There are so many images of salvation in art that we forget just how difficult they are to achieve—as if giving meaning to suffering could ever be easy.
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Put a child in a production and all of sudden there are dangers we have only half imagined.
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This war is all about the dressing room and the dressing room is the staging ground for all manner of atrocities.
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Since the ancient Greeks knew everything, they were aware of the curse of immense talent; of the hubris that often accompanies it and the dangers of how it can tempt you to fly too close to the sun.
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Storytelling is an essential aspect of human consciousness. Without it we’d find ourselves trapped in the infinite daze of animal survival. With each new story, we evolve, often imperfectly, but sometimes with great hope.
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Every end-of-year-theater list is a lie and a dream. A lie because they’re always wrong, and a dream because you forget almost everything. What we’re left with are the shards and fragments of lasting feelings -- the stuff that you can’t shake months, years or even a lifetime later.
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Neither is enough in SF Playhouse's production of Sarah Ruhl's vapid Stage Kiss and the Cavalia's horse extravaganza Odysseo.
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The shock of RAWdance’s Mine is that it demands so much of us. In less than an hour, choreographers Wendy Rein and Ryan T. Smith plunge us into a world of military precision punctuated by dancing so slippery in meaning that it feels like a new vocabulary.
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Friday the 13th: At the end of the Berkeley Repertory Theatre’s production of Ayad Akhtar’s Disgraced, the cast comes out for the curtain call, takes in the applause, waits for it to die down, looks out at the audience for a good while, and then leaves.
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Many contemporary American plays are overstuffed with needless backstories and baroque explanations of plot. The Rude Mechs' The Method Gun, in its quiet way, is a corrective to all that.
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