"When I was younger, every day I would wake up afraid — am I going to have to speak? Am I going to be able to say what I want in a restaurant, or am I going to have to order something I don't even want because it's easier to say?"
Enjoyable evenings oftheater are common, and more than adequate. Rarer, however, are the what-the-fuck plays, those experiences that explode instead of unfold, that follow us home and slap us upside the head while we’re trying to sleep. These are playwright Bruce Graham’s specialty.
In 1978, when NFL players were protected by fewer rules and thinner pads, Raiders safety Jack Tatum hit Patriots wide receiver Darryl Stingley so hard that Stingley was left a quadriplegic. The men never spoke afterward.
The roof beams of Dirk Durossette’s charmingly rustic Irish cottage, delicately curved with a sweep suggesting spirituality, are the first of many moments of sly humor in Lantern Theater Company’s superb production of The Beauty Queen of Leenane.
Dead Man's Cell Phone poses a plausible hypothetical: You're sitting alone in a quiet café and a cell phone goes off at another table. The owner sits motionless — asleep? — as the phone rings and rings. Would you answer it?