It was a fine, respectable production, a top-shelf cast, everybody did their jobs just fine, but this play doesn't work at all. Period. It lacks emotional logic.O'Neill was either too drunk or too maudlin or too Catholic or had his head too far up the collective O'Neill family ass when he wrote "Moon." There's no saving this play, even if the cast were Eleanora Duse, John Belushi and Jesus Christ himself. No actor, no matter how magical, can act his/her way out of a big dead dog.
Josie is a dismal paean to the nice girls back home for Eugene O, a romanticized blot of nostalgia for a time and place where the women were big, dumb, sweet and honest in a cow-eyed kind of way. Josie has a warm breast for any lonely man to chew on, or at least that's what she tells everyone.
very young ass fuck
He was a trendy young asshole, a fat 28-year-old MTV baby with a bad bleach job who looked like a career fuck-up, a smart guy who deliberately ruined himself on a regular basis. He looked like one of those bookish skateboard dudes pushing 30 who still works at Kinko's and has a real chip on his shoulder. He was wearing an untucked T-shirt, trendy sneakers and little wire-rimmed glasses.
"Why don't you go fuck yourself?" Fussy little man backs up, Drunk Boy lurches forward and stops. Then there's another advance, lurch and stop, the false-start dance of an aborted tussle. Christ, didhe really mean to beat up this guy in a crowded lobby at a Broadway theater intermission?
It was Drunk Boy, violent kid, and he was laughing, loudly and derisively, a sputtering, insulting laugh that was aimed at the stage and the whole audience. It was truly shocking; a public unraveling, a person announcing that he was fucked up to the level of police intervention. The trance of the play popped like a balloon.
At that moment (and I've felt that moment before, in audiences, when a member of the audience explodes) everyone's hair stiffened on their necks because they knew the drunk young bastard had no social boundaries holding him together and was capable of anything. Nobody would have been surprised if he'd gotten up and started randomly executing people. People half expected it, I think, such is the commonness of morally retarded wackoswith guns.
Die in his fucking sleep? Didn't she just spend the whole night resurrecting him? What is this ridiculous hopelessness, where a vital young man walking around under his own power with a heart full of love is sent off to die in his goddamned sleep?
I remember asking at a tender age what the "virgin" part of Saint Mary was, so Sister had the Jesuitical task of explaining virginity, without however conjuring or in any way coming close to the reality of non-virginity, so she straight-up lied: 'That's a woman who's never been married,' she averred in a tone that foreclosed further dialectic. Maybe that's why O'Neill has never provoked a flicker of interest in me, on the page or on the stage. But Dubliners and Portrait struck deep sparks of recognition, the very lingo my innumerable uncles and aunts spoke at Christmas dinner....
It was a fine, respectable production, a top-shelf cast, everybody did their jobs just fine, but this play doesn't work at all. Period. It lacks emotional logic.O'Neill was either too drunk or too maudlin or too Catholic or had his head too far up the collective O'Neill family ass when he wrote \"Moon.\" There's no saving this play, even if the cast were Eleanora Duse, John Belushi and Jesus Christ himself. No actor, no matter how magical, can act his/her way out of a big dead dog.
Josie is game; you can tell she kind of likes Jamie anyway. After a lot of rustic hi-jinks and hollering, Jamie slinks in the moonlight over to Josie\u2019s shack, Josie wearing her best dress like a big sad girl trying hard to look purty, and Jamie begins what is the meat of the play: a mewling, self-pitying, pathetic, whisky-dribbling diatribe of piss-weak moaning that would be tiresome in any venue, even if the drunk were your own beloved brother the fuck-up.
\"Why don't you go fuck yourself?\" Fussy little man backs up, Drunk Boy lurches forward and stops. Then there's another advance, lurch and stop, the false-start dance of an aborted tussle. Christ, didhe really mean to beat up this guy in a crowded lobby at a Broadway theater intermission?
At that moment (and I've felt that moment before, in audiences, when a member of the audience explodes) everyone's hair stiffened on their necks because they knew the drunk young bastard had no social boundaries holding him together and was capable of anything. Nobody would have been surprised if he'd gotten up and started randomly executing people. People half expected it, I think, such is the commonness of morally retarded wackoswith guns.
In any case, the play had a big hole in it and was sputtering out into space, and the crazy fucker got dragged into the lobby and was yelling behind the big, thick doors. Only super-unflappable pros like Byrne and Jones could possibly have kept going at full gallop -- lassoed, captured and swung the attention of the frazzled audience back to themselves \u2014 and they did. That was quite impressive, a great save on par with any seen on the Wide World of Sports. 2ff7e9595c
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