Back in the Before Times, when I didn’t know what “comorbidities” were, I routinely saw three or four shows a week.
During the 90-minute performance, I stole a couple of glances at the crowd, whose masks gave them — us — a slightly extraterrestrial appearance that made me think of those black-and-white photos of 1950s movie audiences peering at the screen through 3-D glasses.
Cotton is also dealing with complications in his personal life; namely, the affair he is having with the wife of his superior.
His mother had been so determined to save her son from serving in World War II that she persuaded his father to find Chester a job as a riveter at the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
His consciousness fragmented, he insists he can still see, albeit imperfectly, and he is equally adamant in contending that he can both see and feel his hands.
As Cotton, Reed Birney displays his well-honed adeptness at suggesting great depth of feeling beneath a self-contained exterior.
Watching, I felt my throat catch a bit — mostly at the father-son warmth of the scene, but also, perhaps, at the prospect that theater could be poised not just for a return but a renewal.