Written in 1961, Tennessee Williams’s The Night of the Iguana (at the Pershing Square Signature Center through February 25) is essentially an Episcopalian Graham Greene story: we’re in sweaty, dissolute 1940 Mexico, where a defrocked minister alternates between torturing himself with alcohol and taking advantage of teenaged schoolgirls he subsequently enlists in his penitential prayers. I find Protestant guilt to be merely a decaf version of Catholic guilt, but perhaps that is just the bias of someone formed by the Church of Rome. Nevertheless, the play finds Williams at his best, with penetrating psychological insights but not much of the campy histrionics of A Streetcar Named Desire, although its climax does feature the unintentionally comic spectacle of its ranting protagonist being bound up in a hammock to prevent him from hurling himself suicidally...

 

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