Arthur Miller

The 20th century's greatest American playwright died last night. Ever since seeing a production of "After the Fall" at a community theater in Austin in 1977, I've loved him. Here's how I painted him in my (still unpublished) novel "Make Nice." The narrator is the protagonist, who's about to interview Miller on the set of "Let's Make Love;" he's accompanied by a verteran reporter named Tragge:

Hawkins leads us out of the sound stage, across an alley full of ladders and lumber and discarded stage flats, and into another stage. The overhead lights are on in here, and the Klieg lights and scaffolding and cranes stand quiet. "Better get what we can," Tragge whispers to me. "I have a feeling Madame is nowhere around."

Arthur Miller -- of all the people on this picture, he's the only one who actually intimidates me a little. We're alike in some ways -- about the same age and we’re both Jews. But while I was busting my ass telling jokes to old farts in the Catskills, he was writing brilliant drama and becoming the toast of Broadway. Then to top it all off -- to show that nothing's out of reach in this country for a smart Jew with glasses -- he married Marilyn Monroe. As if the Pulitzer Prize and all the other awards and honors were not enough, he gets the greatest prize of all, the Queen of the Shiksas.

After crossing the sound stage, we enter a corridor and stop before an unmarked gray metal door. I can hear someone typing inside. Hawkins knocks quietly, and the typing stops. Hawkins opens the door.

"Mr. Miller," he says unctuously, "these are the gentlemen I mentioned."

There stands Arthur Miller, wearing a modest brown suit with a white shirt and tie, the familiar black eyeglasses resting on a nose of some prominence. Curly brown hair, now receding. He smiles politely -- for all its ordinariness, the face that won Marilyn. He shakes hands with us and motions toward a couch. Beyond the desk where Miller is working, the wall is lined with makeup mirrors. The studio has hidden him away in an empty dressing room. "I see they've given you the first class accommodations," I joke.

"What can I do for you fellows?" he asks pleasantly enough, but he seems reserved. I explain our mission and he tells us the story of the film, the same as the others. I ask him about his wife's singing and dancing and he says it's fine. I ask him what kind of work he's doing on the script, and he just says, "Officially, none. Off the record?" he raises an eyebrow at Tragge, who gives a slightly pained nod in return. "Off the record, I've just fiddled a little with it, to tell you the truth. It wasn’t much to start with. It's like a poorly designed house -- you're not going to make it a brilliant piece of architecture just by knocking out a wall or painting it blue. Mainly I'm concerned with some of the dialogue. Making it..." He almost rolls his eyes. "A little more dignified," he finishes.

"Okay, enough of that. Now I’ll go back on the record. 'Let’s Make Love' is a delightful comic fantasy which the American public is going to enjoy very much."

Here's a appreciation of Miller by Harold Pinter, but that NYT link has a trove of reviews and articles going back 60 years. And here's a Nat'l Endowment for the Humanities page.