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Were a visitor from another planet to spend a few seasons visiting Broadway, he could be forgiven for assuming that Tennessee Williams wrote only three plays, “The Glass Menagerie,” “A Streetcar Named Desire” and “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” Not since 1996 have any of Williams’ other major plays been staged there. Of course there’s a good reason for this, which is that many of his other plays are flawed beyond repair. But even some of the successful ones are rarely seen. The original 1951 production of “The Rose Tattoo,” for example, had a solid Broadway run—306 performances—and was also filmed four years later. Nevertheless, it has only been revived there twice, in 1966 and 1995.

Why has “The Rose Tattoo” dropped out of sight? One obvious reason is that it requires a huge cast. The 1951 production fielded 23 actors, and even though Trip Cullman’s new Roundabout Theatre Company revival, which stars Marisa Tomei, has trimmed that budget-busting figure down to 18, it’s still ruinously costly to mount. That said, my guess is that the real reason why we no longer see much of “The Rose Tattoo” has to do with the play itself, which is tricky to bring off and which Mr. Cullman has not managed to make fully palatable for contemporary audiences.

One aspect of “The Rose Tattoo” that makes it so awkward to revive is that it’s part comedy and part drama, an attempt by Williams to translate his favorite theme, the need for everyone to have more and better sex, into farce-flavored terms….

It’s easy to see how such a situation could be played for laughs. Where Mr. Cullman’s revival goes astray is that it does so too broadly….

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Marisa Tomei talks about The Rose Tattoo:

Various forms of the records-that-changed-my-life meme have been making the rounds lately, so I came up with my own version, which I call “The Twenty-Five Record Albums That Changed My Life.” Throughout the coming month, I’ll write about one of these albums every weekday in the order in which I first heard them:

This album, which came out in 1964, was the first one on which Bob Dylan sang nothing but his own material, accompanied only by his harmonic and acoustic guitar. I was introduced to it four years later by Bob Nelson, my eighth-grade social-studies teacher, who decided for reasons of his own to introduce me to the music of my own time.

It was, as the saying goes, a good day’s work: I’ve spent much of the rest of my life listening to, and thinking about, the records that Mr. Nelson (as I invariably called him, having been raised by my parents to be polite to my elders) loaned me that year. I wonder whether he had any idea back then what an impression they would make.

I’d listened to music of sundry kinds throughout my childhood, but I discovered it—all of it—in 1968, the year I turned twelve. Prior to that time, my knowledge of what it sounded like was mostly limited to my father’s record collection, which consisted in the main of swing and jazz albums and pop singles from the Fifties, augmented by what I saw and heard on TV. Smalltown, U.S.A., had only two AM radio stations, neither of which was hip by any conceivable standard. They played the Top 40, and the best-selling singles of 1967, according to Billboard, were, in descending order, Lulu’s “To Sir With Love,” the Box Tops’ “The Letter,” Bobbie Gentry’s “Ode to Billie Joe,” the Association’s “Windy,” and the Monkees’ “I’m a Believer.”

Yes, there were more galvanizing sounds to be found on the airwaves. Billboard’s Hot 100 for 1967 also included, among other things, the Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love,” James Brown’s “Cold Sweat,” Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth,” Aretha Franklin’s “Respect,” the Jefferson Airplane’s “Somebody to Love,” the Rolling Stones’ “Ruby Tuesday,” Sam & Dave’s “Soul Man,” and the Spencer Davis Group’s “Gimme Some Lovin.’” But I don’t remember hearing any of them that year, at least not on the radio. The hits of 1967 that I recall most clearly, if not nostalgically, are (I blush to admit it) “Incense and Peppermints” and “Snoopy Vs. the Red Baron.” What can I say? I was eleven and still in a state of unkissed innocence.

All that began to change when I took up the violin in the fall of 1967 and, a year later, fell into the clutches of Bob Nelson, a bearded social-studies teacher who took it upon himself to force my ears open by loaning me a stack of albums from his personal collection….

The first of Mr. Nelson’s albums to which I remember listening was The Times They Are A-Changin’. It was Dylan’s political balladry that hit me hardest at first, though it was “One Too Many Mornings” that stayed with me longest. Mostly, though, what I remember best is the raspy, lonely sound of Dylan’s entwined voice and harmonica. It had nothing in common with the smooth, jazzy balladry of the Fifties that my father loved. It was something new and different, and I responded to it immediately and wholeheartedly. I can’t remember the last time I listened to The Times They Are A-Changin’, but I have no trouble calling it up in my mind’s ear a half-century after I first heard it. You never forget the sound of the future calling out to you.

(To be continued)

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Bob Dylan sings “Blowin’ in the Wind” on TV in 1963:

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To read about album #1, go here.

To read about album #2, go here.

“Sexton I still read, but Plath I gave up on. For some years I was very enthusiastic about her, but I don’t feel the attraction any more. With poetry, I go where I’m pulled.”

Jon Hassler, Simon’s Night

W.B. Yeats reads “The Lake Isle of Innisfree.” This reading was originally recorded by the BBC on October 28, 1936:

(This is the latest in a series of arts- and history-related videos that appear in this space each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday)

William Butler Yeats, “The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner”

Various forms of the records-that-changed-my-life meme have been making the rounds lately, so I came up with my own version, which I call “The Twenty-Five Record Albums That Changed My Life.” Throughout the coming month, I’ll write about one of these albums every weekday in the order in which I first heard them, starting in 1968:

This is the first record album I bought with my own money. It came out in 1968, the year I started going to junior high school. I know why I chose this particular version: Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra had just signed a recording contract with RCA, and his remake of the “Pathétique” was on sale at the only music store in Smalltown, U.S.A., that carried classical records. I don’t know why I opted for Tchaikovsky over, say, Beethoven or Mozart, but I probably heard the piece on TV at some time or other and was swept away by its heart-on-sleeve romanticism, which was made to thrill sensitive, susceptible twelve-year-old eggheads like me.

(To be continued)

From 2009:

Much has been written in recent days, most of it silly and some of it ignorant, about the modern art that Barack and Michelle Obama have borrowed to display in the White House….

“In hatred as in love, we grow like the thing we brood upon. What we loathe, we graft into our very soul.”

Mary Renault, The Mask of Apollo