Nobody ever lost money printing the legend instead of the facts. At what point, however, does one person's first-hand experience become another's second-hand recollection, and who has the right to engineer the transformation? Donald Margulies may have raised his questions in 1996’s Collected Stories, but the morality of hearsay as fodder for artistic confabulation continues to spark contention.
The facts, in this case, revolve around high-profile author Ruth Steiner's youthful adventures among the flamboyant artists of Greenwich Village during the Beat era—specifically, her starstruck apprenticeship to a fading-star poet famous for his fiery imagery and his self-destructive appetites. She has never shared this "sacred" memory with her readers, but she does recount it to her Teaching Assistant, the unassuming rust belt-raised Lisa Morrison, only to have the latter's first novel emerge a thinly veiled (but considerably spiced up) account of her mentor's girlhood daddy-crush.
Viewed in cold light of 2022's limitless-information age, it's easy for us to shrug off Steiner's pain and humiliation as mere vanity, the extent of its injuries restricted to the rarefied literary circles of New York City and the profit reaped by its usurper arising more from its nostalgic appeal than its appropriative misinformation. What lends their microcosm the urgency sufficient to hold our attention for two riveting hours is the superb ensemble acting of Jacqueline Grandt and Jillian Warden, under the guidance of Ted Hoerl, who takes full advantage of Redtwist's cozy storefront stage to generate an intimacy that challenges us to reflect on how we would react if our deepest secrets were made public, even anonymously, under the guise of New Adult-market romance fiction.
