Mad Dog Blues
I never could take plays too seriously. Movies were okay, even those Sam Katzman thriller serials that always ended with walls crashing down and Superman zonked by Kryptonite as the water rose — they were black, white and gray and two-dimensional, they existed only on a screen. You could either believe in them or ignore them, but you couldn’t change them. If you sat thru the feature twice, the same exact things happened, the same way.
Mad Dog Blues
ROOKS
Pattie Smith — she’s bad!
MAD DOG BLUES & OTHER PLAYS by Sam Shepard Winterhouse
I never could take plays too seriously. Movies were okay, even those Sam Katzman thriller serials that always ended with walls crashing down and Superman zonked by Kryptonite as the water rose — they were black, white and gray and two-dimensional, they existed only on a screen. You could either believe in them or ignore them, but you couldn’t change them. If you sat thru the feature twice, the same exact things happened, the same way.
But plays . . . those were people up there, dressed-up and pretending that they were somewhere else than in a theatre with a whole wall missing, and that space filled with other people who sat watching in the dark — the actors were there, right at that moment — and they were vulnerable. (What if I ran up there and kicked Peter Pan? Bet it wouldn’t just go on as if nothing had happened.)