Until this past weekend, I had not seen any Catastrophic Theatre productions in the company's fancy new digs, the Midtown Arts & Theatre Center, Houston (MATCH). Following some changes in my life circumstances, however, I resolved to become a more regular attendee. I have loved their work since the early no-fixed-address days of Infernal Bridegroom Productions.
Fortunately, it was no chore to talk Kayleen into going to see a play by Wallace Shawn, what with his being part of the Princess Bride gang. Also, the MATCH features several wonderfully intimate and accessible spaces to catch a show.
I know that I shouldn't get this excited when someone I consider a friend shares a Facebook post of mine, even if it's a friend I consider a cultural genius. I'm too old and jaded for that kind of fanboy reaction. But Sunday morning I awoke to discover that the award-winning artistic director of Catastrophic had shared my bedtime post from Saturday night.
Apart from That, Mrs. Lincoln...
This is not a review of Evening at the Talk House or Catastrophic's staging thereof. Even if it were a review, it would not contain any details about what actually happens during the play's 90 minutes. Any review that included such details would do the play and its author, the estimable Wallace Shawn, a great disservice.
What is important about this play is the statement that it makes—sometimes subtly, sometimes not—about the Western World of the 21st century. It asks what share of the responsibility regular folks (and artists in particular) bear for the millions of premature, violent deaths of people who stand, wittingly or not, in the way of the Global Capitalist Empire. It also dares to imagine a world in which television has rendered live theatre sooooo not worth the effort.
Blogging Sporadically since 2014
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