A Critic's Review 5
I would like to amend my previous review on the 'Whispering King'. I realise now that I was too harsh in my assessment. Indeed, the play is a veritable work of art. I confess that I was blind to the genius hidden therein. I have studied it further and listened to the message between the words - the play within the play. For that, dear readers, is where the true artistry lies.
The actors are inconsequential. They are mere vessels of the words, mere mouths from which the author can speak. Each of them exists for one shining night. One brief moment where they are raised from irrelevance and emptiness to the role of an artist. On that stage they are transformed from a weak, base thing of flesh and need into a transcendent creature of pure poetry. They lived lives as nobodies - as nothing - and their lives conclude in theatrical perfection. I weep at the simplicity of it, at the elegance.
I find myself consumed with jealousy for them and their sacrifice. That they could give their lives for the highest purpose. They were actors all their lives, playing the roles of vagrants and beggars, and now they can take a bow before the audience knowing that their true value is revealed.
I imagine myself now within that play. Walking those frozen fields and standing before those impossible gates. I dream of those last moments as the play concludes and I dream of seeing what they see, of learning what they learn. Of becoming.
My mask arrives tomorrow.