The worst part about Arthur Miller’s death is not that we’ve lost a great playwright or a rigorous intellectual or a uniquely American voice extolling the virtues of openness, discussion, and debate.
No, the worst part about Miller’s death is that theatergoers across the land will soon face an onslaught of “tribute” performances of The Crucible, After the Fall, and perhaps the worst play ever written, All My Sons, in which the central character must utter the title of the show in a hideous, theoretically climactic speech: “They were my sons. They were all my sons!”
God, just typing it makes me want to puke.
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