It’s the 13th and last official performance of Venice Saved. The jokes are flying, the mood is just a little giddy. Outside spring has a descended with a venegance, sunny and breezy and light, so much so that it seems odd to be indoors in a windowless theatre.
Last night’s show is being exhuberantly rehashed, with various audience members being given off-the-cuff nicknames – Plastic Bag Guy, Mr. Hamas, Crazy Angry Lady, Miss Ivebeentogazawellactuallyjusthewestbank – but the mood, however punctuated by head-shakes, is still bouncing and upbeat. As always, the cast marvels at the rules each audience adopts for itself about when and how people participate, and the spectacle of individuals working themselves into a lather.
And over what? This is exactly what the cast can never quite understand, because they are in and not out, and the audience is out alone.