Oh, I’ve always wondered how the vibrator was invented! (You read that right.)

Despite the salacious hook, this is actually a theater review.  So there.

The other night I ventured out and saw a play, as one does but I used to do way more frequently.  Said play was from the acclaimed playwright Sarah Ruhl, and produced by the good people at Lincoln Center Theater, which produces stellar work (see: Pacific, South, as in the finest musical staging I’ve seen in years).  We, a merry band of four adults and me (okay…  five adults) went off to see In The Next Room, or the vibrator play.

Don't go in that room!

Now.  We are not prudes; in fact, we are fans of drinking too much vino and telling jokes and we went in looking for a comedy, a frothy laugh, nothing too serious, please, it’s the holidays.  But: After watching the terrific Maria Dizzie and the always engaging Laura Benanti reach orgasm onstage once, well, how many times can you do it to constitute a first act?  Which is to say, what is the point?  Funny once, yes.  Funny twice, eh.  Funny a third time, well…  But here’s the kicker:  The audience loved it!  Died laughing.  And this is at a play about Victorian women encountering their first vibrator.

I mean, Sarah Ruhl’s a serious playwright and obviously serious playwrights can produce seriously funny plays (see: Off, Noises by Mr. Michael Copenhagen Frayn) but this was one of those, Really? moments.  And then the play took a decidedly absurdist turn…  in the second act, these Victorian women and vibrators ate filet mignon, drank red wine and were attended to by waiters!

Oh wait, that was us.  We left at intermission and had dinner at The Palm.  Ah, well.

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