Saw a Romanian-American take on Taming of the Shrew at the ART, last
night; figure it preemptively calls much feminism to account. Noticing
simultaneously the tendency in contemporary theatre to celebrate
technical and visual opulence - the set cost so many thousands of dollars,
made a point, in fact, of exerting itself to expand its budget with
whimsical profligacy (Gautier costumes etc). To exhibit the money values
of a culture in pastiche is an inadequate commitment, I reckon; pastiche
provokes gentle assent and disaffection, never (here we go) compunctious
disappointment. I see money on stage, link to money in neighbourhood,
smile, relax into a complicity limited to (and thereby, in infective
regression, by) wry observation. Actually I'd extend the critique a
little, let it roam, say that this 'wryness' and inability faithfully to
be disappointed is something of an epidemic amongst poesy-heeders as well
as in theatre. But that's another tale...
Yours,
consenting to a figment of purposefulness,
k
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