God, it’s dark out. Going to plays these days is like looking at a painting by Jane Dickson, whose work chronicles an older, more dangerous, less commercially anesthetized Times Square. By the late afternoon, the palette of the street is all black sky and bright lights, neon ref lected in smears on puddled pavement. In this slogging terrain, the lights of the theatre feel like promises of warmth to come. It’s nice to trudge inside, even in a gloomy mood, and warm your hands by drama’s hearth.
Julia May Jonas’s very funny, often moving new play, “Your Own Personal Exegesis,” directed by Annie Tippe at Lincoln Center’s Claire Tow Theatre, starts out at just this time of year. It’s Christmas Eve, at a church whose full name we never learn, in a more or less well-off, implicitly suburban town in New Jersey. "Redacted Church, in Redacted, New Jersey," the church's youth pastor, Rev Kat (Hannah Cabell), calls it in a sermon. Those redactions, and others that pop up throughout the play's text-we never, for instance, learn any of the main characters' last names give it the feeling of an ardent but guarded memory. The show and its author seem to want to both confess and protect, perform and be private, all at once.
この記事は The New Yorker の December 19, 2022 版に掲載されています。
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この記事は The New Yorker の December 19, 2022 版に掲載されています。
7 日間の Magzter GOLD 無料トライアルを開始して、何千もの厳選されたプレミアム ストーリー、9,000 以上の雑誌や新聞にアクセスしてください。
すでに購読者です? サインイン
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Kyungha-ya. That was the entirety of Inseon’s message: my name.
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Reckoning with Donald Trump's return to power.
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Jadé Fadojutimi, a British painter, sees the world through a prism.
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The pro-life movement’ new playbook.
President for Sale - A survey of today's political ads.
On a mid-October Sunday not long ago sun high, wind cool-I was in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for a book festival, and I took a stroll. There were few people on the streets-like the population of a lot of capital cities, Harrisburg's swells on weekdays with lawyers and lobbyists and legislative staffers, and dwindles on the weekends. But, on the façades of small businesses and in the doorways of private homes, I could see evidence of political activity. Across from the sparkling Susquehanna River, there was a row of Democratic lawn signs: Malcolm Kenyatta for auditor general, Bob Casey for U.S. Senate, and, most important, in white letters atop a periwinkle not unlike that of the sky, Kamala Harris for President.
