Word: coasts
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...first words of the first play - "Speaking of which..." - cue "The Coast of Utopia" as part of an ongoing debate, passionate and civilized and open to irrelevancies. The trilogy celebrates the fine art of talking: rhetoric, invective, verbal violence and flirtation, impromptu essays that generate heat and light. Much of modernist art, and nearly all of popular culture, is suspicious of articulation. Modernism says that art and passion are precisely those things that can't be put into words; that the roiling impulses that rule are lives are either ineffable or just F---able. But the history of theater...
...find that I am romanticizing my reaction to "The Coast of Utopia." The trilogy is perhaps an hour, perhaps a play, too long. But I know why I am in a mood to wave away what I might have considered its excesses and obscurities. I just realized that the play is closing today, and may never be performed again (though a New York visit has been discussed). It is as if a dear friend, who had enthralled and exasperated me, who talked so fast and stayed so long, were suddenly reported absent, or missing, or lost at sea. Would...
...What is to become of this monument? Edwin Booth said an actor was "a sculptor in snow." The gifted company of "The Coast of Utopia" sculpted a grand and intimate panorama of 19th century Europe from the marble of Stoppard's teeming brain. Tonight at 11, the sculpture begins to melt. It may be frozen - a living frieze - in the memories of those who saw the piece assembled, five nights a week and three times on Saturday. It is can be admired in its one official preserved form, on paper, and surely the plays read wonderfully in their published form...
...special gift of those who visited the National Theatre to know how the ship rocked, what birds of political fancy flew overhead, and when the rainbow of intellect and heart shone as we sailed past the coast of Utopia...
...floor of the north Atlantic, in the frigid depths off Spain's craggy Costa da Morte (Death Coast), sits a time bomb. The Prestige lies in shame, 145 nautical miles off the northwestern state of Galicia, and its remaining cargo - at least 55,000 tons of thick fuel oil - could detonate in days, weeks or months into a great black tide of viscous goo, unleashing one of the worst marine disasters ever. But if King Neptune is kind, the sunken tanker may just sleep, its cargo solidified, having done all the dirty work it will ever do. Its work...