36 pages • 1 hour read
Harold PinterA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
Key to understanding The Homecoming is remembering how long a shadow World War II cast over Britain even after its conclusion. The conflict has left its scars on all the play’s characters and the world they inhabit; they often refer back to it as a formative event and to service during the war as a measure of how they see themselves. In Act I, Scene 1, Lenny and Sam speculate that Sam’s big shot passenger, for example, must have been “…a navigator, or something like that, in a Flying Fortress. Now he’s most likely a high executive in a worldwide group of aeronautical engineers” (14). There is an idea here of military service conferring rank beyond the war, playing into notions of class. Max confirms this with his questioning of Sam’s military record, suggesting that Sam’s lack of wartime distinction is a blot on his character and undercuts what Max sees at Sam’s attempts at socioeconomic climbing. Lenny too fantasizes about the war, imagining he might have been stationed in Venice, as if having done so would make him more desirable to Ruth.
These numerous references paint the war as a time of welcome certainty despite its hardships. The Homecoming’s changing, postwar society is so challenging for its characters that they look back to something as dreadful as global conflict through rose-tinted spectacles. Pinter’s recourse to the war as a motif that defines both the characters’ psychological and physical landscape (London’s bomb sites, but also perhaps the symbolic missing house wall) situates the play historically and shows the extent of the existential crisis facing his characters.
Storytelling conventions usually elevate causality to a central role in drama (something E. M. Forster, for example, elaborates on in his 1927 Aspects of the Novel). Forster argues that drama is more convincing when plot points follow on from each other causally rather than chronologically. Characters want something clearly defined, and stories show us how these desires beget each new episode in their journeys. Pinter, however, refrains from this kind of storytelling. His characters’ behavior can oscillate so wildly that what they want or why they are behaving the way that they are can be difficult to understand—for instance, why Max swings from violence to sugary affection, why Teddy is not concerned about his wife sleeping with his brothers, or why Ruth does not run a mile when Lenny tells her he is violent towards women.
There are numerous possible reasons for this. One is that Pinter deliberately wants to challenge this storytelling convention. What reads as literary “realism” is not in itself reality but an ensemble of conventions, such as logical plots, that culture regards as similar enough to reality to call “realism.” Pinter takes a different approach. He sees reality as far less rigidly or logically organized. For him, drama arises less via the neat escalation of a character’s desires than from the very cadences of our communication with each other. His characters might say anything next, and in Pinter’s world, this is a virtue rather than a shortcoming.
Pinter conveys this via his penchant for the unsaid. Much as his staging is blown open and interpretive, so his text is full of holes through which subtext can flow into his work. So prevalent is the use of silence in his work that critics refer to “Pinter Pauses” and even assign them a sort of hierarchy. These range from an ellipsis (“…”), to the stage direction “Pause,” to the full blown “Silence” (Daniels, Nicholas Ephram Ryan. “What are Pinter Pauses? And Other Pinteresque Devices.” London Theatre Direct, 18 Feb. 2021); each offers a different degree of uncertainty or deliberation in characters’ speech or differently shades the pregnancy of a stillness or silence on the stage. The unspoken can also manifest itself in the way characters avoid answering each other or ignore what another has said (for example, Max begging Ruth, Lenny, and Joey for affection and for answers as they stand resolute and silent over him). It is as if Pinter is inviting the reader or viewer to search these spaces for the meaning and motivation other writers place closer to the surface. While it can make The Homecoming elusive at times, Pinter’s use of the unspoken invites us in to interpret the forces, both internal and external, that might be driving the characters’ behavior.
While much of The Homecoming’s action can appear mundane, played out in a humdrum London living room, there are also frequent bursts of violent behavior. Threats of violence abound, right from Act I, Scene 1, when the bickering between Max and Lenny escalates almost instantly:
“LENNY. You’ll go before me, Dad, if you talk to me in that tone of voice.
MAX. Will I, you bitch?
MAX grips his stick” (11).
The critic Irving Wardle famously described Pinter’s early work as the “comedy of menace.” Although Pinter rejected the term and Ward later rescinded it, there is some truth to it. Fear pervades Pinter, and his characters in The Homecoming both instill it in each other and react defensively when they sense betrayal in the air. The result is a play bristling with tension.
Sex is another way for Pinter’s characters to pierce this tension. The men in The Homecoming seem to regularly frequent sex workers, but they also abruptly turn to Ruth as the object of their affections once she arrives at the house. In Act II, Scene 2, Lenny and Joey practically pass Ruth between them (in front of her husband) in a moment that shocked audiences in 1965:
LENNY kisses RUTH. They stand kissing.
JOEY. Christ, she’s wide open. Dad, look at that.
Pause
She’s a tart.
Pause
Old Lenny’s got a tart in here.
JOEY goes to them. He takes RUTH’S arm. He smiles at LENNY. He sits with RUTH on the sofa, embraces and kisses her.
He looks up at LENNY.
Just up my street (59).
Pinter’s motif of sex and violence lends credence to a reading of The Homecoming as a play presaging a less altruistic society—one shaking itself free of postwar solidarity. The more self-involved humans become, the more society can trend towards a so-called “State of Nature.” This pre-societal or a-societal situation, posited by (among others) the political philosopher Thomas Hobbes in Leviathan (1651), had no place for notions of right or wrong: Life in such a state is “[…] solitary, poore, nasty, brutish and short” (Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan. Project Gutenberg, updated 27 Mar. 2021). The early signs of such a situation are on display in Pinter’s unobtrusive living room. In a hardening, individualistic society, his characters become selfish and give increasingly free rein to their most animal instincts. Rather than fight for each other, as many Britons and others did in World War II, Pinter’s characters are beginning to fight purely for themselves, and these brutal acts are the result.
By Harold Pinter
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