Tennessee Williams’ memoirs tell all about everything—except his work. D. Keith Mano

A ROUND ON THE HOUSE

There is prejudice involved here: for old times’ sake I owe Tennessee Williams a round or two on the house. His dialogue fitted my mouth, my adolescent intonations, my just-broken voice. Fitted so many mouths back then. Fifteen years ago there wasn’t a young actor who didn’t live secretly On the Waterfront, in that dim, flash-lit taxicab with Brando. The Method and Williams were twinned out of one zygote. He wrote for Method actors. It didn’t make us good, but we were at ease, well taken care of. There was leisure for pacing, pauses; for the idiosyncratic and personal. Actors could