Sharp Practice [antikvár]

The lights were already coming np onstage when he slipped into his aisle seat in the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. The music for Sir Rudy's production of Troilus and Cressida was atonal, sharp and painful as broken glass in the eardrums. The set consisted of horizontal levels üke raw slabs dripping stalactites of concrete and a number of verticai transparent shafts in which simple lifts rode slowly up and down. Each lift contained a character from the play, somé of whom, like Ajax, would not make their entrances for several scenes. The lighting was a dusky saífron in the foreground, like a foggy sunrise, and a bratal, swirling battlefield-red on the cyc. Down front, on the thrust stage, two hollow chrome balls rose magically from the stage floor and were captured in dramatically crossed spots. They revolved slowly on slender poles: Troilus appeared, then Pandarus, who was feigning exhausted sleep. The Thursday matinéé audience, many of whom were ofí the tour bnses, applauded generously. Undoubtedly they were current with the notices, nearly all of which had been lavish in praise of Sir Rudy's production. Through the centuries Troilus had failed as history, comedy and tragedy. Now it was failing as science fiction, but the critics were inclined to blame Shakespeare and not Sir Rudy. Troilus, a burly actor in a khaki jumpsuit and a rakish red beret, jumped down from his perch, unslinging an AK-47 assault rifle. He looked desperately unhappy about something. uCall here my varlet, I'll unarm again: why should I war without the walls of Troy, that find such cruel battle here within? Each Trojan that is master of his heart, let him to field; Troilus, alas! has nőne."