When Sol Theatre gets a production just right, it seems animalistic and reptilian and not entirely proper, like you've eaten a few too many micrograms of some evil cousin of LSD that transports you not to Nirvana or even Millbrook. Suddenly, you're in some low-lit salon in one of the bawdier circles of hell, where the Marquis de Sade wiles away eternity barebacking Emily Dickinson in chaps and a paste-on Hitler mustache. It's a foreign, mystical, and vaguely nerve-racking place, and those who visit are something like existential anthropologists, observing the workings of a culture and locale they will never understand and can inhabit... More >>>