Mmmmm..... Silk at the Goodman

I think I love the novel Silk. At first I wasn't sure- my response to it was so quiet, so delicate that I hesitated to call it love. But on further reflection, yes. That novel sends me into raptures. Calm, hypnotic raptures, but raptures. The experience could only be improved if someone--Alan Rickman, perhaps-- read it out loud to me while brushing my naked back with a peacock feather. It's like that thing- the Tingler- that scratches your scalp. It does lovely little things to your nerves.

Mary Zimmerman's adaptation, playing at the Goodman, keeps those delicious sensations alive. Mostly by keeping nearly the whole novel, narration and all. It's some actors speaking the novel, wearing splendid clothes*, in front of a huge, stunning set. Perfect! Bravo! Don't mess with a good thing... and send some ushers round to me with peacock feathers.


*Or not. The box office couldn't find my tickets, causing me to be irritated, to miss the first 10 minutes, and to sit in a box on the left. I had poor sightlines, but an excellent view of the leading man's penis.