Damn it Damn it Damn it Damn it Damn it Damn it Damn it. Why?! Why? They hated it. The first reviews are in and I have yet to read anything more vitriolic. Take this particular gem:
- Self-aggrandizing, petulant, faux academic. These are just some of the words one could use to describe “Walls and Flames”, the premiere work of an auteur credited only as “Adam” on the playbill. Sigh, as if this production couldn’t get anymore pretentious.
The production itself was adequate, though somewhat sparse. Indeed, I often found myself at a loss for the intent of the set design, and the dramaturg responsible should go back to studying Munch’s sketches for the first productions of the works of Ibsen if they truly feel so compelled to use curtains as an integral part of the scenery.
But perhaps the most stupefying blunder of the performance was the choice for main character. Also named Adam, I cannot interpret his character as being anything other than an unmitigated power fantasy. The character is beautiful, beloved, perfect in every way, but with a profound sense of ignorance of what those things actually mean. It’s as though the author learned everything he knows of human relationships and character from prosaic old works.
Not that he’s not erudite. Quite the contrary, perhaps a classically trained thespian would have made better sense of the dialogue, but there is only so much an actor can do. This one act play runs the gamut of awkward scene writing: cloying romance scenes, cheesy moments of action, and a hammy, bombastic finish that sends this production’s cholesterol into the stratosphere. Though it’s obvious that Adam (the writer) possesses a wealth of refined knowledge, he seems largely ignorant of something as basic as warm human interactions.
In closing, unless you’re looking for a cholesterol heart attack inducing performance, stay away from “Walls and Flames”.
Self-aggrandizing? Self-aggrandizing?! This arrogant fop doesn’t know the first thing about self aggrandizing. Yes, the protagonist might be based on me, somewhat, but that’s not to say that this is a work of narcissistic fancy. I am a man, and I’ve suffered, known suffering, so that’s what I wrote about.
God, they don’t understand. It’s not just words up on stage, it’s me. It’s me right down to my very soul, all my fears and all my hopes. And they thought it was trash. I can’t even explain what I feel right now. It’s as though a weight has been foisted upon me, crushing my shoulders, grounding my feet and halting my pace. I don’t even want to continue writing this post, but I’m doing it for you, dear readers.
I cannot stand for this. This man, this worm, has not only insulted my work, but has assaulted my very character. Who does he think he is, that pathetic, spineless waste of a man? Who doe sjso-
(UPDATE: In my rage I struck at the keyboard and forced a restart. Luckily, the post was auto-saved. Shelly seems afraid of me and won’t come down from the top of the kitchen shelves.)