As directed by Dominique Serrand, the show had some problems when we saw it on opening night, but overall its postmodern reconfiguration of the classic text virtually tinkled tristesse, wrapping itself in indigo layers of meaning and pricking its own dramatic bubbles regularly with an absurd, dry wit. It was a comedy, and it was a drama, and a dream, and an analysis of a dream, and the more time that passes since its closing, the more we understand why it succeeded so well with audiences (including those at last summer's über-prestigious Spoleto USA Festival in Charleston, South Carolina).


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