Play

Mike and I went to a play on Sunday night. It was called The God of Hell, by Sam Shepard. It was directed by Jason Alexander, and was being marketed as a comedy. I didn't think it was funny at all, though I did enjoy it very much. It just wasn't a comedy. We had seats in the very front row. That is because I was hoping Jason Alexander would be there and possibly sit next to me. But he wasn't. It didn't matter, I really liked the show. There were only 4 actors, all of them with both stage and screen experience. One of them was the dad from Malcolm in the Middle. Mike told me one of them was Booger from Revenge of the Nerds. Anyway, just 4 people putting on play right in front of me. It took me a few minutes to get used to the play-acting. You know, loud voices and big hand gestures with almost fake-y drama, so that everyone in the back row can tell what's going on. It's not like the movies at all. There are no dramatic whispers in a play.

It was heavy with political commentary, with scenes of forced patriotism and torture. But that didn't really bother me. The acting was good, and it overwhelmed me with emotion such that when the leading lady cried, I couldn't help crying too. And I couldn't stop. I seemed to be alone. When we exited the theater I listened to the other patrons. They seemed slightly disappointed. The man who sat next to me said it was "stupid", and that he "couldn't get through the heavy parts, because it was too symbolistic." That's right, symbolistic. So, I didn't worry too much that maybe I was too dumb to understand the play.

Earlier that night, Mike and I had made plans to have dinner after the show. We were looking forward to dinner almost as excitedly as we had been looking forward to the play. When the show ended, we walked over to Olive Garden and waited for a table. But I felt pensive, not festive. "I feel like I'm in a trance," Mike told me. "Let's eat dinner at home," was all I could manage to say.