I haven’t done a theater post in quite a while. It’s not because I’ve stopped attending. Far from it. We’re in the heat of the spring season and I think I’ve got about five under my belt that I’ve not written about and I’m seeing two more this week. I got the notion in my head that, frankly, the theater posts aren’t that interesting to most people. And that’s fine. I get that.

Where it all goes horribly wrong is when I lie in bed at night and, instead of sleeping, stare at the ceiling and start to imagine that if I do one more post about the theater, I’ll lose all my readers. Isn’t that crazy?! But admit it; when you’re in bed and on the threshold of sleep, you think a lot of crazy thoughts, too. Right?

Well, I decided that to hell with all of you! I’m going to continue doing my theater posts and if you don’t like it, well, you can just…I don’t know what but I’m going to do them anyway.

(If you thought that was sad and crazy, you should see what’s going on inside my head that I’m not revealing to you.)

RED is Dr. Octopus—oh, excuse me—I mean Alfred Molina as egomaniac artist (is there any other kind?) Mark Rothko. I loved it but I think it’s got very limited appeal. It makes you feel all smart and brainy if you’ve heard of the artists mentioned. They talk a lot about influences and the arc of contemporary art history. Do you like that stuff? Then go. You’ll love it. Molina really is in top form. The play was a big hit at the Donmar Warehouse in London and Eddie Redmayne, who plays Rothko’s studio assistant, won all sort of well-deserved awards. They might give him one here in New York, too. All the critics love him in New York. But be warned, it’s pretty chatty.

Best moment? The two prepare a huge canvas with a base coat of paint. They blast some classical music and have worked out an intricate dance whereby Molina paints the top half of the canvas while Redmayne prepares the bottom. It’s interesting from the standpoint that I’ve never seen a canvas prepared, but aside from that, it’s just a ton of fun to watch. It’s fast and live and real-time, and that’s what the theater has over movies.

The Roundabout Theater’s production of The Glass Menagerie is about to open and I dare anyone to say anything negative about Judith Ivey’s performance. I’ve been going back and forth with a friend over the quality of the performances by the actors playing the daughter and son, but we both agree that Ms. Ivey’s Amanda Wingfield was pitch perfect as the ex-Southern Belle smothering shrew of a mother. At the interval I wanted to jump up on stage and strangle her. Isn’t that about as convincing as you can get? Her long (loooong) streams of dialog seemed like natural conversation, as though the words were being spoken for the first time. That’s hard to do.

I thought the performance of the actor playing the son, Tom, (Tennessee Williams’ doppelganger) was labored and unconvincing. It felt like a script reading to me. Mr. D. thought he was fine but that the actor playing the daughter, Laura, played her as someone who was mentally retarded. “The character is supposed to have emotional flaws. Not a learning disability,” he reasoned. I thought she played it from the heart and did a fantastic job. Same show, but different evenings. That could factor into it.

Today marks the 2nd anniversary of this blog. It has replaced chasing rare books as my hobby of choice (although I still do that, too). Kudos, once again, to Bob, who got me started on this venture without ever realizing it.

Since the very start I have been far too concerned with uncontrollable, idiotic things like stats, traffic and comments. I’ve resolved to be more keenly aware of the quality of the posts and less concerned with whether or not anyone is reading them. What an ego!

When he was 17 years old and living in Spokane, four “hillbillies” grabbed him and, for no apparent reason, held his arm down on a railroad track. A freight train came by and amputated his hand. The hillbillies took the hand with them and used it to wave good bye.

He spent the next 47 years looking for his hand and those four hillbillies. He eventually found the hillbillies and removed their faces, but he could never find his hand. He knew it was folly to look for it—it couldn’t be reattached—but it was his and he wanted it back.

Photo: Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

A girl and a boy, young street hustlers, said they know where his hand is. They want $500 for it. The three meet in a seedy hotel room to exchange the cash for the hand.

This, believe it or not, is a comedy. And a damn funny one, at that.

Irish genius playwright and lunatic Martin McDonagh’s new play is A Behanding in Spokane. The four actors are all fine but Christopher Walken gives one of the most enjoyable performances I’ve ever seen. Ever. The play really comes alive when he’s on stage. When he delivers his lines, with his wonderful invented cadence, you hang on and absorb every word. His comedic timing is impeccable, but he can switch to sinister in a split second. Towards the end of the play there’s a dialog between Sam Rockwell and Walken (Walken pointing a gun at Rockwell) that works so beautifully that I wish I could sit through it again.

The play unfolds in real time. It’s an interesting device that I can’t recall ever seeing before. What other play has done that? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Like all of McDonagh’s plays, this isn’t for the general masses. It’s violent and profane and I wouldn’t recommend it for everyone, but there are a few people I’d love to drag in to see this. [Mr. Jimmy, consider this an open invitation if you and Mrs. Hen happen to be in town. My treat.]

I saw McDonaugh’s last play, The Pillowman, which is also a black comedy. That one is about a child murderer and torture. The audience was filled with unsuspecting innocents who hadn’t done their homework. It starred Billy Crudup and Jeff Goldblum and I think a lot of tourists thought it would be a big thrill to see some movie stars in a play. You should have seen the looks on their faces when they exited the theater. They looked like they just got mugged. Not all theater is sissy stuff.

The Broadway revival of The Miracle Worker that’s set to open next week would be a good night out if the show hadn’t been staged so poorly.

The cast is good and occasionally achieves greatness. Abigail Breslin gives a controlled performance as Helen Keller that could have gone way off the rails. I felt a genuine thrill in the climatic scene where she discovers language. Initially, I thought that Alison Pill was too young to play Annie Sullivan but she was fine, as were Matthew Modine and Jennifer Morrison.

But the staging is a mess. It’s at Circle in the Square and the seating is in the round. This is a play that begs for a traditional theater. The blocking is so poor that I found myself starring at the actor’s backs about 60% of the time. I’ve seen plays at Circle in the Square before, including the 6-hour Norman Conquests, which was masterful, so I know it can be done.

The set changes are accomplished by raising and lowering furniture pieces from the ceiling. Part of the set design includes door frames (with closed doors) that block the view for many patrons. The actors were rooted on their marks, so if you happen to be staring at the sides of their heads during a scene, too bad for you.

It pains me to see actors work so hard only to have their efforts undermined by the production itself.

Ah, well. That’s show biz. NEXT!