I can't wait for this play to storm the ramparts of modern theatre -- it's just one piece of evidence of Celine's particular brand of genius, but it's a deeper dive (pun intended) into the impossible task of self-examination that all artists wade through, done without the usual helpings of narcissism or self-absorption. Instead, it's delicious and delirious and full of fun, fantasy, longing, and more meta than you could throw a stick at (in the best possible ways). Celine skewers the genre of "playwrights who write about themselves" and, at the same time, makes the world her oyster.
I can't wait for this play to storm the ramparts of modern theatre -- it's just one piece of evidence of Celine's particular brand of genius, but it's a deeper dive (pun intended) into the impossible task of self-examination that all artists wade through, done without the usual helpings of narcissism or self-absorption. Instead, it's delicious and delirious and full of fun, fantasy, longing, and more meta than you could throw a stick at (in the best possible ways). Celine skewers the genre of "playwrights who write about themselves" and, at the same time, makes the world her oyster.