The film adaptation of August Wilson’s Fences, which is now in theaters, has brought its late author some well-deserved new accolades. What’s notable about this playwright’s reputation, though, is how different his record of achievement is from what a study of his press clippings and his many award nominations would suggest. He received a Tony, two Pulitzers, and five Best Play awards from the New York Drama Critics’ Circle — but, all too often, those prizes were given to him with a conspicuous measure of self-satisfaction. Many of the critics seemed to be patting themselves on the back for their magnanimity in recognizing a black playwright.
The odd effect of this smug and condescending attitude has been to cause many people who are unfamiliar with Wilson’s work to underestimate it. Inevitably, they assume that he is another Toni Morrison: an obviously terrible writer graded on a curve. I can only suspect that this explains the slighting reviews that Wilson sometimes received from his most doggedly liberal critics. They grew doubtful of what they had written in his favor.
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