The Real Thing by Tom Stoppard

My weekend flying routine now has two fundamental pillars – a movie when I take off and during the flight, and an audio play when I land and later in the cab. Today, it was Jacques Audiard's De Rouille et D'os and Tom Stoppard's The Real Thing.
 
After I got into Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead in late 1990s, I have read several Stoppard's plays in English and in Russian, but to my shame, I remember none. So this one, on love, adultery and doubt, I may have read already. Oh well. Not a clue.

Stoppard is quite a good playwrite – however, as compared to my fave contemporary drama author David Mamet, his stuff is much more minimalist-repetitive and it goes at a slower pace. Mamet's 1h40m play feels 2x as short as Stoppard's. Still, it quite a thing. A real thing, huh.

I mean, if Beethoven had been killed in a plane crash at twenty-two, the history of music would have been very different. As would the history of aviation, of course.



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