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<\/a>This book<\/a> is a 21st century New York play. It’s not Neil Simon, that’s for sure.<\/p>\nIt deals with three characters who share a hallway on the third floor of a New York apartment building that might or might not be owned by their mutual acquaintance Larry. Theo is a composer stuck on his maximum opus and in love, sort of, with Babette, who is working on her maximum opus esoteric book and borrowing money. Frank is a former flame of Larry and is working on auctioneering. Throughout, you hear (and in the stage version partially see) from down the air shaft a couple breaking up. And there’s Mrs. Jorgenson, who sings, is a friend to them somewhat, and who dies. <\/p>\n
So what’s the point of the play? The play’s the thing.<\/em> What gets resolved at the end? Mrs Jorgenson is still dead. The main characters are all pathetic. SO IS LIFE! I guess.<\/p>\n I dunno. It ain’t my bag, baby. And, unless I miss my guess, those whose bags it is lie on the island of Manhattan.<\/p>\n Also, the play uses a special tick of the characters speaking without punctuation, with capitalization For Emphasis, and sometimes over each other in a way to capture How People Talk, except they don’t, not That Way, and to the extent they do it’s Hard to read.<\/p>\n Overall, not something I’d recommend. You all know the kinds of plays I recommend (The Courtship of Barbara Holt<\/em><\/a> ::cough, cough::).<\/p>\n Books mentioned in this review:<\/b>
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