Tennessee Williams is lying on the sickbed of his formidable talent. Ever since The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore, his work has become increasingly infirm so gravely so that In the Bar of a Tokyo Hotel seems more deserving of a coroner's report than a review. Nonetheless, trust in the eventual recovery of America's greatest living dramatist must be retained, even if it resembles St. Paul's definition of faith: "The substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
To realize the particular plight that Williams is in now,...
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