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and the purity of a secular hymn.
You might have even packed a hankie for the sad parts.
And then probably around the same time the 15-foot-tall dinosaur walks in youll realize somethings up.
IfOur Townis a hymn,The Skin of Our Teethis a pie fight.
In the second act, the shows weakest, the Great Flood hits Atlantic City.
The third act is war.
Conceptually, Im on board.
Beans in particular gets caught in the gap.
The second act is unbearably confused; it collapses into noisy (as opposed to biblical) chaos.
YetBlain-Cruzs deft touch with language arias and images is still unsurpassed.
When the superb Ruff delivers a thundering radio address about women, the clouds seem to stop to listen.
And if any man can find one of us hell learn why the whole universe was set in motion.
Chills, I tell you, chills down my arms.
(When Robert Woodruff directedSkinin the 90s, the books George saved from the war crumble in his hands.
Figures move through it dressed in their uniforms, a host of Civil War dead walking through the rye.
And, really, the third act is the whole reason to go.
(Well, that and designer James Ortizs sweet puppet brontosaurus.)
Wilders comedy has gotten damp in places, but his tragedy is still dry and highly explosive.
In the dark and quiet, the rest of the world leaks in.
Just one line from Mrs. Antrobus There are no dogs left in Excelsior left me breathless.
If only there had been some way to tell them to wait!
But then thats the world for you.
Nobody ever believes that things will work out in the end.
The Skin of Our Teethis at the Vivian Beaumont Theater at Lincoln Center.
