The Shotgun Players are doing an excellent production of Cabaret in a cramped theatre on Ashby Avenue that has no bounds.

Even as I left, I was left with it humming in my ears. Not the festive music, but an odd feeling that the piece had spoken to me--which is never comfortable when the voice is from Weimar Germany.

What was it? The elegant clothes and insatiable party? The aversion to politics? The hedging silence, the sleep, amid the party in the cabaret?
It would take some effort to figure out.

How much easier it is to turn in for the night, to turn the music on again, or leave the drama inside as you walk out the theatre doors.