Last Sunday a good friend invited me to the Public Theater to see the last performance of "Why Torture is Wrong, and the People Who Love Them," a play by Christopher Durang.
The title is nothing short of arresting. The play, however, is not. I was ready to leave at intermission but as the playwright was sitting just four seats down---and blocking the exit---I felt obliged to see it through in the name of friendship. Maybe in the second half the dialogue gets beyond memorable one-liners, I semi prayed. Well, let's just say, God was out busy buying a Mother's Day gift.
New York intellectuals have to pen it ooh la la literati, making it esoteric and abstract. Like the crap exhibited at MOMA
The temper and sexual attraction of the supposed terrorist were unbelievable, and the injection of slapstick throughout the play was...an awkward head-scratcher of, What the fuck?! Funny, yes, but why include it? Perhaps to distract from the wanderings of the production.
It's not impossible to make torture morbidly ha-ha. One only has to look through the annals of psychopathology, capital punishment, New Yorker cartoons or recent Hollywood movies for tried and true material. Damn, he just slit her oragami style! Ain't that a hoot! But, no, New York intellectuals have to pen it ooh la la literati, making it esoteric and abstract. Like the crap exhibited at MOMA.
It's not impossible to make torture morbidly ha-ha
While the acting and directing were evidently polished---translation: overly cheeky writing---the set design took the cake. The scenes/rooms actually rotated round the stage. I thought that was cool. Sitting through Why Torture is Wrong convinced me that Mr Durang must be one of those people who loves them.
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