This strikes me as a big deal:
The New Yorker's John Lahr gives a mostly positive if slightly puzzled
mini-review to Sheila Callaghan's
That Pretty Pretty; or The Rape Play. An even bigger deal, and a sure sign that she's arrived, is this frame-able portrait by Pablo Lobato:
My only problem with Lahr's comment is his last line:
ReplyDelete"Whether it will ever turn into anything but the sound of its own mocking voice, only time will tell."
Lahr admits that she's a playwright new to him (and good on him for doing so), but his last line speaks as if he's read all of her work and wrapped it up neatly as being "mocking" and "punk." For all the similarities in her authorial tone, there are also tons of differences and her risks jump in unexpected directions ("Dead City," and then there's "Water," her in-progress opus).
How many years does she have to write for before "time can tell"?
Next news flash: "This Adam Rapp fellow might be onto something."
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