Unable to come up with an adequate piece for this week’s column, we sent this letter of explanation to our editors. We apologise to you and our editors for our inability to do our job at Stage and take culture to the next stage (and for that pun). Here’s our letter:
Alright. That’s it. We’ve killed it.
The last few weeks were so meta, we have actually run all around the world of theatre and have caught up with ourselves on the other side. We’re back at the start now, the naked, brutal truth of this column is revealed – covers down, all the masquerade is blown. We’re just going to stop hiding.
At this point, we could give you a breakdown of this Stage section’s master plan to singlehandedly end the post-modern malaise. We could do a tug of war between nihilism and the old-school of ‘theatre as the last bastion of common decency and morale’. We could embark anew upon what is the eternal struggle for meaning amidst plays that are written, directed and acted out by people as tired and overworked as those watching and reviewing them. We could spark a new flame of theatrical visions in you, the editors. We could go to fucking Bosnia again or we could admit that we just don’t know where fucking Bosnia is.
But the truth is, we’re tired of it. Meta is over. Over and out.
[Note from the editorial team:]
Submissions for next week are most welcome. Readers are further invited to supply their own solution to the postmodern malaise in the space provided : good luck.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
