<caveat>
I’m untrained in literature and fine arts interpretation. On most days, I dislike discussions of the arts that go beyond aesthetic appreciation and examination of the ideas and argument of the art. Furthermore, I don’t know what I’m talking about, as I’ve only seen one of LaBute’s plays, glanced at the scripts for a couple more, and read a few of his short stories. I find him hit or miss, but I could be wrong about the misses.
</caveat>
I’ve disliked LaBute for a while now, since I saw Fat Pig in, I think, New York a couple years ago. I disliked his characters, and I disliked the way he portrayed them. I saw him portray humans as weak, cruel, petty villains. I saw him portray the most honest aspects of human affection as being manipulative tricks, and the most manipulative tricks as being the best we could hope for. I saw him portray everything I had hoped to find as a self-serving illusion.
Now I see him portray something else.
I now see LaBute portray humans exactly as they portray themselves around me. In the theater, the characters tell us what they are doing; in the world, we have to guess. But I am increasingly sure that accurate guesses would reveal just what LaBute reveals: humans are human, nothing else. They are not the more comfortable characters from more comfortable fiction, and they are not the good people they pretend to be. That, I think, is the magic of LaBute’s plays… as you rise to leave after the scattered applause, you realize that you have seen, for the first time, humans who were not acting. The true actors are all around you as you walk out of the theater and back onto the stage.
Eventually I will need to parse my reasons for this shift of opinion and write them into my narrative.
