David Mamet has little use for political correctness, windy academic theorists or Bolshevik-minded theater directors. He’s also not too keen on “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” or those

big, splashy Broadway sets that make audiences go “Ohh.” As Mamet writes in “Theatre,” one of two new books published by the prolific playwright-screenwriter-essayist, “When we leave the

play saying how spectacular the sets or costumes were, or how interesting the ideas, it means we had a bad time.” But as the author of “Glengarry Glen Ross,” “Wag the Dog” and TV’s “The

Unit” makes plain in “Theatre,” he likes strong plotting and the bare-knuckled American vernacular. He likes actors, especially the type of hard-working, cut-the-b.s. troupers ( John

the evening of “literary vaudeville” afforded plenty of verbal showmanship, a bit of jocular banter about Hollywood, glimpses of the two regular guys behind the spotlighted performers, and

some affectionate gibing between the artists, seated in matching director’s chairs. Mamet, 62, sporting a cap and a T-shirt and vest over his middleweight boxer’s physique, came out

swinging, even taking an opening swipe at himself. Apropos of acting, he told the audience he’d be the first person to admit he couldn’t act. “Except,” he added, scanning the crowd, “Bill

Macy’s here tonight, so I’d be the second person.” The amiable Jay (for the record, a few months younger than Mamet), nattily attired in suit, tie and pocket kerchief, worked off a set of

cue cards that he held in his nimble hands. Looking for inspiration, Jay said that he had Googled Mamet before the show. Some of the search results ran to the ribald. “Egad,” the magician

said, chuckling, “some people really don’t like you.” Mamet, his eyes behind round-framed glasses, looked unperturbed by this piece of information. Jay’s hale-fellow-well-met demeanor had a

gentling effect on his tough-talking friend. But those who’d paid their money for piss and vinegar weren’t put out. Mamet disclosed that when Martin Scorsese once asked him to rework the

script for a planned remake of a Kurosawa film, he’d told the director to perform an anatomically impossible act. Scorsese’s response? “He took it the wrong way,” Mamet deadpanned. Elsewhere

in the conversation, relaying an anecdote about how Mamet had made good on a pledge made years earlier to cast an actor in a certain part, Jay said, “You seem to be — how do I say this? — a

man of your word.” Mamet half-smiled. To kick-start the evening, two Mamet volumes chosen were brought into the discussion. They were a curious combination. “Theatre” is a collection of

short essays, spiked with personal anecdotes and mordant wit, with such headings as “Totalitarian Tendencies,” “The Fallacy of the Director” and “On the General Uselessness of the Rehearsal

Process.” It could serve as a primer on how to, and how not to, put on a play, an endeavor that Mamet believes should be accomplished with an absence of self-indulgent Method emoting and

pretentious directorial conceits (e.g. setting “Hamlet” in Indiana). It takes a damn good director or designer, he writes, to be better than none at all. The second book, the comic mock-epic

“The Trials of Roderick Spode (The Human Ant),” recounts the adventures of “an accidental superhero” who is transformed into a part-time ant following a magical mishap. A kind of arthropod

Odysseus, his metamorphosis is played for breezy charm that should appeal to geriatric as well as juvenile readers. In a backstage interview before the show, Mamet said there was no

connection between the books. But Mamet-ologists may note that Roderick Spode’s tale, however whimsical, indirectly conveys one of its author’s favorite cautionary themes: Mere mortals

should watch out for acts of the gods. Discerning readers also may intuit a connection between Mamet the macho man of letters and Mamet the father who speaks tenderly and proudly of his

children, some of whom are pursuing the career path of their old man and his wife, actor-songwriter Rebecca Pidgeon. The Santa Monica resident cites the primal communicative power of

children’s bedtime stories as being on par with the Oedipus cycle, or Bronze Age hunters swapping tales around a campfire. That’s why, in Mamet’s view, slipping a political lecture or a

special-interest plea into a play is like a parent ambushing a child by turning “Goldilocks and the Three Bears” into a sermon, or a rabbi or priest pontificating about Bush-Gore from the

pulpit. “Sure thing, it’s a betrayal of the audience,” Mamet said. “If in the midst of a story you tell them a message, it’s a gross insult.” A memorable evening. A pair of cards. A writer

in fine aphoristic, irascible form. He seems to be — how should one say this? — a man of his word(s). [email protected] MORE TO READ