With that last remark, Rich hasninadvertently struck the thrust of Wilson’snsmoldering drama. If Burn Thisncould be reduced to a single message,nit would be about the lack of passion inncontemporary life and the difficulty innachieving passion in our overly cynicalnclimate. Although the passion at thencenter of Burn This seems ambivalentnand diffused, the evidence suggestsnthat is precisely the point Wilson intended.nIt’s a theme that Wilson elicitednat least as far back as The Hot InBaltimore (where one character complained,n”That’s why nothing getsndone anymore. Nobody’s got the convictionnof their passions”); Burn Thisnsuggests that Wilson even perceivesnhow the culture’s disdain for passionnand for the romantic sensibility hasnlimited the scope of his own work.nThat subtext is hammered home bynBurton, a financially successful filmnwriter within the play. In a sense,nBurton, the most secondary of the fourncharacters, is Wilson’s surrogate.nWhen Burton talks about writing fornmovies, it’s as if Wilson is speakingndirectly for himself “You write a sagantoday, it turns out as Little House onnthe Prairie.” “Beautiful writing isnanathema to a movie. . . . There is nonsuch thing as a good movie. . . .nMovies are some bankers’ speculationnabout how American adolescents wantnto see each other that week—period!”nWhen he later renounces a script he’sncurrently working on by saying, “Inwant something larger than life. Thesenpeople are smaller than life,” it’s hardnnot to detect that Wilson is sharing hisnown self-deprecation. According tonBurton/Wilson, if you “tell the truth,nmake it personal, then [you might asnwell] write ‘burn this’ at the bottom.”nSuch a notion perfectly describes Wilson’sninspiration for writing this play,nwhen he did write “burn this” on hisnfirst few pages of script.nThe credible plot to Burn This isnstraightforward and compact. While itnmay be the play’s least interesting element,nthe plot’s reliance on the clichesnof urban life for contemporary sophisticatesnshould not be disregarded, sincenthose cliches are inextricably woundnup in Wilson’s conceit. Wilson’s interestnin the dissolution of the Americannfamily has finally caught up with thenway of life for so many urban peoplenwho find themselves in their mid-30’snliving independently within an extendednor an ad hoc family.nBurn This takes place in Anna’sn”lower Manhattan” loft, which shenshares with Larry, a gay advertisingnexecutive. When the story begins, thentwo of them are recovering from thenrecent drowning of their third roommate,na highly praised homosexualndancer who had been Anna’s dancingnpartner for the past three years (“Inthought everything important in thenfuture of dance was going to happen innthis room,” says Anna late in thenopening scene).nAnna is obviously close to Larry andnsimultaneously courting Burton, thensuccessful Hollywood screenwriternwho represents for Anna a “safe,”nconventional, potential husband (asnLarry says at one point, “I don’t knownwhy you don’t just marry [Burton] andnbuy things”). Anna’s relationship withnRobbie, the deceased roommate, evidentlynwas the deepest and mostnmeaningful attachment for her, thoughnit was decidedly unfulfilled.nImplicit in this arrangement is thensuggestion that Anna could afford tonfeel such intimacy only for someonenwho was homosexual, permitting hernto subdue her passion and save hernenergies for dance. This becomes Wilson’sncommentary on many residentsnof the mid-80’s, unwilling to jeopardizentheir careers or their overanalyzednself-hood (read as selfishness) by gettingntoo close to another human being.nBut into Anna’s safe scenario walksnPale, the deceased gay dancer’s brothernwho is overwhelming like Robbie,nbut is straight and not to be put offn(“You are obviously some relationnof Robbie’s — God, you could be hisndouble,” responds Anna when Palenarrives unexpectedly at three in thenmorning and immediately takes overnthe space). And as Pale says, “Younknow, little girls your age do not havenroommates. It’s not just me. It’s prevailingnopinion.”nThe passion between Anna andnPale percolates through in oblique butndecisive ways. “I am sick of the age I’mnliving in,” exclaims Anna, who cannbest be summarized as a Blanche dunBois in Wilson’s update of A StreetcarnNamed Desire. But in some respects,nAnna is a younger version who beforenmeeting Pale had been content tonsublimate her sexual impulses for herncreativity as a dancer. A Blanche-intraining,nAnna is without the desperationnand the faded nostalgia that willnset in when she ages. “I just haven’tnfelt open to the world since thosendays,” says Burton, referring to 20 ornmore years ago, and reinforcing Wilson’snpoint that the larger-than-life passionsnwhich were permissible on stagen(as in life) during Williams’ heydaynwill simply not do anymore.nMany critics correctly perceived thenconnections with Williams and particularlynStreetcar, but failed to grasp thenimplications. To return to Frank Rich:n”Despite much onstage brawling andncrying and precoital theatrics, Annanand Pale don’t fight to the death, asnStanley and Blanche did, so much asnslowly settle down to make the choicesnfacing those New York couples whoninhabit the slick magazines. What beginsnas a go-for-broke sexual strugglentrails off into sentimental conflicts betweennlove and career, unbridled passionnand intellectual detachment, a loftnlife style and the biological clock.”nCould Blanche and Stanley have itnany other way in the mid-80’s, or byndefault could Wilson? If Streetcarnwere written today it would probablynbe dismissed or even ridiculed as beingnoverly sentimental. Burn This is asnclose as Wilson can get to Williamsnwhile still abiding by the contemporaryntheatrical protocol and plausibility.nMOVING?nLET US KNOW BEFORE YOU GO!nTo assure uninterrupted delivery ofnChronicles, please notify us in advance.nSend change of address on this form withnthe mailing label from your latest issue ofnChronicles to: Subscription Department,nChronicles, P.O. Box 800, Mount Morris,nIllinois 61054.nName_nAddress_nCitynnnState. -Zip_nMARCH 1988 / 49n