The Theater of the Absurd

Last week we saw Edward Albee's "The Play About the Baby." Although not as well-written and literal as the other Albee play we've seen (Three Tall Women), "Baby" revisits the human condition (creation vs destruction, innocence vs cynicism) with an existentialist bent.

Or, as Man tells Boy: "Without wounds, who are you? Without a broken heart, how can you know who you are? Have been?"

I think I am getting too old for existentialism. Maybe I've crossed over from innocence to cycnism. Heck, I know I have. But isn't that the point of existentialism, ie, it just doesn't matter anymore, it's all absurd, who cares? Is that how I was supposed to walk away from the play, or was my wonder in humanity, the great dichotomy of life, supposed to be renewed?

I liked Oscar Wilde's "Lady Windermere's Fan" at Centerstage much better. And maybe there's existentialism in Wilde too: if we're a bunch of cynical, hypocritical sots, well, we might as well fucking be witty about it.

Shit, that's nihilism. Now I'm confused.

Maybe it's wise to stick with Rodgers and Hammerstein from now on.