Here; I will mend thy feast
Returning from tonight's performance by the Actors' Shakespeare Project, I have come to the conclusion that I would like to point Bill Barclay in the direction of Pericles, Prince of Tyre, because he took the problematic, half-structured, textually ramshackle script for Timon of Athens and turned it into a Brecht-black satire and a genuine tragedy whose first act should have been filmed by Fellini and whose second subtitled itself in my head as Samuel Beckett Eats a Parsnip and it was astonishing. Eight actors, three ladders, two songs, and a sandbox. A piece of sky stuck up in a tree. The best spit-take in the history of theater. I don't know why I'm always reviewing shows two nights before they close, but this one is a must-catch if you have the option—if nothing else, it shows the difference that performance (and a good eye with the scissors and tape) makes from text. Frankly, I hope someone filmed it. I have no idea when I'll see the play staged again. I doubt very much I could see it staged better.
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Nine
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The issue of cutting not so much for length or spareness or clarity but in order to make a troublesome play even workable on stage intrigues me, and I wonder whether Bill Barclay would be willing to reveal his cuts and transpositions. As for Pericles, I've never read it either, and understand it's even more problematical than Timon. I have been (very slowly) reading or rereading the late plays, so perhaps someday...
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Also, she was wonderful, sensible in button-boots and fierce and frightened and not wanting to let the world hurt her or anything she loved, faithful in the despite of not only her class and position but (you could tell) What Everybody Said (which had no basis, not a dash of that sort of interest in Timon).
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