Though I only review one or two plays every week, I see another two to three on top of that, sometimes out of professional courtesy, sometimes out of genuine interest, sometimes in the service of OBIE obligations. When I’m not writing on a piece, I do often exercise my freedom to leave at intermission. It doesn’t necessarily mean I detest the show, simply that I’d rather spend my evening elsewhere, perhaps in the company of my rabbit. Last Friday was a case in point. I sat through the first act of Studio Dante’s From Riverdale to Riverhead and knew fairly quickly I wouldn’t stay for the second. I’ve certainly seen worse (although, as my sweetheart reminds me whenever I say that, “That’s going to be true every time but one”), but the sibling bitchery felt overly familiar. And though capable actors featured, the performances felt hermetic, enacted more to please themselves and each other than for the audience. After an hour spent in the car with three bickering sisters and a niece, I was delighted to aval myself of public transport.
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