The Steamroller's Theatrical Critic (and Oh Theodora member) Trevor Martin checks in with a review of last month's landmark staging of Phillip Glass' Einstein On The Beach in New York City.

I’m the type of person who will readily admit to enjoying surrealist or absurdist theater. I should point out, though, that the key word to that previous sentence is “admit”. While I like the challenge of deciphering puzzling performance art, I know there are connotations that come with declaring one’s interest in “theatery theater”: that I turn my nose up at linear storytelling, or regard “funny ha-ha” as leagues below “funny, ah yes”, or that I use words like “connotations” and “aligning” when writing for local comedy blogs. In reference to me, such assumptions would only be 33.3% correct. But I know that they much more accurately describe a certain collection of theatergoers, which keeps me from talking about my interest in the abstract with just anyone.

So when I heard that Robert Wilson was remounting his legendary avant-garde opera Einstein on the Beach, I immediately knew that 1) I absolutely had to see it and 2) I was absolutely going to be seeing it by myself. The things I knew about Einstein were limited to passing mentions in Theater classes and a few YouTube clips. But the show’s reputation--coupled with the fact that it won’t be remounted for decades, if ever again--was enough to push me to buy a ticket, hop a plane to New York City and bear witness to an event that truly left me at a loss for words.

Oh no wait, here’s one: Garbage. Pompous, unforgivable garbage.