To half the play's population, the cavernous dining room is a place to flee, demolish, or desecrate. To the other half, it's home sweet home: leisurely breakfasts, the view of the gardens, exquisite meals. Whether you loved or loathed the formal room, one thing is certain: it's been extinct for quite some time, but you can see it again—in all its glory and monstrosity—in Centre Stage's production of A.R. Gurney's “The Dining Room.”

In nearly two-dozen scenes (all of them unrelated), six actors play over sixty different characters whose lives are changed (often humorously, and often for the worse) in the dining room. It's a breathless tour-de-force and a stunning study of a culture that is no more. It's unnecessary to note that actors chosen for such demanding work are flexible—they are, and terribly funny also. But three actors deserve special recognition. Each of Anne Elizabeth Butler's characters had such rich emotional depth that I wished the scenes were longer, just so I could see more of these people she created. Allen Evans and Christopher M. Evans also boasted especially crisp, delightful performances.

Despite the zest and humor, the accumulation of so much destruction provides a rather loud indictment of the once-powerful W.A.S.P. culture. Fortunately, the verdict on the dining room itself is still out. This ambiguity is thanks in part to Benjamin P. Robinson's level-headed direction—his characters are people, not caricatures bearing some heavy message. They may be wealthy (or wish they were) but they are still human, and the communal nature of a dining room can still work some positive magic upon them. Part of that magic is in Guy Perticone's subtle lighting. You wouldn't think there's much you could do with a chandelier and some implied french doors—but Perticone works this limited vocabulary with such finesse you scarcely noticed the room's stunning mood swings.

The dining room it turns out, is the most noble character in Gurney's play—holding and hiding and softening the edges of a high-stress, high-stakes population. When the room fades into memory, into dream and reminiscence, you'll wish you could resurrect it, if not necessarily all of its inhabitants.

--
A.R. Gurney's “The Dining Room” Directed by Benjamin P. Robinson. With Anne Elizabeth Butler, Katy Beth Cassell, Allen Evans, Christopher M. Evans, Cindy Mixon, and Jeff Warren.

Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through June 27. Tickets $25, with discounts for seniors and students.

There are as many Hamlets as there are directors, and with good reason—with over four hours of text to cull and scores of interpretative theories (focusing on anything from the absurdity of life to extra textual sexual psychoses) Hamlet may as well be the springboard for a choose-your-own-adventure event. Unfortunately, that's how many productions of Hamlet come off—willy nilly. Fortunately for Greenvillians, Paul Savas of the Warehouse Theatre has trimmed Hamlet with a sensitive ear, shuffling scenes and lines to give the audience a clear window into the story. The result is a lean, powerful performance that highlights the terrifying and beautiful providence of Hamlet's fall.

Providence haunts the play almost as much as Hamlet's murdered father, with lines from Act V working their way into a number of scenes: “There's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.” This sparrow's falling seems to be the central metaphor for Jason Shipman's elegant performance. Unlike so many numb melancholics, Shipman's Hamlet is refreshingly emotive, fragile and fluttering against the inhuman political machine. Shipman drowns in grief and rage, teeters on the borders of madness. His Hamlet is moved by mad fortune, and what's more, he moves the audience with that same madness.

Would that all the cast could do the same. While there are several strong performances (Kerrie Seymour's beleaguered Gertrude stirred the heart, and Joe Wrobel's Polonius rang true every line), a few notable exceptions caused discomfort. While it's normal to have a range of talents in such a large cast, it is nearly unforgivable that it should happen in the leading roles, especially leading female roles, as there are precious few of them in Shakespeare and a line of talented actresses to fill them. Talented though she be, Tiffany Nave doesn't appear quite comfortable in Ophelia's skin. She's got all the mannerisms of a giddy young innocent, and some loose bits of the hysteric, but that's all I could detect—mannerisms, bits, externals lacking heart. Of course, one may make the argument that even Ophelia wasn't all that cozy with herself—she did go mad after all—so I'm willing to concede that a more learned observer will catch something I have missed.

Surprisingly, this Hamlet's Ophelia isn't all that important to the production. Hamlet's got another, deeper relationship with Horatio, and this friendship is, after Shipman's performance, the chief delight of Warehouse's production. Hamlet and Horatio's shared friendship is a quick mixture of tenderness and strength, a delight to watch. Were it not for Andy Croston's steadfast Horatio, one suspects this Hamlet would have been crushed all the sooner.

The purists can argue about the stabilizing necessity of Fortinbras, sweeping in and setting all to rights. He isn't in this production, and he isn't needed. The Warehouse has given us a far better catharsis than that clunky machina. Here in the inevitable approach of the final scene, there is such truth, such comfort in Hamlet and Horatio's confidences that Shakespeare's “special providence” takes on an electrifying new meaning. Where once stood blind and furious fate, there now stands a tender grace that cushions the sparrow's fall in the arms of his best friend. It's a fall at once terrifying and beautiful—we all must end some day. “If it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.” The readiness, yes, and the company in which you pass those final moments.

--
Shakespeare's “Hamlet,” directed by Paul Savas.
Presented by Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through June 13. Tickets $25. Students $15.

Before I say anything about Warehouse Theatre's latest production, I think you need to know, I've been bribed. Really. How can you not say something nice about the man who gives you a rose and says you're beautiful? Of course, Aldo's Italian, and true to stereotype, he probably tells this to a lot of women. At least one a night during the run of John Patrick Shanley's "Italian-American Reconciliation." So chances are pretty good that Aldo just might bribe you. Or your date. And believe you me, you will say nice things about him and this whole story he's telling--it's beautiful.

It's about his best friend, Huey, a big nervous wreck who's been falling apart ever since his divorce from Janice. It's about how Huey needs to reconcile this thing with Janice, needs to confront it and get past it before he can be man enough to love Teresa (a strong showing by Elizabeth Finley). It's a good story. Rick Connor makes such a quirky and moving Huey that you'll laugh and cry and hope right along with him.

Trouble is, Janice, she's not so nice. Stars make her "think of death." She shoots dogs. And men. And Anne Tromsness imbues her with such raging emotional complexity that you never know if she's going to kiss you, or knife you. Huey, he's a bit gun shy. So he does what any red-blooded Italian would do: he sends his best friend Aldo to smooth things over.

It's Little Italy. There's no telling what might happen, or who will run off with (or without) whom. But in all the upheavals, one woman stays the same: Aunt May (charming performance by Annette Garver), who dishes out minestrone and advice by the bowlful. She may not be sure "whether all the stuff I remember is wisdom, or just lint," but my money's on wisdom. Her insights on life and love and trouble are worth more than any seminar.

And since I've talked about everybody else, I suppose it's only fair, in closing, to say a word about Aldo, the sweet-talking Italian with a thing for (and against) women. Bribery aside, Andy Croston delivers his best performance to date. He's come home with this fast talking, emotional Italian, and you will too. His Aldo is an able guide through the turbulent romances of Little Italy, where everyone changes, everyone grows, and everyone comes to an honest place, including the audience.

--
John Patrick Shanley's "Italian-American Reconciliation," directed by Jayce T. Tromsness. With Andy Croston (Aldo), Rick Connor (Huey), Elizabeth Finley (Teresa), Annette Garver (May), Anne K. Tromsness (Janice).

Scene Design, Shannon Roberts; Lighting Design, Ursula Finley; Costume Design, Jayce T. Tromsness; Sound Design, Kevin Frasier.

Presented by The Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through May 2. Tickets $25. Students $15.

The intended recipient of a heart transplant dies in surgery. You've got 45 minutes to get a new patient ready. Choose one of the following: the lovable, but overweight black man, the elderly lady who has spent a lifetime helping others, the angry poet who's having a spiritual awakening, or the billionaire's son (who just might give you enough money to save thousands more lives).

This isn't a test question. It's every day life for members of the St. Patrick's transplant committee, and you get to listen in at Centre Stage's latest production of Mark St. Germain's “The God Committee. It's a tense ride, and you may not like everything you hear along the way, but since it's a matter of life triumphing over death, you'll be happy you stuck around.

That's one of the difficulties in viewing (and reviewing) such a play. The message is clear. The message is necessary. The message sometimes trumps artistry. Don't blame the actors for that; the script often reads like a cross between a organ donor brochure and reality T.V. It's to the actors' credit--especially Bruce Meahl's wry Dominic and Britney Teie's wonderfully real Dr. Banks--that it comes off as natural as it does.

Dr. Banks is the refreshing newcomer on the committee, so there's plenty of explanation for her (and Father Dunbar's) benefit. This means you won't be baffled by medical jargon. Unfortunately, this also poses a problem for the playwright; in making sure that we ordinary mortals can understand the inner workings of a transplant selection committee, he's created more than a few wooden monologues. In fact, that seems to be his weakest link.

Mark St. Germain writes crackling dialogue—it's terse, and even in the darkest moments, it's funny. But when the characters start monologuing about medical processes (or personal tragedies), the script feels more than a bit clunky. Fortunately, in a little slice of reality, there's not much room for giving speeches, not when you've got less than an hour to decide who lives and who dies.

The criteria for life? Well, it's not very objective. Character, support networks, money, community impact, and of course, the personal histories of those making the decision. With so much mess and so little time, it's no wonder that tensions lead to an all-out fight among the staff. It's a scene worth waiting for—Germain's writing falls into place, and all the actors rise to the occasion. Before it's over, you'll understand Dr. Banks' predicament: she has “an ulcer instead of a personal life.” If you had to watch these human explosions every night, had to make these decisions in which so many people necessarily lose—you'd have an ulcer too.

But underneath all brokering backbiting, everyone's really asking the same question: what is the worth of a human life? Can you really reduce it to a series of statistics? And while you may or may not agree with the less-than-objective process or the decision it produces, the play's underlying message is heartbreakingly clear: there just aren't enough donors for people in need.

--
Mark St. Germain's “The God Committee.” Directed by Dale Savidge. With Lou Buttino (Dr. Jack Klee), Lorry Houston (Nella Larkin, R.N.), Catalina Keller (Dr. Ann Ross), Bruce Meahl (Dominic Piero), Rod McClendon (Father Charles Dunbar), Britney Teie (Dr. Kiera Banks), and Todd Weir (Dr. Alex Gorman).

Costume Designer, Elyse Middlebrooks; Sound Designer, Christoph Kresse. Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through May 2. Tickets $25, with discounts for seniors and students.

Florence Foster Jenkins insists there's nothing wrong with her inner ear. Blessed with perfect pitch, she says. One of the very lucky few, she says. Well if that's the case, then musicians, critics, and historians agree: there's got to be something wrong with her head. The woman cannot sing, and she insists on giving concert after concert of the most difficult pieces in the classical repertoire. It's an outrage, an embarrassment, and it's painfully funny. So painful, in fact, that Cosme has to coach you on how to endure the performance. How to stifle the laugh. How to come up for air. And how to cut-and-run if you just can't make it.

Stephen Temperly's “Souvenir: A Fantasia on the Life of Florence Foster Jenkins” is the sort of show that could easily devolve into caricatured farce. How can you not play it up when singing off key? Or not writhe in anguish as you aid and abet the shenanigans of a tone deaf diva? That the actors in Centre Stage's production remain fully human and dead-level funny is a wonder worth seeing. While Florence (Mimi Wyche) and Cosme (Mark Nadler) can rake in the laughs (and do!), neither of them is willing to compromise when it comes to what's in the heart. And what's in the heart is far more muddled that our neat distinctions of “good art” and “bad art.”

Wyche's Florence is at once over-the-top and subtle. She's real. She's got all your hopes bundled up with even greater limitations. She's vulnerable, but she's sassy. She's coy. She's fighting back grief. She's screeching her way to fame. And Wyche makes her terribly, terribly lovable.

Maybe the only thing really wrong with “Madame J's” head is that she isn't afraid. She's conquered the doubt that cripples so many of us (including Cosme McMoon, her angst-ridden accompanist). “Art cannot be ruled by caution,” she lectures him. “You say the microphone will diminish [art], but so will doubt.”

It's one of the many ironic lectures Florence bestows on the truly-gifted Cosme, who doesn't perform because he's terrified of what people think. Cosme takes it all in a fairly reasonable stride, and Nadler's performance, both on the piano and off, shifts effortlessly between incredulity and compassion, wonder and rage. When the stakes get too high and Cosme just can't take it any more, the musical explosion between the two performers is painful enough to undercut your laughter and make you cry. This scene, and the tender wooing that follows is one of the most delicate and fresh scenes of the season, more than earning the duo a spontaneous ovation.

But that's not the end of the show. That's just the middle. There's still a “nightmare” of a performance to be gotten through, and after this recent bout of empathy, you're bound to be laughing all the harder, especially when you don't really want to laugh.

Temperly is a master playwright here, contorting your emotions more than Florence ever tormented a song—making you guffaw the loudest when all human decency says you should be showing the greatest pity, when people are hurting and broken. Flo's singing aside, Temperly lets you listen to the most painful sound you'll hear all night—your own voice, laughing uncontrollably at someone else's anguish. And when the “silly woman” is finally silenced (because of you!), the shame is almost too much to bear. Ave Maria, Florence Foster Jenkins never caved in to that shame, and her spirit, even at the very last, will help you rise above it, too.

--
Stephen Temperly's “A Fantasia on the Life of Florence Foster Jenkins. Directed by Mark Waldrop. With Mimi Wyche (Florence Foster Jenkins) and Mark Nadler (Cosme McMoon).

Musical Director, Tom Helm; Scenic Designer, Michael Allen; Costume Designer Matthew Hemesath; Sound Designer, David Budries. Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through March 21. Tickets $25, with discounts for seniors and students.

Many of you have asked about the future of my theatre reviews now that The Revenant Culture is officially kaput. The answer? I don't know. Over the next few days, I'll be moving archives of my reviews from Revenant to Ubertati. I don't have another reviewing "gig" lined up, but I do miss the action, so we'll see what happens.

For the immediate future, Centre Stage has graciously asked me to review another show or two on Ubertati...so make it worth their while and see some theatre! (And be sure to tell them Stephanie sent you.)

My review of Krapp's Last Tape--the most valuable theatre experience I've had all year!

I've recently joined the (unpaid) staff of The Revenant Culture literary zine--I'll be serving primarily as an editor, but also as a theatre critic. The first review went live today, and here's an excerpt:

Shakespeare's (Tiny) Tempest
Over half the play is missing. In fact, nearly two-thirds of the text is strangely absent from Summer Shakespeare's production of The Tempest. No matter. What remains is fifty minutes of belly-laughing farce, with the human tragedies and loves rounded out to little comic melodramas. It may be a dinghy to Shakespeare's imperial ship, but it still floats. (Mostly.)

To read the rest of the review, or to find out how to buy tickets for one of the final three performances, visit The Revenant Culture Blog.

Ingmar Bergman, the writer and director of film classics The Seventh Seal and Wild Strawberries, was often asked to defend, or at least explain, what he intended these films to accomplish. His answer surprised me. Perhaps, if I were a better student of film, it would not have.

"People ask what are my intentions with my films--my aims. It is a difficult and dangerous question, and I usually give an evasive answer: I try to tell the truth about the human condition, the truth as I see it. This answer seems to satisfy everyone, but it is not quite correct. I prefer to describe what I would like my aim to be.

"There is an old story of how the cathedral of Chartres was struck by lightning and burned to the ground. Then thousands of people came from all points of the compass, like a giant procession of ants, and together they began to rebuild the cathedral on its old site. They worked until the building was completed--master builders, artists, laborers, clowns, noblemen, priests, burghers. But they all remained anonymous, and no one knows to this day who built the cathedral of Chartres.

"Regardless of my own beliefs and my own doubts, which are unimportant in this connection, it is my opinion that art lost its basic creative drive the moment it was separated from worship. It severed an umbilical cord and now lives its own sterile life, generating and degenerating itself. In former days the artist remained unknown and his work was to the glory of God. He lived and died without being more or less important than other artisans; 'eternal values,' 'immortality' and 'masterpiece' were terms not applicable in his case. The ability to create was a gift. In such a world flourished invulnerable assurance and natural humility.

"Today the individual has become the highest form and the greatest bane of artistic creation. The smallest wound or pain of the ego is examined under a microscope as if it were of eternal importance. The artist considers his isolation, his subjectivity, his individualism almost holy. Thus we finally gather in one large pen, where we stand and bleat about our loneliness without listening to each other and without realizing that we are smothering each other to death. The individualists stare into each other's eyes and yet deny the existence of each other. We walk in circles, so limited by our own anxieties that we can no longer distinguish between true and false, between the gangster's whim and the purest idea.

"Thus if I am asked what I would like the general purpose of my films to be, I would reply that I want to be one of the artists in the cathedral on the great plain. I want to make a dragon's head, an angel, a devil--or perhaps a saint--out of stone. It does not matter which; it is the sense of satisfaction that counts. Regardless of whether I believe or not, whether I am a Christian or not, I would play my part in the collective building of the cathedral."

--Ingmar Bergman, in the introduction to Four Screenplays of Ingmar Bergman.

I Dreamed a Dream
I don't normally dream-share (too afraid some one will psychoanalyze me), nor do I find meaning in the images (a cat's a cat, and no harbinger of evil). But last night, I dreamed a doozy-dream about the very thing I've been planning to write on this blog for some weeks. So, I'll say my dream was a call to action, and write these crazy metaphors all over cyber-space. Maybe, if I'm lucky, someone will psychoanalyze....or at the very least, tell me my fortune ;)

Now I Tell the Dream to You
I am waiting in line in front of a yellow-bricked building. I am waiting in a line to register for classes--for my master's degree. In order to register, I am required to do one simple task, involving Mrs. Fisher-Price, of my preschool doll-house days. (For those of you deprived of Fisher-Price families, see them here. Really. Go visit. You need to see the family before you continue. Sweet, aren't they? Back to the dream.)

Take Mrs. Fisher-Price,
Place her in a vice,
And saw her little legs off,
Saw her little peg off.

And, voila! I am registered for life in the yellow-brick Master's school. Except Mrs. Fisher-Price is rather hard to cut through, even with a saw. And throughout the rest of my dream, the image of the saw going through her little peg comes back over and over and over. And the image of her head in the vice--that comes back, too.

So I'm registered for these classes; now it's time to actually go to one. I go to a Mr. Stegall class (let it be known that Stegall classes are normally theater classes, but in my dream, he teaches Spanish). I go to this Stegall class, without my book, because I've lost my book--already on the first day. I come in, and Mr. Stegall has a pile of books on the floor--books he's throwing away out of the library collection.

Saw, saw, saw your doll
Saw her right in two.
Squeeze her head in the vice
While she smiles at you.

All these books, he's going to burn them, Mr. Stegall is. Because they are knitting books, not just any knitting books, because they are knitting books by my all-time favorite knitter Elizabeth Zimmerman (for un-knitter's out there, she was a cooky little lady who taught people how to really knit again--no patterns, no books, just knit like they used to). Can I save them? Can I save the books?

No self-respecting theater-person would waste her time with them.
No self-respecting.
No self-respecting.

Mrs. Fisher-Price snaps in two.
And I wake up.

And Now I Write a Blog
So I've been thinking about getting an M.A. in dramatic production. More than thinking, really--Benjamin and I have prayed about it and started planning for it. It's always been my dream, to get this degree, to someday maybe teach/direct? Trouble is, I can't just drop everything and run with this, like some, nor can I so easily harmonize my wiferly life with my scholerly life, as others have.

Most people I've talked to say GET IT NOW. You won't get it later. You won't. You won't. And I wouldn't. I know that.

But is it worth it? My health is rather precarious. And children are more important than words. Is it worth it? Is it possible to do both? My mind says no. Housewife or scholar. Mother or teacher. My mind, like a violent pendulum, decides first this at all costs, then that at all costs, yes-no, yes-no.

And I'm wondering how to balance?

I have a scene,
a scene from a play not written,
that has been haunting me.
It accosted me yesterday,
when I didn't expect...
already written,
directed, acted,
there in my head,
all of this scene.
All of it.
I watched it.
For some reason, I was afraid of it.

But it kept coming back to me,
this scene,
no matter how much I ran away.
After two days of running,
I know now
it is something I must write.
I don't know more of the story
than what I post here.
But I know I have to put it up.

Like I said,
it is unwritten still.
And just this one time,
though I welcome comments,
please,
make sure that you don't comment
on what could, might, or should happen next.

--untitled--

A small kitchen and dining room.
No decorations, no paintings. A
fish bowl (the old round variety)
in the middle of the table. A
basket of food on the counter by
the sink. A mother. Her twelve
year old son.

All is silent, but for the low
buz of the kitchen timer (the
noisy, wind-up dial type).

DARLA listlessly rummages through
the basket, more running her
hands over items than actually
looking at them.

CHASE sits on the counter. The
silence prevails for a full
45 seconds.

DARLA You like mandarin oranges?
CHASE Yeah.

The silence resumes. DARLA opens
the can, dumps it into two small
bowls, taps the can on the side
of a bowl to drain the juice, then
sets the bowl next to Chase.

CHASE Thanks.

CHASE stares at the bowl. DARLA
watches him, then places one of
the orange-sections in her mouth,
delicately.

CHASE They look like little fishes.

DARLA pauses for a moment, then
spits the orange (yet un-chewed)
into the sink. She rinses her
mouth out with water from her
cupped hand under the faucet.

CHASE Sorry.
DARLA S'ok.

DARLA dries her mouth with the
hand towel, and dumps the mandarin
oranges into the sink.

DARLA You're right. They do look like fish.

CHASE jumps down from the counter.
He wraps his arms around the fish
bowl, his chin on the table, his
forehead pressed against the glass.
He watches the goldfish.

CHASE Did they bring us any of those cheese thingys?

DARLA looks through the basket,
almost desperate. The kitchen timer
goes off. SHE jumps. CHASE does not.
Another moment of looking.

DARLA No.
CHASE They did last time.

DARLA opens the oven and removes
a pan of french fries. SHE grabs
the ketchup from the refridgerator,
puts both on the table, plops in
a chair, squirts ketchup in the
corner of the pan, and is just
about to eat her first french fry.

CHASE (Who hasn't moved) You forgot the mustard.

DARLA lowers her french fry, and
stares at the goldfish herself.
CHASE waits a moment, unwraps
himself from the fish bowl then
gets the mustard out of the fridge
himself. HE squirts some in another
corner.

CHASE For Dad.

HE pops three french fries in his
mouth at once, and resumes his
position at the fishbowl, arms
wrapped tightly around, chin on
the table, forehead on the glass.
DARLA has not moved except that
her eyes have followed the move-
ment of the fish.

There is a knock at the door.

I cannot make much effort
in my small lifetime,
but I am not settling for less.

--Dorothy Heathcote,
pioneer in the fields of classroom drama and holistic education

David Morris has posted a very interesting article on the philosophy of drama.
I guarantee it will be well worth your time to read, even if you skip the tome of a comment I posted after the article (thanks, Dave...I hope you don't mind....)

The following is an e-mail I received from my 13-year-old sister Michelle.
She's such a hoot and definitely has the Geter dramatic flair :)
Some of you may recognize
a much younger version of myself
in this tidbit of correspondence:
breathlessly enthusiastic,
yakking a mile-a-second,
and very, very abrupt.
Yeah for sisters!!

Hello, Stephanie! Guess what? I auditioned for, and got, a part in the school
play! It's called You Can't Take It With You. In away it reminds me of The
Nut Family. It's about this family called the Sycamores. Almost everyone in
the family is strange; Granpa refuses to pay his income tax; the mom, Penny,
is a horrible playwriter, and has an actress for a friend who likes to drink
; the dad, Paul, and his good friend, Mr. Depinna, like to make fireworks;
one of the daughters, Essie is terrible ballet dancer; and Essie's husband,
Ed, plays the xylophone, and each acts really strange. The only normal person
in the family is the other daughter, Alice. Alice falls in love with Tony,
the young vice-president of a company. One day, Tony brings his parents, Mr.
and Mrs. Kirby (I play Mrs. Kirby) over to meet the Sycamores. After awhile,
Tony and Alice begin to think it might not work out for them to get married,
with the fact that their families are so different, but Tony decides that he
is not going to give Alice up. In the end everyone gets arrested, first of
all because Grandpa refuses to pay his income tax, and second of all because
Ed put posters up all around saying things like, "Bomb the White House".
Love, Michelle

Found a quote that sums up all that I've been feeling about "Christian Theatre" of late....whether that be the performance of overtly Christian material, or the performance of secular material by Christians.

"Toward the end of the twenties I began to lose pleasure in going to the theatre. I ceased to believe in the stories I saw presented there. When I did go it was to admire some secondary aspect of the play, the work of a great actor or director or designer. Yet at the same time the conviction was growing in me that the theatre was the greatest of all the arts. I felt that something had gone wrong with it in my time and that it was fulfilling only a small part of its potentialities?The tragic had no heat; the comic had no bite; the social criticism failed to indict us with responsibility."

Thornton Wilder