After a successful installment of Meet The Siblings during which my brother and Josh found common ground in the form of Wanda Sykes, the eldest Finger and I saw Clybourne Park together. I loved it. He loved it. It was hilarious and wonderful and profound in those ways that should be obvious but still manage to feel “big” and “important” and “special.” I was a Theater Kid in high school, but despite my familiarity, there’s always something jarring about those first few minutes of any stage production - the first lines that make me realize I’m not watching real people, but actors portraying fictional characters. When I realize it’s a performance - that it’s “theatrical” by definition. By necessity.
It’s during those first few minutes that I think, “I don’t know if I can handle these gestures, this banter, or this volume,” but then I quickly adjust my knees and roll up my Playbill and fall into my seat and accept it all. I tune out my cynicism, bask in the air conditioning and allow myself to look at the actors in front of me and find something special about the story I’m being told. Some days I miss being a part of that.
But most days I’m all, “HAHAHAHAHAHA I WAS IN THEATER?!!?!?! HAHAHAHAHAHHAAHHAHAHAHA WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?!?!”
Anyway. Clybourne Park was great. Totally deserved the Tony. I guess? I didn’t see any other plays this year. What am I, 65?