Word: stoppard
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DEATH CAME to me through the good offices of Tom Stoppard and the Dunster House Drama Society, which recently produced The Real Inspector Hound. A friend from the cast telephoned me one evening, soon before opening night. "We need a body for Hound," he said. Like the hotdog I am, I accepted the role with relish. After all, it sounded easy and fun--just lie on stage for an hour, then go to the cast party. While you only live once, I reasoned, here was an opportunity to die twice. Test driving the afterlife is a privilege granted...
...days before the opening, I sprinkled every conversation with casual references to "this Stoppard show I'm opening in Thursday night." "Do come," I said to friend and total stranger alike; "the supporting cast is quite good, and I'm on stage the whole time." This line got me through many a dinner conversation in the week before my death...
...FIRST it wasn't so bad--restful, really, lying there in the dim light with people doing theatrical things all around me. Occasionally I'd open the eye on the opposite side of my face from the audience for a worm's eye view of Stoppard, which I enjoyed. The floor was hard and my nose itched, but I consoled myself with the reflection that art is, ultimately, sacrifice. Then I heard the couch behind me begin to move...
...Bradbury's Pillar of Fire in the Dunster House dining hall says, "It isn't so bad. You have to move all the tables out and then put them back in, but other than that it's O.K." But Liza DiPrima '89, who this spring directed two Tom Stoppard farces, The Real Inspector Hound and After Magritte, in the same space contends, "It's the worst...
Nonetheless, Stoppard's sketches remain diverting and enjoyable entertainment. Those who favor Monty Python-styled British farce will find the Dunster House production an amusing if not uproarious evening...