ROBERT BRUSTEIN

The love that previously dared not speak its name has now grown hoarse from screaming it.

Theater going is a communal act, movie going a solitary one.

Forty years later, people still swear they can hear his offstage scream.

No enlightened person would deny its premise, but as an ongoing program it is monotonous, limited, locked in a perception of victimization.

The commercial theatre may still be considered one of New York's primary tourist attractions, but . . . there is no longer an audience for serious Broadway plays. . . . Perhaps we should acknowledge that, having lost its traditional audience, Broadway can never again be a home for new plays.

The invention of film has given our generation the dubious advantage of watching our acting heroes deteriorate before our eyes.

The primary function of a theater is not to please itself, or even to please its audience. It is to serve talent.

Without an elite in the arts, we have no leaders, which is to say we have no vision, which is to say we have no arts.

On Laurence Olivier as Hamlet in a 1948 film: Olivier's idea of introspection was to hood his eyes, dentalize his consonants and let the camera circle his blondined head like a sparrow looking for a place to deposit its droppings.

Forty years later, people still swear they can hear his offstage scream.

The primary function of a theater is not to please itself, or even to please its audience. It is to serve talent.

The invention of film has given our generation the dubious advantage of watching our acting heroes deteriorate before our eyes.

Theater going is a communal act, movie going a solitary one.

Without an elite in the arts, we have no leaders, which is to say we have no vision, which is to say we have no arts.

The commercial theatre may still be considered one of New York's primary tourist attractions, but . . . there is no longer an audience for serious Broadway plays. . . . Perhaps we should acknowledge that, having lost its traditional audience, Broadway can never again be a home for new plays.

The love that previously dared not speak its name has now grown hoarse from screaming it.

No enlightened person would deny its premise, but as an ongoing program it is monotonous, limited, locked in a perception of victimization.

On Laurence Olivier as Hamlet in a 1948 film: Olivier's idea of introspection was to hood his eyes, dentalize his consonants and let the camera circle his blondined head like a sparrow looking for a place to deposit its droppings.