Theater: Twits in Spats


by P.G. Wodehouse

Adapted by Edward Duke

A thing people forget about P.G. Wodehouses' novels, noted George Orwell, is how long ago they were written. That was in 1945. Today they appear to have been composed somewhere between the Jurassic era and the Iron Age. The plummy clubmen, the young wastrels in spats and waistcoat, the shockable aunts, the frosty butler belong in a diorama at the Museum of Natural History, not onstage. Yet here they are, spouting the ancient lines: "He looks as if he'd been poured into his suit and forgotten to say when." "From...

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