…I find myself in the front row, enduring an abysmal production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” directed by my ex-wife.
It’s godawful. Pretentious and ponderous. They’ve changed the language, modernized all the poetry out of it. And, insult to injury, they’ve added songs, turning it into a musical.
Only Puck holds any interest. Dark and twisted, a spiky clenched fist of mischief scuttling around the poorly-lit stage.
The production closes with a clueless rendition of You Are My Sunshine — rewritten by my ex to include a commentary on the unreliability of love.
Ugh.
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