The British never seem to lack for good playwrights. They have an uncanny gift for writing well about their nation even when they think ill of it. They can poke peevishly in the guttering embers of empire and the grate of memory flickers with glories past. David Storey has an option on this territory, and he looks back more in grief than in anger. He searches for the severed link with the imperial past. How did today's termites, he seems to ask, descend from yesterday's titans? He is a dramatic laureate of loss.
Last season, in Home, Storey made old age in...
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