What confuses me is that producers, theater owners, journalists, etc. are all sharing in this outrage without admitting, even to themselves, they helped create the monster.
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As far as I know, the most chillingly romantic scene in American dramatic literature occurs in the second half of Eugene O'Neill's A Moon for the Misbegotten, a revival of which is now in its final week at the Williamstown Theatre Festival.
Under J. R. Sullivan's expert direction, A Moon for the Misbegotten offers a beautifully wrought glimpse of O'Neill's characters' inner worlds.
While the Irish, American-Irish, and Irish-for-today ate, drank, and were merry outside, we inside the theatre were reminded of the inner turmoil that can best hide behind just such carefree behavior.
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