Subject
Dmitri Nabokov at the Century Club (fwd)
From
Date
Body
From: ltaylor <ljt@dti.net>
Last night I had the good fortune to be present at the Century Club, here
in Manhattan, to see Dmitri Nabokov and William F. Buckley Jr give a
performance of "Dear Bunny, Dear Volodya.". {I may have the title
reversed, and unfortunately I don't know the playwright's name, since
there was no printed program available.}
The play is composed of letters between Wilson and Nabokov, and several
other writings published by them about each other, including the famous
feud. Dmitri Nabokov read his father's part, of course, and Buckley read
the Wilson role. The performance took place in the paneled library of the
McKim, Meade, and White club on West 43rd Street, and it was the perfect
place for it.
The letters were cunningly used so that they reflected each other, and
commented on each other, sometimes in a word or two, sometimes at greater
length. I felt, as I watched Dmitri Nabokov read his father's letters,
which sometimes referred to a certain "Dmitri," that I was as close as
one can get today to seeing Vladimir Nabokov alive.
If I were writing a theater review, I'd have to say that next to Dmitri
Nabokov, Buckley seemed to lack a certain energy. Both men read their
parts from a script.
It was amusing, interesting, educational, and exciting.
Last night I had the good fortune to be present at the Century Club, here
in Manhattan, to see Dmitri Nabokov and William F. Buckley Jr give a
performance of "Dear Bunny, Dear Volodya.". {I may have the title
reversed, and unfortunately I don't know the playwright's name, since
there was no printed program available.}
The play is composed of letters between Wilson and Nabokov, and several
other writings published by them about each other, including the famous
feud. Dmitri Nabokov read his father's part, of course, and Buckley read
the Wilson role. The performance took place in the paneled library of the
McKim, Meade, and White club on West 43rd Street, and it was the perfect
place for it.
The letters were cunningly used so that they reflected each other, and
commented on each other, sometimes in a word or two, sometimes at greater
length. I felt, as I watched Dmitri Nabokov read his father's letters,
which sometimes referred to a certain "Dmitri," that I was as close as
one can get today to seeing Vladimir Nabokov alive.
If I were writing a theater review, I'd have to say that next to Dmitri
Nabokov, Buckley seemed to lack a certain energy. Both men read their
parts from a script.
It was amusing, interesting, educational, and exciting.