Word: charlestoning
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...romantic killer is not an image that Dickey, 64, now cares to perpetuate. Sipping milk on a Sullivan's Island porch a few miles outside Charleston, he tells of blood on the brain that threatened his life last year and required surgery that left a dent in his skull. He talks of hanging up his hunting weapons and of resisting the temptations that caused Hemingway's slippage from art to publicity. "The work is the im-paw-dent thing," he says. "That's all that's going to be left. Otherwise it's just a faded photograph album with...
...most recent works, A Place with the Pigs, which debuted at the Yale Repertory Theater in April, and The Road to Mecca, which completed a short run at the Spoleto Festival U.S.A. in Charleston, S.C., last week, have no black characters and concern wholly different kinds of repression and liberation. Pigs, about a Soviet World War II deserter, as yet amounts to an unfinished work. Road, if not as poignant or politically apt as Master Harold, is Fugard's wisest, most balanced and most nearly universal play...
...regarded as normal. His attitude echoes the values of a police state; when Road opened at Yale in 1984, then more effectively at Britain's National Theater in 1985, the pastor seemed a humbug, professing affection for an old friend while ruthlessly trying to have his way. In Charleston, Fugard directed and also played the pastor. He found great sympathy in the man and showed compassion for the common throng's yearning -- in this or any society -- for ritual pieties as an alternative to reason...
...been possible were it not for London's, which provided the other two members of the cast. Yvonne Bryceland, a fellow South African for whom Fugard wrote the role of the folk artist, won an Olivier Award, the West End's equivalent of a Tony, for her performance. At Charleston, she once again convincingly blended the workaday and the visionary, making an audience see glory even in Douglas Heap's set -- in truth, reminiscent of a tatty disco. Her manic scurrying in denial of advancing age was a shrewd counterpoint to the prematurely world-weary languidness of Charlotte Cornwell, repeating...
...could say she mothers the past, not yours alone, but a whole world gone. She superintends Coolidge, Chaplin, the Charleston. (She danced the Charleston.) Or that she mothers the future, herself the future to which you begin to resign yourself as your own eyes blear a bit and breaks in the bones take eternity to heal. There she sits in old age ahead of you, still mothering experience, if only by example...