In the richest of theaters, we know there will be any number of moments in which the mind and spirit will merge to grasp, with full, rushing assent, three things: how this work profoundly touches oneself, how it touches us all, and the wonder of the artist’s apprehension. If the expectation needs setting down again, it is because it seems a long time since I have had one of those expansive theater experiences. Instead, I am going to increasingly restrictive theaters, narrower in vision, less human theaters.
At the moment New York theater is particularly a thing of shreds and patches—adaptations, revivals, and small satisfactions. Critics are left to make more of less (which you may reluctantly realize after having driven in from out of town for a recommended play), or they are writing about writing theater criticism. There is some interest, though a narrow humanity, in the few of our theater center’s recent best.




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