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Its been thirteen years since Sarah Kanes Blasted premiered at the Royal Court Theatre Upstairs in a 1995 production directed by James Macdonald. Since that time and the explosion of the in-yer-face (as defined by critic Aleks Sierz) theater movement, British writing has taken a turn in the fallout of the Blair years toward work that is more contained and less classically-based or driven.
I dropped the cell phone on a puddle of baby poopy today. This normally would sound like a snip of dialogue from one of Sheila Callaghans plays, visceral and strange, but for the recent mom its reality.
Weve all sat in the back of a cab, glimpsing the drivers area. Squinting to get a better look at the name on the license, listening to the music playing in the background, wondering who theyre talking to on their mobile. Maybe weve even tried to cross the divide, after a late night in Manhattan, making intoxicated, possibly annoying, small talk.
The papaya is posing a problem. Erika Latta, co-artistic director of WaxFactory, is rehearsing a sequence during which she scoops the flesh from a papaya with her fingers, cramming the fruit into her mouth. She then lets it dribble slowly back out, forming a bright orange mound of mush in front of her.