I saw it for the third time last night. It was easily the best of the three performances I've seen--everyone was so on, especially Mantello and Hickey, who were beyond amazing. As long as I live, I will never understand how voters preferred Mark Rylance's hammy, showboating, pointless performance over some of the greatest acting I've ever seen in my life. The production continues to bowl me over because it's so clean, simple, and powerful.
I do want to mention something I noticed last night--in the rear mezzanine, at least. Obviously, this play is incredibly moving, able to produce both pathos and anger in the viewer. I have cried every time I've gone, along with many other people. But what I heard and saw last night can only be called--performative crying. Beginning around Lee Pace's monologue in Act II, a group of maybe five or six people seemed to be trying to outdo each other. Who can sob the loudest. Who can gasp the loudest. Who could hiss the loudest. Who would sniffle the loudest. I felt like I was sitting in the family circle of The Met, where half the audience is on the edge of their seat competing to be the first person to call "bravo" after an aria.
"You travel alone because other people are only there to remind you how much that hook hurts that we all bit down on. Wait for that one day we can bite free and get back out there in space where we belong, sail back over water, over skies, into space, the hook finally out of our mouths and we wander back out there in space spawning to other planets never to return hurrah to earth and we'll look back and can't even see these lives here anymore. Only the taste of blood to remind us we ever existed. The earth is small. We're gone. We're dead. We're safe."
-John Guare, Landscape of the Body