This evening I went to see six short one-act plays, all new original works by young playwrights.
The results were all over the map. One was pure schtick, another turned out to be a very entertaining joke with an unexpected punchline. A third was a wry and knowing examination of the complexities of friendship.
Yet another was a full frontal assault on the very concept of narrative theatre, which pretty much took a metaphorical Uzi to the unities of Aristotle, and blasted the hell out of them.
What was wonderful was that the whole thing was even happening — new works written, directed and acted by young people in New York, in a tiny but well maintained theatre space at affordable prices.
The odd thing is that earlier in the day I had seen one of the hottest tickets on Broadway — an SRO showing of a wildly expensively, sumptuously produced, perfectly executed juggernaut of musical theatre. The big show aimed very high, and delivered on all its promises.
But a part of me, against all economic reason, liked the little fledgling experimental one-acts better.