Where the Theater Is

New York may be a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to write theater criticism there. Robert Brustein can have it—me, I’ll go tagging along with Tyrone Guthrie, to Ontario and Minneapolis and such, and we’ll have ourselves a regular romp.

The two collections at hand clash mightily, and there is a Lesson somewhere in it all. One is a bouquet of miscellaneous piecelets by a boundingly enthusiastic participant in the Real Thing; the other is a relentless catalog of despisal, disappointment and despair roiling in the bosom of one grown glassy-eyed from reading too many programs in the dark. The Lesson probably has something to do with the flight of good theater from Manhattan to strange hinterlands wherein imagination and craftsmanship surprisingly thrive.

CS

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C. H. Simonds

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New York may be a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to write theater criticism there. Robert Brustein can have it—me, I’ll go tagging along with Tyrone Guthrie, to Ontario and Minneapolis and such, and we’ll have ourselves a regular romp.

The two collections at hand clash mightily, and there is a Lesson somewhere in it all. One is a bouquet of miscellaneous piecelets by a boundingly enthusiastic participant in the Real Thing; the other is a relentless catalog of despisal, disappointment and despair roiling in the bosom of one grown glassy-eyed from reading too many programs in the dark. The Lesson probably has something to do with the flight of good theater from Manhattan to strange hinterlands wherein imagination and craftsmanship surprisingly thrive.