Hwang’s self-consciousness may be self-defeating

M. Butterfly amply evinces David Henry Hwang’s command of theatrical history, his agility with dramatic architecture and staging, a rapier wit sharpened on an anvil of ironic intelligence, and a feeling for dialogue as fluent as birdsong. Plus, he’s queer-forward, compassionate and inclusive of spirit, and, one surmises, the kind of guy everyone’s mom would just adore. So what’s not to like? Without gainsaying any of these shining qualities, I’d only venture that the didactic, corrective impulse informing such passages as this early one from scene six, which permits little room for doubt or disagreement in the audience’s mind

Song: Consider it this way: what would you say if a blonde homecoming queen fell in love with a short Japanese businessman? He treats her cruelly, then goes home for three years, during which time she prays to his picture and turns down marriage from a young Kennedy. Then, when she learns he has remarried, she kills herself. Now, I believe you would consider this girl to be a deranged idiot, correct? But because it’s an Oriental who kills herself for a Westerner—ah!—you find it beautiful.

Gallimard: Yes . . . well . . . I see your point . . .
(p. 1280)

finally subsumes the dramatic experience, bending it toward preachment. Gallimard sees the point, but so could a blind man on a galloping horse. Ultimately Hwang tries too hard.