The Trojan Women
by JS
The first 45 minutes of The Trojan Women had two levels — yelling and interpretive dance. The next 45 minutes turned into a Greek Rocky Horror picture show, thanks in large part to over-the-top performances by Menelaus and Helen of Troy Greece.
We secured front row seats in a black box theater, thanks mostly to my wife’s uncanny ability to surreptitiously navigate past any form of line. I joked earlier that we were in the splash zone, or perhaps the Gallagher zone (beware of flying watermelon). As the play progressed, I realized we were in real danger of being in the spittle zone, so tight was some of the staging to the stage level front row seats and so committed to the yelling were the actors.
Taken in totality, the entire experience turned into such a ridiculous mess, you’ll end up forgiving the tedium of the early minutes. If you can time it right, start paying attention (like you could avoid it) when Menelaus enters (every bit the modern pillager), then tune out after the punk rock number. That about brackets the highlights.
