In a dark space you can't measure, a once visceral father lies on his deathbed, looking over his life, his youth, loves, lusts and betrayals of his wife. At the same time, in another bedroom, somewhere in the same space, the man's two sons intellectually, clinically and conspiratorially speak of their relationship with their father. Side-stepping their estrangement from him, they rationalize their love-hate relationship with him and defend the distance they are incapable of closing, even when their mother calls them home. In contrast to these closed sons, is the man's daughter, the baby sister, who refuses the dourness and bridges the space between the light and dark, youth and age, and death and life.
"There is no playwright his equal. He is the natural descendant of James Joyce, by way of Samuel Beckett. Pinter works the language as a master pianist works the keyboard. This is classical playwriting, make no mistake about it." —NY Post.