out of the chair and says, “That’s a dirty trick! I’ll kick the shite out of him.” Finally, after Goldberg yells at him to sit, Stanley takes a seat, at which point Goldberg and McCann close in on him, saying, “Webber, what were you doing yesterday?” Before he can answer, though, Goldberg says, “And the day before. What did you do the day before that?” “Why are you always wasting everybody’s time, Webber?” Goldberg asks, launching into a slew of questions that Stanley is hardly able to answer. He asks why Stanley bothers Meg, why he “behave[s] so badly,” what he wore the previous week, and why he left “the organization.” “Why did you betray us?” McCann chimes in. They then ask who Stanley thinks he is before inquiring as to when he came to the boarding house, where he came from, why he came, and why he stayed. “I had a headache!” Stanley answers. “Did you take anything for it?” Goldberg demands, and when Stanley confirms that he took “fruit salts,” Goldberg says, “Enos or Andrews? […] Did you stir properly? Did they fizz?” “Now, now, wait, you—” Stanley stammers, but Goldberg cuts him off, saying, “Did they fizz? Did they fizz or didn’t they fizz?” “You betrayed the organization,” McCann says. “I know him!” In response, Stanley shouts that McCann doesn’t know him, but McCann plucks his glasses off his face. When Stanley stands to retrieve them, McCann moves his chair so that Stanley has to feel his way to it once more. When he sits back down, Goldberg and McCann resume their absurd questions. “Why did you kill your wife?” Goldberg asks. “What wife?” Stanley says. “How did he kill her?” McCann chimes in. “How did you kill her?” asks Goldberg. “You throttled her,” McCann asserts. “With arsenic,” Goldberg adds. Switching tracks, Goldberg says, “Why did you never get married?” He then maintains that Stanley

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“skedaddled from the wedding.” Moving on, he asks why Stanley changed his name. “I forgot the other one,” Stanley answers. “You stink of sin,” Goldberg says. “Do you recognise an external force?” Stanley doesn’t understand the question, but Goldberg only repeats it, saying, “Do you recognise an external force, responsible for you, suffering for you?” Stanley tries to stand, but Goldberg pushes him back into the seat and says, “Is the number 846 possible or necessary?” Stanley says, “Neither,” and Goldberg repeats the question, finally saying that 846 is “necessary but not possible.” However, Goldberg then says, “It’s only necessarily necessary! We admit possibility only after we grant necessity. It is possible because necessary but by no means necessary through possibility. The possibility can only be assumed after the proof of necessity.” McCann, for his part, says, “Right!” “Right?” Goldberg adds. “Of course right! We’re right and you’re wrong, Webber, all along the line.” Finally, Goldberg and McCann ask Stanley to answer whether the chicken or the egg came first, and Stanley screams at this. “What makes you think you exist?” Goldberg asks after this yelp. “You’re dead. You can’t live, you can’t think, you can’t love. You’re dead. You’re a plague gone bad. There’s no juice in you. You’re nothing but an odour!” Hearing this, Stanley peers up from the chair, in which he has curled up. Pausing, he suddenly kicks Goldberg in the stomach and stands up, but McCann grabs a chair and prepares to strike him with it. “Steady, McCann,” Goldberg says. Before anything else can happen, the sound of a drumbeat fills the room as Meg enters wearing an evening dress and playing Stanley’s drum. Upon seeing Meg, Goldberg regales her with compliments. They then start pouring drinks, and Goldberg urges Meg to walk up and down the room, claiming he used to work in fashion and saying, “Let’s have a look at you.” As the group lifts their glasses for a toast, Goldberg urges Meg to deliver a few words about Stanley, who stands silently to the side. “Switch out the light and put on your torch,” he says to McCann, ordering his associate to point the flashlight into Stanley’s face while everyone else stands up and listens to Meg’s speech. Standing there in the dark, Meg begins her toast. “Well,” she says, “it’s very, very nice to be here tonight, in my house, and I want to propose a toast to Stanley, because it’s his birthday, and he’s lived here for a long while now, and he’s my Stanley now. And I think he’s a good boy, although sometimes he’s bad. And he’s the only Stanley I know, and I know him better than all the world, although he doesn’t think so.” When she concludes her speech, she starts crying, and Goldberg pronounces her words “beautiful” and orders McCann to turn on the lights. At this point, Lulu slips in and meets Goldberg, who kisses her hand and immediately begins to flirt with her. Instructing everyone to raise their glasses once more, Goldberg decides to toast Stanley. “Well,” he says, “I want to say first that I’ve never been so touched to the heart as by the toast we’ve just heard. How often, in this day and age,

24 | P a g e do you come across real, true warmth? Once in a lifetime.” Going on, he says that he is “knocked over by the sentiments” Meg has expressed. “We all wander on our tod through this world,” he says to Stanley. “It’s a lonely pillow to kip on.” He then tells McCann to turn out the lights, and they all drink. When the lights go on again, Meg and McCann fall into conversation while Goldberg and Lulu flirt with one another. As each pair converses, their sentences overlap in a strange cacophony, and Stanley simply sits in silence. Lulu tells Goldberg that she admired his speech, and he says that his “first chance to stand up and give a lecture was at the Ethical Hall, Bayswater.” When she asks what the lecture was about, he says, “The Necessary and the Possible.” He then tells her to sit on his lap, and as she does so, she asks if he has a wife. Goldberg tells her that he used to, launching into a story about his late wife who used to call him Simey. While Goldberg and Lulu flirt—Lulu disclosing that she likes older men and that Goldberg looks like her first true love—Meg and McCann also become rather friendly. Reminiscing about their childhoods, they lose themselves in their memories without fully listening to one another. Finally, Meg suggests that they all play a game, and the group decides to play “blind man’s bluff.” Tying a scarf around Meg’s eyes, Lulu explains to everyone that they can’t move once the game starts. Meg, Lulu says, will walk around in her blindfold and try to touch one of the other players—if she succeeds, then that player is “it,” and it will be his or her turn to play the blind man. Walking blindfolded through the living room, Meg finds McCann, who—when he plays the blind man—finds Stanley. All the while, Goldberg and Lulu fondle one another. As McCann blindfolds Stanley, he takes his glasses, breaks them, and backs away. He then places the drum in Stanley’s path, causing the blinded man to step on it and break through the drumhead before falling to the floor. “Ohh!” Meg says, but Goldberg quickly shushes her. Getting back up, Stanley makes his way to Meg, reaches out, puts both hands around her neck, and starts to strangle her, at which point Goldberg and McCann rush over and force him to stop. Just as Goldberg and McCann get Stanley to let go of Meg, the lights suddenly go out, leaving everyone in total darkness. “Where is he?” Goldberg says. Chaos ensues as McCann tries to find the flashlight, Goldberg barking at him the whole time until, suddenly, Lulu screams because Stanley is approaching her. “Who’s that?” McCann asks, but Lulu has fainted, and Stanley has picked her up and laid her out on the table. Finally, McCann finds the flashlight and shines it on Stanley, who is bent over and preparing to rape Lulu. Wrestling him away, Goldberg and McCann push him against the wall, his face lit by the flashlight as he begins to laugh like a madman.

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Analysis: Act II

The most prominent conflict in Act II is that between order and chaos. The act opens with a symbol of order taken to an almost perverse extreme - McCann methodically tears the newspaper into identical strips. The symbol serves as representation of how he and Goldberg approach their "job" - they are insidious and deliberate in their infiltration of the house, and not too quick to make their move. Interestingly, this same symbol will represent the chaos they leave behind when it resurfaces in Act III.

The tension between Stanley and McCann also reflects this conflict. On the surface, both men do their best to subscribe to social convention. Stanley is clearly unnerved and paranoid, and yet will not deliberately accuse McCann of what he suspects. Instead, he attempts to talk around the perceived threat, which further reflects the play's theme of imperfect communication. Similarly, McCann remains civil despite Stanley's bad attitude, at least until the latter touches the newspaper. By threatening to disrupt the semblance of order, Stanley insults McCann and leads him towards violence.

Once Stanley has disturbed their semblance of order, he takes an offensive tact and tries to dictate the terms of the conversation. He insists upon his version of his own past, in effect defending himself against a perceived threat. The audience is left to fill in any details - is Stanley telling the truth? what are the sins McCann thinks him guilty of? - even as Stanley demands his version is the absolute truth. Questions of identity, of who we think ourselves to be and who we truly are, resurface in this Act. Whereas in Act I, Stanley and Meg's conversation touched on dubious realities but had low stakes, the stakes here are much higher. We perceive that Stanley could be hurt if he cannot convince these men to accept his version of his past. The idea of an imprecise identity is reinforced in Stanley and McCann's exchange over previous acquaintance - McCann insists they have never met before, despite Stanley's insistence to the contrary.

Though Pinter does not give us details on Stanley's past, Stanley's behaviour during this exchange suggests some past sin or crime. He is extremely paranoid even as he tries to maintain an air of civility, and insists pre-emptively that he does not seem the type of man who would ever cause any trouble. To confront the perceived threat would be to break decorum and risk violence, so Stanley relies on innuendo and subtext to communicate his point. McCann, a paragon of order and calm here, is unfazed.

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Ultimately, the opening conversation is a masterpiece of theatrical conversation. There are many interpretations we can make, but we can only conjecture on motivations. The sudden shifts of intention, tone, and subject in the dialogue create through performance an uneasy feeling, a sense that nothing we see is easily categorized. While every bit of the conversation is easy to understand on its own, the over aching subtext - what is really going on - is elusive. Words do not capture our meaning, the play suggests. Instead, they become a trap that fails to properly express our worries and emotions. The only act that truly shifts the power dynamic is McCann's assault. When he hits Stanley, both men understand for a moment what is going on. However, once they return to language, the confusion and disorientation resumes.

Goldberg offers similarly ironic contradictions. A master of language, he knows how to make people respond to him. Both men, like Petey, and women, like Meg and Lulu, respond to his suave ways. And yet behind this seeming control is a sense of gleeful chaos and violence. He uses his control of orderly language to disguise a vicious intent. Clearly, he is not a hitman insistent on efficiency. If he were, he and McCann could easily overpower or kill Stanley. Instead, he attempts to manipulate the situation, to force Stanley into a madness of paranoia. Goldberg intentionally creates chaos, but does so by manipulating the orderliness of language.

This sense is apparent from the moment he enters the Act, with Petey. His story about his mother and a former lover seems to profess proper attitudes on women, even as it unnerves Stanley. Some scholars of The Birthday Party propose that Stanley’s past crime involved a woman, either his wife or a young Irish girl. This interpretation is supported both by this story and by several references during their interrogation scene. They mention that he was once married, and might have either killed his wife or left a woman at the altar. That they contradict themselves is not important - it's only language, after all - but what is important is the repeated motif of violence towards women.

Further, Stanley's attitudes help support this theory. Not only was he emotionally cruel towards Meg in Act I, but in Act II, he attempts to strangle her before preparing to sexually assault Lulu. Stanley is driven to a sort of madness by his oppressors, but rather than being the cause of this behaviour, the madness arguably enables Stanley to act out his true self. As with any interpretation of this play, it is impossible to prove definitively, though a repeated cruelty towards women does support the idea that Stanley is guilty of such crimes.

One of the play's most famous scenes is the interrogation, for several reasons. Most prominent is Pinter's use of language and overlapping dialogue. The interrogation begins with somewhat

27 | P a g e legitimate questions, but quickly falls into a surreal mirage of ridiculousness. Both tactics, coming so quick on top of one another, serve to deepen Stanley’s paranoia, and lay the foundation for his nervous breakdown at the end of Act II. In performance, this scene plays quickly and violently, with the ridiculousness of the language only reinforcing the sinister, torturous intent of the characters. Again, what they say is less affecting than the way they say it, the true motivation behind the meaningless words.

There is almost a sense of a confession in the interrogation. Once Stanley submits to their judgment, he is quickly annihilated. This suggests a sense of unconfessed guilt, especially since their assessment of him is neither totally flawed nor totally truthful. After all, they contradict themselves, but he lacks the fortitude to argue. Instead, the interrogation forces him into a stupor that will not cease until he breaks down during the game. He will never again be the loquacious, arrogant fellow of Act I. He now has to look inward and confront whatever sins he has internalized. What he has done is never revealed - that he has done something is beyond question.

The one remark that does enliven Stanley is the accusation that he is only "an odour." By this point of the interrogation, Stanley has been reduced to a groaning animal, but the fear of death evoked by this claim is strong enough to force his resistance. They have pushed him too far and they prepare to be attacked, before they are saved by Meg's entrance.

Suddenly, order resumes. The scene quickly dissolves into civility once more as Goldberg again evokes a brighter tone. As the party kicks into gear, Goldberg controls the room through his command of language, while Stanley remains in a stupor. Order and chaos share the stage, and while most of the characters are drawn towards Goldberg's controlled order, the audience is aware of the chaos in Stanley, which creates a suspense and tension as counterpoint to the civility of the celebration.

Meanwhile, the theme of sexuality and the objectification of women continues to manifest through Goldberg's actions. He speaks to Lulu as a little girl, a role she quickly accepts when she bounces on his knee. It is a sick parody of the father/daughter relationship, a parallel to Meg’s strange, sexual mother/son relationship with Stanley. What a contradictory and confusing image, especially since Goldberg has come supposedly to punish Stanley for similar crimes. However, Goldberg's hypocrisy would never bother him - after all, his atonement is not at issue.

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Finally, blindness becomes a motif in this Act. The final act that breaks Stanley is the destruction of his glasses, which leaves him blind to the world. The darkness of the blindfold reflects his confusion over the reasons for his torture, and is further manifest in the darkness that overtakes the room. However, when light is finally brought back, we see Stanley as he truly is, ready to repeat some kind of violence. The act closes on chaos - order has broken down, and the truth of Stanley's ugliness has come to light. The order he has maintained for these years on the boarding house has proved as fragile as the drum.

Summary: Act III

Sitting at the breakfast table the following morning, Meg informs Petey that she has run out of cornflakes and has nothing to feed him because Goldberg and McCann have eaten all the fried bread. Still, Petey sits and reads his newspaper as always, noting that Meg slept “like a log” the night before. “Oh, look,” Meg says at one point, picking up Stanley’s drum. “The drum’s broken. Why is it broken?” Hitting it with her hand, she says, “It still makes a noise.” She then adds, “It was probably broken in the party. I don’t remember it being broken, though, in the party.” Consoling herself, she points out that at least Stanley had the drum on his birthday, like she “wanted him to.” Meg asks Petey if he’s seen Stanley yet, and when he says he hasn’t, she says, “Nor have I. That boy should be up. He’s late for his breakfast.” Petey points out that there isn’t any breakfast, but she says, “Yes, but he doesn’t know that.” She has, she reveals, already been upstairs to give Stanley his tea, but McCann opened the door and informed her that “they were talking.” “Do you think they know each other?” she asks Petey. “I think they’re old friends.” Looking out the window, she remarks that there’s a car in the driveway and asks Petey if there’s a wheelbarrow inside it, but he assures her the car only belongs to Goldberg— a fact that relieves her. Before Meg leaves to go shopping, Goldberg comes downstairs and says that Stanley will be along soon. Hearing this, Meg tells Petey to tell Stanley that she “won’t be long,” and then she exits. Turning to Goldberg, Petey asks if Stanley is “any better” this morning. In an unconvincing tone, Goldberg says, “Oh…a little better, I think a little better. Of course. I’m not really qualified to say, Mr. Boles.” Going on, he says that a doctor would have more to say. “Anyway,” he continues, “Dermot’s with him at the moment. He’s…keeping him company.” Confused, Petey says, “Dermot?” “Yes,” Goldberg says without explaining. He then posits that the birthday party was “too much” for Stanley, and when Petey asks what “came over him,” he says Stanley had a nervous breakdown. Petey asks Goldberg what brought on Stanley’s nervous breakdown, and Goldberg suggests that these kinds of things can happen in many different ways. “A friend of mine was telling me about it only the other day,” he says,

29 | P a g e explaining that “sometimes it happens gradual—day by day it grows and grows and grows…day by day. And then other times it happens all at once. Poof! Like that! The nerves break.” For some people, Goldberg maintains, these kinds of nervous breakdowns are “foregone conclusion[s].” Recounting his experience of the previous night, Petey says he came home to find the house completely dark because no one had put a shilling in the electricity meter. As such, he put a coin in the slot, but by the time he was inside, the party had already ended. “There was dead silence,” he says to Goldberg. “Couldn’t hear a thing. So I went upstairs and your friend—Dermot—met me on the landing. And he told me.” “Who?” Goldberg asks. “Your friend—Dermot,” Petey replies. He then asks if people can recover from nervous breakdowns, and Goldberg admits it’s “conceivable” that Stanley might already have gotten over it. Nonetheless, Petey says he’ll call a doctor if Stanley isn’t better by lunchtime, but Goldberg tells him this won’t be necessary. When McCann comes downstairs with two suitcases, Goldberg says, “Well?” but McCann doesn’t respond. Finally, when Goldberg pushes him, he says, “I’m not going up there again.” This, he explains, is because Stanley has gone quiet. “He stopped all that…talking a while ago,” he says, telling Goldberg that he can go up himself if he wants to find out when Stanley will be ready to leave. He also says that he gave back Stanley his broken glasses, which he apparently tried to fit into his eyes. When Petey overhears this and says they can tape them, though, Goldberg says, “No, no, that’s all right, Mr. Boles. It’ll keep him quiet for the time being, keep his mind off other things.” He then says he and McCann will take Stanley to a man named Monty. “You’re going to take him to a doctor?” Petey asks. “Sure, Monty,” Goldberg replies. Goldberg informs Petey that he and McCann will most likely leave before Meg returns. Accepting this, Petey goes to check on his garden as they wait for Stanley to come downstairs. Alone in the living room, Goldberg and McCann prepare to leave. As they speak to one another, McCann starts ripping newspaper, and this annoys Goldberg, who tells him to stop because he finds it “childish” and “pointless.” Sitting down and leaning back in a chair, Goldberg closes his eyes and talks to McCann in a tired voice. “I don’t know why, but I feel knocked out,” he says. “I feel a bit…It’s uncommon for me.” Hearing this, McCann suggests they “get the thing done” so they can leave, but Goldberg says nothing. “Nat!” McCann says to Goldberg’s slumped body. “Simey!” With a jolt, Goldberg’s eyes open and he viciously tells McCann never to call him that. Goldberg tells McCann to look in his mouth, saying he wants his “opinion.” As McCann peers into his mouth, he says, “You know what I mean?” Going on, Goldberg holds forth about how he’s never lost a tooth, suggesting that he’s risen to his “position” because he’s “always been fit as a fiddle.” “All my life I’ve said the same,” he says. “Play up, play up, and play the game. Honour thy

30 | P a g e father and thy Mother. All along the line. Follow the line, the line, McCann, and you can’t go wrong.” He also asserts that he has always learned “by heart” and never written anything down. “And don’t go too near the water,” Goldberg tells McCann. “And you’ll find—that what I say is true. Because I believe that the world … (Vacant.) … Because I believe that the world … (Desperate.) … BECAUSE I BELIEVE THAT THE WORLD …” In this moment, Pinter notes that Goldberg is “lost.” Having risen from his chair, he sits back down. “Sit down, McCann,” he says, “sit here where I can look at you.” Obeying, McCann sits on a footstool and listens. “My father said to me, Benny, Benny, he said, come here,” says Goldberg. “He was dying. I knelt down. By him day and night. Who else was there? Forgive, Benny, he said, and let live.” He then lists off a number of pieces of advice that his father gave him on his deathbed, all of which are cliché. “Work hard and play hard,” Goldberg says, concluding a list of life lessons his father taught him while dying. “All the same, give me a blow,” he adds, looking at McCann. “Blow in my mouth.” Obliging this request, McCann stands, bends over, and blows into Goldberg’s mouth. Refreshed, Goldberg asks for “one for the road,” and McCann repeats the process until Goldberg “breathes deeply” and “shakes his head,” at which point Lulu enters the living room, having come from upstairs. Sensing that Lulu wants to speak to Goldberg in private, McCann steps out. “I’ve had enough games,” she says, and then accuses him of taking advantage of her. “You taught me things a girl shouldn’t know before she’s been married at least three times!” she says. “Now you’re a jump ahead!” Goldberg replies. At this point, McCann enters and says, “Your sort, you spend too much time in bed.” Advancing upon her, he says, “Confess!” “Confess what?” she asks, but he only tells her to get on her knees. Looking on, Goldberg says she might as well confess. “What, to him?” she asks. “He’s only been unfrocked six months,” he replies, as McCann hisses, “Kneel down, woman, and tell me the latest!” Moving toward the door, Lulu says she has “seen everything that’s happened,” insisting that she knows “what’s going on.” With this, she exits. After Lulu leaves, McCann goes upstairs and fetches Stanley, who arrives dressed in “striped trousers, black jacket, and white collar” with a bowler hat in his hand. In his other hand he holds his broken glasses, and the audience sees that he is clean shaven. “How are you, Stan?” Goldberg asks. “He looks better, doesn’t he?” McCann says. “Much better,” Goldberg says. “A new man,” McCann agrees. They then promise to buy him new glasses, but Stanley doesn’t seem to register anything they’re saying. “Between you and me, Stan, it’s about time you had a new pair of glasses,” Goldberg says, pointing out that he’s been “cockeyed for years.” “You’re on the verge,” he adds, promising that he and McCann will “save” him. He says that they’ll do all sorts of things for him, making him rich and successful and happy. “What’s your opinion of such a prospect?

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Eh, Stanley,” Goldberg asks. Concentrating hard, Stanley laboriously says, “Uh-gug … uh-gug … eeehhh-gag … Cahh … caahh …” Shuddering, he stops trying to speak. “Still the same old Stan,” Goldberg says. “Come with us. Come on, boy.” As they help him stand and make for the door, though, Petey enters and asks where they’re taking him. “We’re taking him to Monty,” Goldberg says. “He can stay here,” Petey replies, insisting that he and Meg can take care of him. Goldberg insists that Monty is the person Stanley needs, and then he puts the bowler hat on Stanley’s head and moves toward the door. “Leave him alone!” Petey yells, but this only causes Goldberg and McCann to stop, turn, and say, “Why don’t you come with us, Mr. Boles?” Goldberg tells Petey that there’s “plenty of room in the car” for him, but Petey remains rooted where he stands. As Goldberg and McCann take Stanley out the door, Petey screams, “Stan, don’t let them tell you what to do!” Listening to the car drive away, he goes to the table and picks up the newspaper, and the strips McCann cut all fall out. When Meg comes home, she doesn’t know that Goldberg and McCann have taken Stanley. Sitting at the table, she asks if the two guests have already left, and Petey confirms that they have. “Oh, what a shame,” she says. After a moment, she asks if Stanley has come downstairs yet for breakfast. “No…he’s…” Petey begins. “Is he still in bed?” Meg asks. “Yes, he’s…still asleep,” Petey lies. “He’ll be late for his breakfast,” Meg complains, but her husband simply tells her to let Stanley sleep. “Wasn’t it a lovely party last night?” she asks, and Petey reminds her that he wasn’t there. “I was the belle of the ball,” she tells him. “Were you?” he asks. “Oh, yes. They all said I was,” she replies. “I bet you were, too,” he says. “Oh, it’s true. I was,” she says. And then, after a pause, she adds, “I know I was.”

Analysis: Act III

As a whole, the structure of The Birthday Party seems very traditional. There are three acts, arranged in chronological order, and the first and third acts parallel one another. Both Act I and Act III begin with Meg and Petey's morning routine, although Act III reflects the play's descent into depravity. Meg does not have breakfast to serve in Act III, and she is frantic to remedy the oversight. As an interesting side detail, she does remember to pour Petey's tea, whereas she forgot in Act I. Because of what she has gone through since Act I, Meg is ungrounded, not so easily submerged into the superficial routine of the beginning.

In many ways, Petey is the central character of Act III, since he changes during it. At the beginning, when Meg realizes that the drum has broken but does not remember how it happened, Petey simply tells her she can get another one. There is a bit of dramatic irony since

32 | P a g e the audience realizes that the drum represents Stanley - much as it is broken, so is he mentally unstable. Petey's growth in the Act is realizing that while Meg could conceivably get a new boarder like Stanley, his particular absence will likely shatter her fragile world. The play ends with his lie to her, a lie intended to prolong her eventual breakdown. Considering the implications that Petey might have a sense of the strange Meg/Stanley relationship, his desire to maintain her illusion reveals his discovery of Stanley's importance. If she falls apart, then their pleasant, comfortable life might also fall apart.

Petey is also central because we realize he might always have had some intuition his world's sinister nature. He has largely been absent from the play thus far, and in many ways is pitiable for being a potentially willing cuckold (something Goldberg and McCann suggest to Stanley during their Act II interrogation). Yet Petey reveals an astuteness in Act III through his conversation about Stanley's mental breakdown. The fact that he is not surprised to hear Goldberg suggest it gives us reason to suspect he had seen indications of mental problems before.

When we learn that Petey is an accomplished chess player, the symbol helps us to understand him. He seems to know more than any other single character. He knows that Goldberg and McCann are not what they seem; he knows that Stanley might have mental problems; he knows that his wife's mental problems might be exacerbated if he were to end her affair with Stanley; and he realizes when he cannot win the battle to keep Stanley around. And yet he chooses to live in a pleasant stupor, to not address any of these problems. Certainly, this can be interpreted as cowardice, but it is not accidental. Like a chess player, he knows how to strategize, and has chosen a life of pleasant comfort over potential difficulties. He chooses not to live, in the sense that Goldberg accuses Stanley of in Act II, but it is a choice. When he yells to Stanley, "don't let them tell you what to do," he is in many ways describing his own life, one in which he engages nobody and hence has little responsibility. He is cowardly safe in his domestic delusion, but it is his own choice.

The Act is full of sinister images and situations. Meg's discovery of the black car brings a theatrical mystery to the fore, and she immediately interprets it as a sign of her own breakdown. She remembers Stanley's threat to have her taken away in a wheelbarrow, and worries this car is intended for that purpose. As a vehicle intended to remove debris from place to place, the wheelbarrow represents motion of unworthy objects. Meg's fear of the wheelbarrow reflects not only her fear of her own irrelevance, but also her fear of movement, of change from the

33 | P a g e comfort wherein she can maintain her delusions of importance. What is ironic is that Stanley's threat has come true not for her, but for himself. And yet her fear over the black car is not misplaced - as we can intuit from the earlier Acts, Stanley's absence might in fact compromise her own sanity.

Goldberg also reveals the depth of his sinister potential in Act III. He is able to maintain some air of charm, apparent when he assuages Meg's concerns about the car, but he refuses to answer any questions about it. His silence about certain details only deepens the aura of dread that permeates the play, both in terms of the car and in terms of other details, like the briefcase or his purpose for Stanley.

Most sinister is Goldberg's own breakdown. His world is clearly coming undone, most likely as a result of whatever sexual behaviour he forced upon Lulu. Whereas he has shown nothing but suave detachment in Acts I and II, he is a wreck in Act III, "knocked out" and undone. He is unnerved by such feelings, since he has never been sick before. He lacks his characteristic control, even lashing out at McCann for calling him "Simey." Is this sickness perhaps a sign of a guilty conscience? Or has his liaison with Lulu submerged some childhood neuroses? As he mentioned the name "Simey" as a name from his past, this latter interpretation could certainly be defended.

What Goldberg's breakdown reveals is that every person is reliant upon his own delusion, and hence subject to pain and difficulty when that delusion falters. Though he has presented himself as strong and untouchable, Goldberg centers his world around a pretence of family morals, of a nostalgia for the “old days” which were better, bigger, and more respectful. Considering the way he speaks of his mother in Act II, it is possible to interpret this delusion as an expression of childhood and control. Indeed, he shows a desire to be something of a parent both to Stanley, whom he forces into an infantile state of confusion and fear, and to Lulu, who he treated as a daughter in Act II and then as a prostitute in Act III. Lulu's confrontation leads Goldberg into further lies about her compliance, a situation he does not handle well until McCann finally chases her away. Interestingly, his final tactic is to elicit a confession from her. In a world where we are guilty of our own delusions and sins, forced confession becomes a threat.

Stanley's situation also reveals the sinister nature of the play. Ironically, he is most frightening because he is suddenly so presentable. The reprise of their Act II interrogation now has the sense less of attack and more of a bedside vigil. All of his delusions shattered, Stanley can only receive these promises silently. With repeated readings or viewings of the play, an audience

34 | P a g e might realize how Stanley's breakdown could be any person's fate if he or she were forced to confront his or her past sins and delusions too forcibly. From this perspective, the scene is even more horrifying.

At the end, Meg remains blissfully unaware of the situation. It is telling that the play ends with a confirmation of her delusion. The final exchange is full of dramatic irony - she has constructed a reality that we know to be false, both because Meg was not the belle of the ball, and because Petey was not there to know it. The play ends with a scenario of ambiguity and delusion, which falls perfectly in line with the themes it explores throughout.

In a published speech entitled “Writing for the Theatre,” Pinter offered that Petey’s exclamation - “Stan, don’t let them tell you what to do!” - defined his mindset, his plays, and his entire career. Neither Pinter nor his characters conform to established means of interpretation, and he makes every effort to avoid easy answers that could be interpreted as the author's moral message. Instead, we are to leave Pinter's plays - The Birthday Party included - unsure exactly what is true, both about the character on stage and about ourselves.

➢ Themes

Theme of absurdity

According to Ionesco : “ Absurd is that which of purpose.... cut off from his religious metaphysical and transcendental root, man is lost, all his action become senseless absurd, useless”.

The term is applied to many of the works of a group of dramatist of 1950s. The concept of absurdity defers person to person. It expressed the belief that, in a godless universe, human existence has no meaning or purpose and therefore all communications break down. So, Absurdist theatre examines ideas of existentialism and the meaninglessness of human existence. The theatre of absurd is characterized by dialogues senseless, repetitive those are able to give a comic view despite the tragic sense of drama. For the Theatre of the absurd, these events concerned life post World War II during which time many people began to question about the meaning of life.

The Birthday Party is a full of absurd drama. The Birthday Party has been described Martin Esslin as an example of the Theatre of Absurd. It includes such features as the fluidity and

35 | P a g e ambiguity of time, place, and identity and the disintegration of language. The Birthday Party is a child of the Theatre of Absurd, which explains why it feels like a plot less wonder. Like the rest of its ambiguous brethren, but it does make for a bumpy ride.

So, Pinter in his play uses the theme of identity and absurdity that makes the characters ambiguous and their identity are unclear. The theme of identity makes the play ambiguous. For example, Goldberg is called Nat but in his stories of the past Simey and Banney. It is also McCann is called as a Dermot in talking to Petey and Seamus in talking to McCann.

Harold Pinter also uses a contradiction as we see in Act 1 when Stanley says “I have played the piano all over the world” then he says “All over the country”. Then, after a pause he says “I once gave a concert”. It is also in Stanley’s birthday, Meg decided to celebrate but he tries to deny by saying “It is not my birthday no; it is not until next month”.

Confusion and Chaos

A key element of “the absurdist theater” is its focus on confusion and chaos. In The Birthday Party, these elements manifest constantly, especially through its characters.

The primary ways in which the themes manifest are through the ambiguities of lives and pasts. Stanley has some sort of mysterious past that deserves a violent reckoning, but nobody really provides its details. When Stanley describes his past to Meg in Act I, there is even the sense that he himself is confused about its particulars. Goldberg's name and past seem shrouded in mystery and delusion, and Meg convinces herself to believe things about her life that are clearly not true. Further, because of these type of confusions, the situation devolves into total chaos. From the moment Goldberg and McCann arrive, the audience can sense that the simplicity of the boarding house is about to be compromised, and indeed, the chaos at the end of Act II confirms it. The only truth of The Birthday Party is that there is no truth, only chaos and confusion from which we make order if we choose.

Apathy and Complacency:

May be the most gloomy and negative aspect of The Birthday Party is that the only replacement Pinter gives to Chaos and confusion is a life of Apathy and Complacency. The play’s opening sets this up when Petey and Meg reveal a comfortable but bland life in which they talk in pleasantries and ignore anything of substance. Stanley might be more aggressive than they are, but he too has clearly chosen the safety of Complacency, as they he makes no effect to change his life. When Goldberg and McCann arrive, they challenge this complacent lifestyle until the

36 | P a g e whole place falls into Chaos. Ultimately, Petey choose to protect the complacency of the boarding house over bravely fighting for Stanley, neither choice is truly appealing.

Language

The precision Pinter employs in crafting his rhythmic silences is enough to justify language as a major theme, but he moreover reveals how language can be used as a tool. Each of the characters uses language to his or her advantage. In effect, characters manipulate words to suggest deeper subtexts, so that the audience understands that true communication happens beneath language, and not through words themselves. When Stanley insults Meg, he is actually expressing his self-hatred and guilt. Goldberg is a master of language manipulation - he uses speeches to deflect others questions, to redirect the flow of conversation, or to reminisce about past events. His words are rarely wasted. Meg, on the other hand, repeats herself, asking the same questions over and over again in a bid for attention. Even though she often speaks without affectation, her words mask a deep neurosis and insecurity. These are just a few examples of instances in which language is used not to tell the story, but to suggest that the story is hidden. In essence, language in The Birthday Party is a dangerous lie.

Atonement

One of the great ironies in this play is that it uses what appears to be a fairly undramatic, realistic setting which nevertheless hides a surplus of guilt. The theme of atonement runs throughout the play. Stanley's past is never detailed, but he is clearly a guilty man. He is vague about his past, and does anything to distract Goldberg and McCann. He does not wish to atone for whatever he did, but is forced to do so through torture. Goldberg, too, wishes to avoid whatever sins torture him but cannot fully escape them; his mood in Act III shows that he is plagued by feelings he does not wish to have. In the end, all of the characters are like Lulu, who flees when McCann offers her a chance to confess - everyone has sins to atone for, but nobody wants to face them.

Nostalgia

Perhaps most fitting for a contemporary audience who would see this play as something of a period piece, the theme of nostalgia is implicit but significant in The Birthday Party. Goldberg, particularly, is taken by nostalgia, frequently waxing poetic both on his own past and on the 'good old days' when men respected women. Certainly, Goldberg tells some of these stories to contrast with the way Stanley treats women, but they also suggest a delusion he has, a delusion

37 | P a g e that breaks down when he himself assaults Lulu between the second and third acts. He idealizes some past that he cannot live up to.

Other characters reveal an affection for nostalgia as well. During the birthday party, Meg and Lulu both speak of their childhoods. However, their nostalgic feelings have darker sides. Meg remembers being abandoned, whereas Lulu's memories of being young lead Goldberg to bounce her perversely on his knee. Similarly, the characters play blind man's bluff specifically because it makes them nostalgic, but the sinister side of such nostalgia is inescapable in the stage image of Stanley preparing to rape Lulu. Nostalgia is lovely to feel, the play seems to suggest, but more insidious in its complexities.

Violence

The Birthday Party is full of violence, both physical and emotional, overall suggesting that violence is a fact of life. The violence is doubly affecting because the setting seems so pleasant and ordinary. Most of the men show their potential for violence, especially when provoked. Stanley is cruel and vicious towards Meg, but much more cowardly against other men. Both McCann and Goldberg have violent outbursts no matter how hard they try to contain themselves. Their entire operation, which boasts an outward civility, has an insidious purpose, most violent for the way it tortures Stanley slowly to force him to nervous breakdown. In both Acts II and III, they reveal how language itself can be violent in the interrogation scenes.

Much of the violence in the play concerns women. Stanley not only intimidates Meg verbally, but he also prepares to assault Lulu. Goldberg in fact does assault Lulu. Finally, the threat of violence is ever-present in the play. Even before we realize that disaster might come, we can feel the potential through the many silences and tense atmosphere.

Sex

Sexual tension is present throughout the entire play, and it results in tragic consequences. Meg and Stanley have a strange, possible sexual relationship that frees him to treat her very cruelly. The ugliness of his behaviour is echoed when Goldberg calls him a “mother defiler” and “a lecher.” In fact, Goldberg suggests that Stanley's unnamed sin involves his poor treatment of a woman. Lulu seems interested in Stanley as well, but is quickly attracted to Goldberg in Act II. Her innocence makes her prey to men's sexuality. Her openness leads to two consecutive sexual assaults, and yet she is nevertheless upset to learn that Goldberg is leaving. All in all, it

38 | P a g e is a strange, perverse undercurrent throughout the play - sex is acknowledged as a fact of life, and yet does not ever reveal positive aspects of the characters.

➢ Important Quotes: • Well, I could cry because I’m so happy, having him here and not gone away, on his birthday, and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him, and all you good people here tonight… • It’s only necessarily necessary! We admit possibility only after we grant necessity. It is possible because necessary but by no means necessary through possibility. The possibility can only be assumed after the proof of necessity. • You know what? To look at me, I bet you wouldn’t think I’d led such a quiet life. The lines on my face, eh? It’s the drink. Been drinking a bit down here. But what I mean is…you know how it is…away from your own…all wrong, of course…I’ll be all right when I get back…but what I mean is, the way some people look at me you’d think I was a different person. I suppose I have changed, but I’m still the same man that I always was. I mean, you wouldn’t think, to look at me, really…I mean, not really, that I was the sort of bloke to—to cause any trouble, would you? • I like it here, but I’ll be moving soon. Back home. I’ll stay there too, this time. No place like home. • He once gave a concert. […] (Falteringly.) In…a big hall. His father gave him champagne. But then they locked the place up and he couldn’t get out. The caretaker had gone home. So he had to wait until the morning before he could get out. (With confidence.) They were very grateful. (Pause.) And then they all wanted to give him a tip. And so he took the tip. And then he got a fast train and he came down here. • The main issue is a singular issue and quite distinct from your previous work. Certain elements, however, might well approximate in points of procedure to some of your other activities. All is dependent on the attitude of our subject. • This job—no, listen—this job, is it going to be like anything we’ve ever done before? • I had a unique touch. Absolutely unique. They came up to me. They came up to me and said they were grateful.

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• My next concert. Somewhere else it was. In winter. I went down there to play. Then, when I got there, the hall was closed, the place was shuttered up, not even a caretaker. They’d locked it up. • Played the piano? I’ve played the piano all over the world. All over the country. (Pause.) I once gave a concert.

➢ Important Questions for 08 marks

1. Would it be appropriate to consider The Birthday Party as a Comedy of Menace? Discuss with suitable illustrations from the text. 2. The relation between the individual and society is at the centre of The Birthday Party. Do you subscribe to the view? Discuss. 3. Would you consider The Birthday Party as a part of the Theatre of the Absurd? Answer with suitable illustrations from the text. 4. Explain the character of Stanley Webber in Harold Pinter's play The Birthday Party. 5. The question of identity is at the heart of The Birthday Party. Discuss.

➢ Important Questions for 04 marks

Comment on-

1. Stanley and Meg's relationship 2. Stanley’s and Lulu’s interaction in Act I 3. Significance of the black-out scene 4. Role and function of Lulu 5. Significance of the ending of the play

➢ Important Questions for 02 marks

1. Where does Petey meet Goldberg and McCann for the first time and when? 2. What is meant by a ‘straight show’? 3. Who makes Stanley get out of bed in Act I and why? 4. What is in the packet that Lulu delivers? 5. What did Goldberg do on Fridays? 6. Why does Stanley call Meg ‘bad wife’?

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➢ Further Reading

• Jenkins, John P. Brodie's Notes on Three Plays of Harold Pinter : The Caretaker, The Homecoming, The Birthday Party. London: Palgrave Macmillan. 1991. Print • Lahiri, Pradip. Harold Pinter: A Study in Dialogic Art. New Delhi: Prestige Books, 1996. Print • Naismith, Bill. Harold Pinter: The Birthday Party, The Caretaker, The Homecoming. London: Faber & Faber Ltd, 2001. Print • Narula, Dr. S. C. Harold Pinter: The Birthday Party. New Delhi: Surjeet Publications, 2018. Print • Pinter, Harold. Birthday Party. London: Faber and Faber, 1991.Print • Scott, Michael (Ed.). Harold Pinter: The Birthday Party, The Caretaker, The Homecoming. Houndmills: Macmillan Press, 1986. Print • Smith, Ian. Pinter in the Theatre. London: Nick Hern Books, 2005. Print

➢ Further Information

You can watch the play here

• https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ap1g5AqMhy0&t=1531s

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