A three-hankie matinee
I’m not often reduced to tears, but when made to weep (hi, Mom), I prefer to cry my eyes out in private–face buried in a pillow. But there are a few plays that have me sobbing every time I see them. Mary Rose, revived earlier this season, is one. Arcadia is another. I once started crying at a performance of Private Lives, though there were extenuating circumstances (hi, Mom–again). I wasn’t at all surprised when, during the second act of Sylvia Regan’s Morning Star, which I’ll write about in the paper next week, I found myself screwing my fists into my eyes.
What are your favorite stage weepies?
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