Theater and cinema have always had a kind of sibling rivalry despite theater being much older and, some might say, more sophisticated in nature. Yet, when the movies burst onto the scene in the early twentieth century, denizens of the theater quickly realized how soon their fates could be written on the wall if they continued to lament this populist artform which seemed to hold much more sway for its audience than the typical rich elitists of the theater-going crowd. By the time of the talkies, Shakespeare, Eugene O’Neill and other well-regarded writers of the stage became some of the most significant source material of this newfound entertainment goldmine. Soon, the relationship between theater and the movies was not competitive but cooperative, albeit often one-sided.

By the time William Friedkin began his directing career, his interests had been primarily shaped by the movies he saw as a teenager and young adult, the majority of which consisted of classic Hollywood fare from the 1940s and 1950s. Yet, at the peak of the ‘New Wave’ revolution that emerged from the fallout of the studio system, a small cache of contemporary playwrights and their works became interesting to current studio heads, who saw the opportunity to product affordable, challenging material that could appeal to the burgeoning youth that emerged as the dominant movie-going audience. Some of this tactic could be attributed to the success of Sidney Lumet’s adaptation of O’Neill’s magnum opus Long Day’s Journey Into Night (1962), which by sheer length and depth illustrated more strikingly than anything else the potential such material could have on the big screen. For the rest of the 1960s, a steady stream of recently produced plays found their way into movie houses by way of some big-name film actors and directors who had either begun their careers on the stage or saw the potential in bringing these stories to audiences that otherwise would not have been exposed to them.

One of the unintended consequences of this development: some plays were given the big-screen treatment without considering if it was necessary or appropriate. There is an abundance of plays that could be adapted for the screen, but because the movies (and the theater, too, for that matter) are in the money-making business, the source material chosen often had a big-name playwright attached to it, like O’Neill, or British writer Harold Pinter, whose work often deliberately prevented audiences from understanding its meaning. Nevertheless, because of Pinter’s status as a successful playwright on both sides of the Atlantic and his ties to Hollywood, Friedkin was able to acquire funding for an adaptation of Pinter’s 1957 play The Birthday Party. Even when it premiered in London, the play divided many viewers and critics. Nevertheless, it struck a chord with enough to merit multiple runs and is considered today a classic of 20th century theater. The mystery at the heart of the story may have something to do with the play’s success. It is almost irresistible to try and understand why two strangers would come together and attempt to lure one soul away from a run-down seaside boarding house. Pinter gives no explicit explanation for the plot; the Kafkaesque angle speaks to humankind’s fascination with the mysterious, unknown forces that could take life at any moment, even if that life is in shambles.

Like many other play adaptations at this time, Friedkin sticks very closely to the script (credited to Pinter), even using sharp cuts to black to signify the end of an act. While the manner of the plot and its refusal to be anything but abstruse is furious – indeed, the movie was a box office disappointment – none of the actors can be faulted. Robert Shaw (later to become famous as the hunter of Jaws) plays protagonist Stanley as a poor sad sack of a soul who, though beaten down by life, refuses to give in to strangers who seemingly offer an escape from his doldrums. In a roundabout way, there is nobility to his arc, as the two strangers (Patrick Magee and Sydney Tafler) subtly torture and abuse Stanley’s psyche over the course of an evening during which they throw him a birthday party. Much of the dialogue is, at times, difficult to understand because of the heavy British dialects. Yet, Pinter maintains the story thread so clearly that the action of the plot can be followed regardless of what is being heard. By the time the final act emerges, the fate of Stanley is less interesting than how Pinter has constructed such a bizarre but personal tale touching on ideas of relevance to all different eras.

Whether or not such a picture is any good comes down to how gripping the story and characters are. Only an individual can decide, but with regards to Friedkin, this was clearly an attempt to clear his head of the bubble-gum silliness of Good Times and tackle a project about which he felt passionately. His style, as it has come to be understood, was still being forged in these early pictures while story carried most of the drama. Given his background in live television and documentaries, a play was the logical next step in creating a visual and thematic style based on realism and verisimilitude. Regardless of whether or not it was successful, the passion motivated Friedkin to bigger and better things.