This is rich food; not surprisingly, palates accustomed to the thin gruel that today's theater too often serves up have grimaced at it. It's also, let's face the fact, hearty peasant cuisine—a thick stew, the chewy ingredients and peppery flavor of which may not appeal to fastidious tastes. Nor is it dished up with much elegance: The designs have been conceived serviceably but without panache; Carl Andress's direction comes in, competently, just under the imaginative flair that gives such works sparkle.
Beyond the epic metaphor at use here which leads to some really belabored prose, there's the ridiculous potshot at everyone who might dare disagree with Feingold's taste. See, if you don't like The Third Story, it's because you're a shallow simpleton, a symptom of our shallow, simple times. I've been enjoying reading Feingold's reviews lately, so it's disheartening to see him get back to his Andy Rooney schtick. Oh, if only we were alive back in the day! Who even knows what day it was! But it was quite a day!
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