Reviewing the ill-fated Woody Allen-Elaine May-Ethan Coen disaster Relatively Speaking, I thought I had seen the worst evening the New York theater season could possibly endure. I was wrong. I had not yet seen a pile of filthy, moronic drivel called The Atmosphere of Memory by a delusional, no-talent writer called David Bar Katz. Spending two and a half hours down on Bank Street at the Labyrinth Theater Co., in the most uncomfortable, makeshift, black shoebox in town (with the worst sight lines), is a new kind of hell. The play is nothing to write home about either. Read More
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