Jim Kates
Take the poems slowly, enjoy the Cage-y silences, the concentrated words as they appear.
For a generation of Russians, Joseph Brodsky was the poet, almost a code-word in the discourse of the intelligentsia, like Nabokov.
In these poems, contemplation, serenity, and service are the order of the day.
The overall effect is one of a genial, superficial club lecture on reading and writing poetry, punctuated by Frost’s Greatest Hits.
Carolyn Michel’s Rose is the sociable stranger on the bus who tempts you to miss your stop so you can hear her out to the end.
When you do this kind of thing it has to be done with bravura and wit — bad poets borrow, good poets steal.
Dumas’ Camille is nothing if not ambitious. Such complexity is seldom found on a summer stage.
This review, like the opening night of She Loves Me, is dedicated to the life and work of the late producer Harold Prince.
This production of Morning’s at Seven is a celebration of Peterborough’s theatrical family as much as it is the depiction of a fictional one.,/em>
In two short acts, playwright Win Wells depicts not so much a relationship as a fusion, a merging of identities into one single, complex personality.
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