The modern American theatre is an expensive Rube Goldberg machine for powering a ghost light. So much effort, exploitation, and charity just to light an empty room for 21-hours a day. Schrodinger is laughing in his coffin.*
We all knowingly rag on Kitchen Sink Plays, but at least Kitchen Sink Plays have a reason for being set in a room for a couple hours. Now playwrights throw everything but the kitchen sink at the audience in a flurry of agitated, orally-fixated dialog that rarely connects with the physical, the corporeal, the actual space inherent in this space-bound medium. That's just a crabby broad-swipe, I know.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Everything BUT the Kitchen Sink...
Playwright Karl Miller talks a little bit about some problems with new plays: