As with Pinter's other masterpieces (not all of his plays are), this one is a marvel. The manifest content is almost nil. The latent content, swathed in layer upon layer of irony, is everything. All depends on how the roles (in this case two primary and two secondary) are embodied. Knowing that the two leads were performed by Sir John Gielgud and Sir Ralph Richardson makes for a delightful reading experience, as you can savor in imagination each line reading (just as if one were tasting fine wine), knowing that these two remarkable actors would have extracted and then conveyed the maximum in implication and innuendo. Only the very ending slightly disappoints, being a shade too explicit. And a tad glib? ( )