Harry Kondoleon was a playwright constitutionally incapable of playing by the rules. A Dionysian talent dancing in the face of his own extinction, he had the misfortune not only to die from AIDS a few years before the advent of life-extending medications, but also to practice his art in an age when Apollo, with his tight-noosed aesthetic logic, remained king. If fate hadn't been so quick to shortchange Kondoleon, no doubt our theater would have done so eventually. In a world with an inexhaustible appetite for clone drama, it's always the oddball peg that's the problem, never the... More >>>