Nothing much happens in this play, either. It’s someone’s birthday, or it isn’t; two strangers arrive; the birthday boy leaves the next morning as a zombie. I wonder if I am suffering James Joycean déja-vu, or if I really recognize a boarding house, a mother, an eligible daughter figure, a stage Irishman and a Jew. Maybe it’s like a sensory deprivation touch: you start to project.
The theatre is from a great age of French something. The play is from a different great age of French something. Existentialism superimposed upon the flocked-red-velvet era. Paris despite the wars.
I love the sensuously curved metal rating on the stairs on our way out. I have given up wondering why we do not take the elevator. I ask the Canadian, how is her knee. She says, “That’s why you have two.”
Outside, the Eiffel tower has switched to an epileptic nightmare. Scintillating pinpoints of halogenic white lights among the stable gold. It bristles with self importance.
If only it would fade back into the iron sky. If only I would fade back into Paris.