The only thing worse than an antiwar play is war. The current mode is for such plays to be written by laughing Cassandras, doomsday seers with quips on their lips. A couple of seasons ago there was Joseph Heller's We Bombed in New Haven; now there is Kurt Vonnegut Jr.'s Happy Birthday, Wanda June. There is a strong temptation to say "Catch-23, please skiddoo."
To call these efforts plays is a massive overstatement. They offer nothing more than a two-hour supply of mouth froth, a dentifrice rather than a drama. Vonnegut's cute conceit has...
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