A CERTAIN strain of English theater suffers from a nineteenth-century Shelleyan arrogance about poets being unacknowledged legislators or something, not to mention fallout from the bombast of people, such as Carlyle, who tried to puff up writers into a tribe of heroes. This enthusiasm has infected a number of modern English playwrights, who share the queer belief that writers are good dramatic material just because they write.
One leading British playwright has dedicated his latest effort to this self-regarding proposition. Arcadia, by Tom Stoppard, is one of those verbally dazzling works by a very talented man who constantly reveals unexpected shallows. But it does work very well as light entertainment.
Comments