I've never seen an actual production of Pinter's The Homecoming but if I ever do I suspect I'll spend most of the evening squirming, inside and out, physically and mentally. Reading the play isn't so bad because you can put it down, to one side, though chances are you'll find yourself picking it up again pretty quickly just to find out what on earth the dramatist intends to do next with his oddball creations. The problem then is that what takes place seems to have a certain logic, the recognition of which implies that you are as messed up as Max and family.
In contrast, much as I admire the craft and poetry of A Streetcar Named Desire I can't honestly say that it's a work that really bothers me. Williams's concerns seem very much personal to Williams, in my reckoning, the marvellous thing being the degree to which he's able to draw you into his world.
Odd really to deal with two such different plays in the same post, but I read them both today and had a fine old time doing so, even the bits spent squirming.