Theater
OK, female readers, you tell me: If your ex of three years ago wakes you up at 3 a.m. by knocking on your bedroom window, and after climbing in immediately starts to rant about the ending of The Mill on the Floss, do you let him spend the night? If enough of you write in saying yes, I'll believe the opening scene of Julia Jordan's Boy. Maybe then, on the Lewis Carroll principle of "six impossible things before breakfast," I can go on to believe the rest of the play. Till then, however, Boy ties with Prymate to take this season's prize for factitiousness.
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By Julia Jordan
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354 West 45th Street
212.279.4200
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Once we get past the tree-climbing George Eliot nut, Jordan wants us to believe lots more, like a depressed Minneapolis shrink who has psychosomatic asphyxia seizures in front of his patient—not wholly implausible, except the patient also, conveniently, turns out to be the shrink's wife's most talented student and the shrink's son's best e-mail buddy. Have the Twin Cities suddenly become depopulated? It's time for Jordan to throw away her books (especially her playwriting textbooks), get out, and meet people.
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