For a brief time and a lucky affluent elite, the New York theater shrugged off its summer doldrums to become what I can't resist calling a Pinter ponder-land. Better planned and containing better-executed productions than in previous summers, the theater component of this year's Lincoln Center Festival actually offered its audiences brain stimulus instead of imported chic. People in the lobbies were really discussing Pinter's plays, or comparing the productions to those they'd seen earlier. It had, in that sense, the feeling of a festival: Harold Pinter—as playwright, director, and actor—was a source of honor, pleasure, and contemplation, not a cheap excuse to jam a bunch of shows... More >>>