What is it about the American family that playwrights continue to find so irresistible? Maybe it’s the fact that the characters are often unique, compelling, and clearly unhinged, or that the storylines are bizarre and impossible to predict, or that running through it all are epic emotions that have little to nothing to do with reason.
I’ve always been fascinated by ghosts. Not the ones in a white sheet that go bump in the night, but the ones that follow us around step by step, breath by breath, so silently you rarely sense they’re there. But they are there. Always. Inevitably. Tugging at the present with the ferocity of a rabid dog.
With the world finally beginning to show its age I can think of no better time to be an artist. Common wisdom would have us believe that when times are tough the arts are the first thing to be taken out back and shot behind the wood shed, with theatre first in line.
Who hasn’t brooded over the past? In Craig Wright’s luminous play Pavilion, the past is full of memories that can never be truly saved, but can certainly be savored if looked at from the correct angle.