"John Proctor Is the Villain": Reviewed

Four girls in small-town Georgia in 2018 linger after class to discuss Taylor Swift.

"I just prefer her stuff from the earlier era, when the songs weren't so sexual," says Raelynn.

"I think you're misreading her. Taylor was writing about sex back in the 'Speak Now' days. I mean, have you *really* listened to 'Sparks Fly'?"

"Or think about 'Dear John.' Sometimes, I wish that Taylor Swift would kill John Mayer. She would be disguised, and the death would look like an accident. No one would ever know. But *I* would know. And I would see her onstage, and I'd give her a look, like, Good for you. I'm talking about that time when you secretly killed John Mayer. And she would look back, and her eyes would be like, You're right. No one else knows--but you're right."

I think that this deranged chat nicely illustrates how brilliant Kimberly Belflower is. Like God, she has created an entire world. On some level, I understand that these characters are not real people--but they occupy "real people" space in my head. That's a magic trick.

The Bechdel Test says that women must meet onstage and talk to one another, and the subject must be something other than men. The girls of "John Proctor" talk about how (a) Lizzo can't be burdened as the sole person on the Earth to respond to demands for pop-culture examples of body positivity, (b) it's great when Emma Roberts gets to come back from the dead in "American Horror Story: Coven," (c) if you start a Feminism Club *before* senior year, then your pre-college resume seems to demonstrate a talent for long-term commitment, but a similar achievement in the *middle* of senior year doesn't really carry the same weight, (d) sometimes in regional productions of "The Crucible," the girl asked to play Tituba is actually white, and that's a problem, (e) it would be fun to explode, like Taylor Swift, or like fireworks, "over a sad little town," specifically a town in Georgia.

It's a pleasure just to hear these characters in their group discussions, but also, the play involves a mystery plot. Shelby, the chaos agent, recently slept with her best friend's boyfriend. Then she disappeared from school for a few months--maybe because of this scandal? Or maybe not? No one really knows. (The playwright beautifully demonstrates how half-truths circulate and metastasize, and how a great deal of life is about managing uncertainty.)

High school! If you betray your best friend, you still have to live and work in close proximity with that friend--day after day. No other time in life creates this bizarre situation--which is why *all* Broadway dramas should use a high school as their setting. (This seems like common sense.) As Shelby and her ex-friend try to navigate through their personal mess, further details about Shelby's temporary disappearance begin to leak out. This is when the play begins to detonate a series of small bombs--and you start to notice how beautiful and crafty the structure is, (I'm pleased that the show is at the Booth, where another great "mystery play," Kimberly Akimbo, just finished its run.)

Just a few other notes. You generally can trust a play by its title. This title lets you know that you're in good hands. Plus: the first line is startling, the finale is viscerally thrilling, and everything in the middle is smart enough to keep you holding your breath. A scene in which two girls just laugh wordlessly for a full minute is quite a bit more exciting than anything in the Sondheim revue or in "Dead Outlaw." And the charisma of Sadie Sink is noteworthy; this is the *true* beginning (I know it's not the actual beginning) of a major career.

Clear my calendar....I'm ready to return to the Booth.

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

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Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic. She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

Liars and Saints

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