If you came up in the New York theater in the 2000s, as I did, and cut your teeth in tiny, but respected off-Broadway houses, like the Rattlestick, the McGinn/Cazale, 2nd Stage, LaMama, you hoped, you prayed, to even approach the outskirts of the orbit of the planet-sized talent of Mr. Philip Seymour Hoffman.
I'd like to say that the central action of this play is the adultery between Emma and Jerry, but it really isn't. Pinter is hard on actors: It's dangerous to try to play him with passion, or at least any passions other than fear, or cruelty. The affair between Emma and Jerry is more depressing than sympathetic or titillating.
At a time when government seems more interested in self-aggrandizing political posturing than in the individuals it represents, it is a pleasure and comfort to revisit an old chestnut like Terence Rattigan's The Winslow Boy if only to spend an evening in the consoling belief that right will triumph in the end.