Long before I had any idea of Harold Pinter’s politics, I was a would-be actor in the 1970s and acted in or did scenework from several Pinter plays (“The Room,” “The Birthday Party,” “The Caretaker”) — and Lord, how I loathed them. Even more so because I knew I was supposed to think they were great works of art (the only living playwright with a greater reputation was Samuel Beckett). The point of Pinter seemed entirely to be that ordinary domestic situations could be fraught with tension and menace. Actors loved performing in them and directors loved staging them because they were so full of silences and pauses — which gave actors and directors lots of wordless business, which is what actors and directors love because it allows them to take center stage away from the words. Anyway, the point here is: In my opinion, Pinter was a lousy artist when he was only an artist, and became beneath discussion when he decided to become a political loudmouth. (Though Paul Johnson, of all people, once told me he was very nice.)