Moose in the Kitchen

If “all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” then, dude, this play sucks.

Why has the costume designer put that woman in the same jeans and ratty t-shirt for the last four scenes? Come on. And the director apparently wandered off to eat a donut during the majority of the rehearsal process. Because this plotline makes no sense.

Did the playwright really need to include the scene where the woman in dirty jeans cursed the ticket machine because it wouldn’t take her five dollar bill? Was it really necessary to make her eyes shoot red sparks when she discovered that she only had $1.30 in change and the train won’t let you on for less than $1.40? It was a reasonably cool special effect, but what is this really showing us? How is this character developing beyond someone we really don’t want to invite over for dinner?

Speaking of which, why is she always eating? Do we really need to watch her eat another chocolate chip muffin? The crumb spraying is kind of gross.

Sound designer was clearly locked in the basement as a child. Otherwise someone with a gun and a nasty sense of humor made him choose the Black Eyed Peas singing “Every little thing we do is magic, every thing we do will not go wrong,” to play as our dirty jean-clad protagonist trudges to the nearest coffee shop to get change so the damn train will let her on board. That doesn’t make any sense. Who was smoking crack in design meetings?

Oh, wait. I get it. Dramatic irony.

Protagonist (STILL in the dirty jeans) arrives at work, late for approximately the 97th day in a row. So we wouldn’t want her over for dinner and she’s a bad employee. Nicely structured heroine, guys. At least the devil wore Prada. Will someone PLEASE speak with the costume designer? She’s still wearing those jeans. I think they’re starting to smell.

I can’t even tell what genre this is. Comedy? Existential drama? Tragedy? She’s just sitting there staring into space. Now she’s listing to the side. She cracked her head on the desk. OK. Comedy. Now she’s scrunching up her face. Tragedy? Given the amount of staring into space, maybe I should go with experimental existentialism.

Either way, I’m leaving at intermission to go see Snakes on a Plane.