Theater
God
By Woody Allen
Oregon Repertory Theatre
The only thing sad about
Woody Allen's play God is that
it only lasts about an hour.
Like all good things in life,
the good times the Oregon
Repertory Theatre delivers in
their production of Allen's
comedy/farce are over before
they should be. Or before
you'd like them to be. But
every one of the sixty or so
minutes of the play are an ab
solute gas — dynamic theatre
at its best.
God is perfectly suited for
ORT’s Midnight Mafia series.
Director Hans Christofferson
has tailored several parts of
the play to fit a Eugenean
sense of humor like a broken
in pair of Birkenstocks. It al
most seems as if Allen had
lived in Eugene when he wrote
it.
There's no real point to talk
about such things as plot and
theme in the play. It’s not that
they don't exist, or that they
are poorly conceived and
drawn out, it's just that those
things seem irrelevant in light
of the rest of the God exper
ience. And God is an ou
trageous theatrical exper
ience, for both audience and
actors alike.
The play's extremely loose
knit setting begins in ancient
Greece, and then quickly
jumps to present-day Eugene,
then back to Greece and then
Eugene again — thus estab
lishing a pattern that contin
ues throughout the play. This
oscillation keeps things mov
ing at a thundering pace.
Diabetes is an ancient Greek
playwright who is in search of
the perfect ending to his most
recent play. (Ripples of
laughter shoot through the
audience every time his name
and that of his leading actor,
Hepatitis, is mentioned.) As
Diabetes and Hepatitis discuss
the matter, Diabetes is struck
with the sudden realization
that there is an audience
watching his every move,
hearing his every word. The
search for an ending unfolds
into an existential search for
ultimate meaning, and in this
the Woody Allen element of
the play is clearly recognized.
The fact that Diabetes even
tually does find an ending to
his play — God comes down
from heaven and saves Hepa
titis’ life at the last minute — is
all but lost in the hilarious
uproar created by the actors
and audience. Not only is the
audience laughing at the ac
tors, but they’re laughing at
themselves as well. Each of
the four sections has its own
part in the play, and this par
ticipation makes the entire
production a helluva lot of fun
ORT's Midnight Mafia selection. God, runs through Feb. 7. Call 485-1946 for
information.
[
for everyone. This writer, who
is known to laugh as much as
the next hyena, had, for ex
ample, more laughs during
God than in all his classes this
term combined.
God continues through Feb.
7. Shows are at 9 p.m. each
night, with additional midnight
showings Friday and Satur
day. Tickets are $2.50. Call the
ORT for reservations,
485-1946.
By Kirk Knighton
I
Battle of the tastebuds
Continued from Page 1B
happiness in a Truckstop breakfast —
ne’er to be equaled in our entire tour.
We waddled happily home, reminding
each other of the next day's rendez
vous with destiny: McDonald’s.
"Now, if you guys are going to that
place," our editor-boss had told us at
the beginning of our breakfast tour,
referring to the Truckstop, "then you
gotta go to Mac's. To provide our
readers with a glimpse of the opposite
poles."
Gaib whined, and Kirk grimaced. But
it was no use. It was either eat at
McDonald's or let someone else eat the
breakfasts and write the story. Snuffing
our pride, we said we'd do it. "And
make sure you eat the food when you
go there," he added as we shuffled out
of his office, check in hand.
Breakfast at McDonald’s (1417
Villard St.) turned out to be something
of a comic extravaganza. It was hard to
take our assignment seriously — almost
as hard to take as the food. (Okay, okay.
Let’s not go overboard with these
verbal attacks. Be objective — that's the
trademark of good journalism, you
know.)
Having three entrees to choose from,
and there being only two of us, we
abstained from the Egg McMuffin (both
of us having eaten our share of them in
the rather distant past) and ordered the
other two choices — Scrambled Eggs 'n
Sausage, and Hotcakes ’n Sausage.
We assumed the former, at $1.70, to be
their most sophisticated breakfast of
fering. It’s the most expensive one,
anyway. We ordered coffee, orange
juice and a hot danish to compliment
our meal. Service was, as always at
Mac's, prompt, cheerful, and young.
Sitting down at a table, with a portrait
of Him (Ronald Mac Himself) gawking
at us from the wall, we noticed that
everything we had ordered — save for
the drinks — was encased in bomb
proof-looking styrofoam containers.
Opening up all of them at the same time
produced a chorus of cat-like
screeches. Looking around, and
feeling somewhat embarrassed we
realized that everyone else was doing
the same thing — wrestling with their
breakfast containers, making their own
cat-howls. It seemed to be the thing to
do in this place.
With plastic-ware in hand, we dug in.
Gaib took a bite of hotcake and slowly
worked it down. "Pretty bad,” he said.
"Looky here,” I said, "try it with some of
this stuff.” -
From my pocket I produced a bottle
of Joanne’s Pure Maple Syrup, from
Vermont Gaib’s eyes lit up, his mouth (I
supposed) watered. And with a healthy
application of the maple syrup the
hotcakes were speedily eaten. Unfor
tunately we had no cure-all for the other
things on our trays. We managed a
couple of bites of the rubbery, circular
thing we supposed was meant to be the
sausage. Cutting into them brought
more rounds of cat-howls as the plastic
knife dug into the styrofoam under
neath.
The scrambled eggs weren't too bad
— scrambled eggs being by their nature
nearly impossible to ruin. But the
accompanying "hashbrowns” suffered
our palates only a brief visitation before
being shoved back into their cont
ainers. If "hashbrowns” was
McDonald’s middle name, the place
would have gone under long ago.
At our hostess’ recommendation we
had ordered a raspberry danish for
desert. In taste as well as consistency it
resembled what warm toothpaste on a
piece of steamy William’s bread might
be like. One bite was all we could do to
ourselves.
The feast was over in a matter of
minutes. It felt awkward to bring our
trays to the cavernous garbage cubicle:
everything they give you gets tossed
out at this place. “Shame on them,” we
thought, “for being so damn wasteful.”
But this is a review, not a damning.
Okay folks: McDonald’s is quick,
cheap, and, fortunately, farther away
from campus than most other breakfast
places. Save walking time and eat
someplace else. Your feet and stomach
— and this country of finite resources —
will be glad you did.
Story by Kirk Knighton
and Gabriel Boehmer
Photos by Kirk Knighton
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