Blues from the Bottom of the Barrel

Be forewarned. It's April and 38 degrees out. Not only that, but a lot of my friends spent vacation in Bermuda, and have come back the color of either coffee ice-cream or the inside of a watermelon. I spent vacation in a mid-Atlantic city which shall be nameless (hint: its baseball team has managed to bomb chances to win the NL pennant for two years running), and look and feel like a mashed potato. So if you're expecting a witty, urbane and informative column on the current state of the Boston theater, forget it.

I have no idea why you'd want to see a play this weekend anyway. There's practically nothing to see: only one play here at Harvard, and the Boston stage is proportionately paltry. Please, let me talk you out of it.

If you're determined to be cheered up (personally, I'm kind of enjoying being grouchy), you probably ought to consider seeing Neil Simon's The Good Doctor,tonight through Saturday at 9 in Lehman Hall (tickets available at Holyoke Center Ticket Office, Dudley House Office or at the door). All you pre-meds cramming for the MCAT's ought to sneak in for a chuckle.

But if, on the other hand, you want to get depressed (don't say I didn't warn you), the Newbury Street Theater is presenting Greenleaf, an adaptation for the stage of some of the work of Flannery O'Connor. O'Connor's shattering, unflinchingly perceptive short stories are among the small masterpieces of twentieth-century American literature: the play might be excellent, but if it's faithful to the original you ought to plan on a stiff drink afterwards. (Tonight through Saturday at 8; call 261-8894 for details.)

Then there are the classics. Interested? What's the matter, are you trying to get educated or something? It's true, of course, that this weekend offers two landmark works of twentieth-century drama (Ionesco's brilliantly wacky, Theatre-of-the-Absurd The Bald Soprano and Beckett's masterpiece of nihilism and humanity, Waiting for Godot), but wouldn't you really rather indulge in a little anarchy? If you insist, the Ionesco is at the B.A.G. Lunchtime Theater (267-7196), today, Friday and next Wednesday at 12:10 and 1:10 p.m.; the Beckett is at the Boston Arts Group Theater (also 267-7196), tonight through Saturday at 8 and Sunday at 3.

There is one bright note--but let me hasten to qualify that: you need read no further unless you are a) a ballet fan; b) a ballet fan tolerant enough to overlook the lumps and warts of the Boston Ballet (well, what do you want, Balanchine?); and c) a ballet fan tolerant enough to overlook the lumps and warts of the Boston Ballet who can suspend cynicism and realism long enough to become imaginatively involved in a fairy tale. Now that I've eliminated jocks, pre-meds (sorry, that's the second snide remark this column!), and Crimson editors, I suppose I ought to let you know that the Boston Ballet is performing the Tchaikovsky-scored classic Sleeping Beauty; tonight through Monday at 7:30, with matinees Saturday and Sunday at 1:30, at the Music Hall. Call 542-3945 for details.

That's all for this week--nothing else caught my jaded fancy. As Brahms once remarked as he walked out of a dinner party, "If there's anyone I've forgotten to insult, I apologize."

Blah to you, too.