There's a glib, quiet melancholy rather than an anarchic boisterousness to the meta-theatrics here...But it's easy to spot the holes in the text and the reasons why it never reached the cult status of Williams' earlier classics.
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It’s also, in Yates’s hands, a stiletto-sharp comedy about theatre and the business of theatre-making, written from within – barbed and slyly funny.
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Williams called it “my most beautiful play since Streetcar” but unlike that better-known work, this slice of southern gothic is overtly complex, experimental and sometimes confounding.
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