Blue Ridge

It’s past midnight. That means it’s officially two weeks since I saw this play. Is there a reason that I write these reviews a week or more later than when I initially saw them? There isn’t. If anything, it’s just procrastination. Or maybe I can think of some deeper thematic meaning that I totally will make up on the spot and yet run with it like it’s deeply philosophical. I think I wait so long to write about the play because I’m not a true critic, I can’t critique as well as the professionals, but I can write what I remember about the experience and the overall feeling that the show offered. Which is a new take that you can only get from my deeply personal reviews, so take note the New Yorker, NY Times, New York magazine, and any other Pulitzer prize-winning publication.

I saw the play with a lovely Brazilian because I like to show those who aren’t from the area the magic of the theater. I try to donate my time to the less fortunate so that they too can see the beauty of Broadway. Some call me a modern day Gandhi and I don’t like to think of it as that inspiration, but I do what I can. Regardless, what matters not is the company I had during the show but the show itself. Except I made a whole thing about how I don’t entirely remember the show itself. Look, this review could be all over the place and that’s why I implore one of those Pulitzer prize-winning establishments to hire me a full-time assistant and editor. What do I remember? I do remember how the woman at the bar said I was the only person to get two drinks of their moonshine concoction. I remember that the theater was a converted church on a random street and I didn’t think it was the actual location. I remember how shocked that I got middle seats in the first few rows when I only paid 25$ for a ticket a month before the show even was. I remember that after the show I went to a Mexican restaurant that had passion fruit margaritas and tacos that were extremely juice and a server who never stopped refilling a water glass after you had more than one sip.

Was the show itself important? Of course it was. What was it about? A woman that slept with her principal who was married and smashed his car after her feelings weren’t truly requited? A support group, twelve-step programs, drama within the program and outside of it. Again, this would be a lot more detailed had I written this the next day (which I initially planned) instead of two weeks later. But again, am I a good critique? As I told my partner to the show, “As long as something is well acted, I think I’ll enjoy it.” Which this was. Compared to The Waverly Gallery which I felt had some problems with tone and vocal tones, this was just a real-life glimpse into the few months of some deeply troubled Appalachian folks. I left the show thinking that I enjoyed the show, that the elderly couple in front of me wasn’t the smartest for not understanding the show entirely. C’mon lady! The ending was very understandable if you just remembered a little bit of context!

One day I’ll write a review when the words of the stage still resonate in my heart. Until then, I’ll comment on the experiences, the meaningful moments gleaned from what I experienced. Until I’m forced to rate things on one to five stars, I will talk about things that matter long after the event. Because that’s what important. What still rings true after the fact. Anyone can write a play, not anyone can craft an entire experience. Though, to be fair, the experience I remember is not really the result of the playwright but rather what I felt myself. Still, isn’t that what’s important? I ask this like I’ll get a response when I’m just speaking rhetorically to myself. I feel like I should write more words but I also started this last night at 1 in the morning and I’m finally finishing it the next evening. Do I have more thoughts? Probably. If you want to know, just ask. That’s speaking for the two of you who will actually read this. If you don’t care, then just let me ramble. I’ll keep doing it regardless of reads or doesn’t. So it goes.


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