thing other than a literal reading of arnline—either adding to or in some casesrnundercutting their spoken words. She isrnnot a realist; she thinks art should explodernlife and is always dragging subtextrnand subconscious out for an airing. Shernis a very bright woman and fun to hearrnlecture, and certainly her plays shake arnperson up. But in this case the “story” ofrntwo couples, told by characters who bothrnargued about and personified the newrnand old physics, entailed a lot of complicatedrnconversation that led not to enlightenmentrnbut only, in the end, tornwife-swapping. As my friend Tom likesrnto say, sex belongs in the home. Somerncensorship might do the extremely talentedrnMs. Bogart a wodd of good.rnTony Kushner, whose Angels in Americarnwas an enormous critical success,rncontributed the 20-minute Reverse Transcription,rna spoof of this year’s Humanarnplaywrights. It was a funny little bubblernof a play with inside jokes. Another commissionedrncelebrity, New York newspapermanrnJimmy Breslin, wrote a ploddinglyrnironical mini-play about NewtrnGingrich’s divorce, which made me feelrnthat even cads deserve to be more wittilyrnskewered on stage. Contract with ]ackiernwas redeemed only by the acting of DivinarnCook, who deserves a special awardrnfor doing her best to breathe life into twornof the festival’s flops—the other beingrnGuillermo Reyes’ Latin soap operarnChilean Holiday. Also disappointing wasrnDavid Henry Hwang’s short play on hisrnusual subject (he is the author of M. Butterfly),rnwhite guilt and Asian/Caucasianrnrelations. In it a Chinese-Americanrnstreet fiddler in New York berates a whiternyokel from Wisconsin, who ends up beingrnthe adopted son of Chinese parents.rnIf Hwang’s argument is that you canrnchoose your culture, I am not buying it.rnFinally, last and least, came ElizabethrnDewberry’s Flesh and Blood. Ms. Dewberryrnhas a perfect resume: a B.A. fromrnVanderbilt and a Ph.D. from Emory, twornnovels published by Doubleday, a fewrnstate art council grants, and a teachingrnstint at Bread Loaf. Yet Flesh and Bloodrnis one of the worst plays I have ever seenrnin my life. Her drama, which was notrnhelped by its dispirited cast, begins as arntrite family-betrayal story and ends withrnlittle sister taking off her shirt and beingrnstabbed to death (curtain!). When I sawrnthe play it was performed without an intermission,rnand I understood: we’d havernfled if given the chance.rnOddly enough, the best performancernof all was the free one given by ATL’s 20rnapprentices, young actors who spend arnyear at the theater providing long hoursrnof free labor in return for classes and arnchance to perform in ATL productions.rnThe group performed monologuesrnstaged by apprentice company directorrnJennifer Hubbard. While some performersrnwere stronger than others, thernevening as a whole was terrific, the transitionsrnfrom piece to piece were wonderfullyrndone, and everyone worked togetherrnas a company—something I cannotrnsay of any other festival production. Inrnhonor of the Humana Festival’s 20th anniversary,rnall monologues were takenrnfrom previous festival plays, and againrnand again I was struck by how strongrnsome of the early work was—for examplernLarry Larson and Levi Lee’s satire SomernThings You Need to Know Before thernWorld Ends (A Final Evening With the IIluminati),rnin which apprentice Sean Mc-rnNall was hilarious.rnSomething tells me writers like Larsonrnand Lee have highly imperfect resumes.rnThey are the kind of people who comernout of the woodwork (or the slush pile).rnIt is significant that the best night of thern1996 Humana Festival was acted for freernwith older work; the festival is calling outrnfor a change. But in a way, that night wasrnheartening for anyone who cares aboutrnATL. It showed that the theater has arnstrong past to draw on, and for the futurerna pool of very good young actors.rnKatherine Dalton is a writer, editor, andrncritic in Louisville, Kentucky.rnARCHITECTURErnRockefellerrnCenterrnbyR.T. ValentinernOn a rainy July afternoon I stood onrnthe Promenade at RockefellerrnPlaza and beheld Prometheus unbound.rnThere he was, his golden self sprawledrnagainst the wall of the erstwhile skatingrnrink (in summer it is transformed into anrnoutdoor cafe), holding the flame in hisrnright hand, his gift to mankind. Abovernhim is a most fitting inscription providedrnby Aeschylus: “Prometheus, teacher inrnevery art, brought the fire that hathrnproved to mortals a means to mightyrnends.”rnSuddenly, a deranged man (orrnprophet) walked by, muttering how Prometheusrnwas really Lucifer in shiningrndisguise—and mine eyes beheld a gloryrnwhich quickly faded. Golden Prometheusrnbegan to look sinister, with a mockingrnexpression upon his beautiful face, whichrnput me in mind of the gilded figures sornoften seen in the degenerate, cruel, andrnopulent fetes associated with the ancienrnregime during the so-called Age of Reason.rnThe fire in his hand was Reason—rnthe cynical, critical, destructive sort—rnand he was about to bestow it uponrnmankind, so men could be as gods. Itrnwas the advent of a perverted Pentecost,rnwith a fiery orb plucked and hurled fromrnthe Tree of Knowledge and Life.rnAppropriately enough, Prometheusrnand a host of other seemingly benevolentrncharacters adorn the walls of the buildingsrnand structures comprising RockefellerrnCenter, a site familiar to mostrnAmericans and tourists at large. It is nornmere coincidence that this plaza happensrnto house the offices and studios ofrnone of the major broadcasting networks,rnthe National Broadcasting Company,rnwhose very name brings to mind thern”nationalization” of other institutionsrnduring the Age of Dictators.rnThe buildings in the plaza have a distinctrntotalitarian flavor about them asrnwell. They are built of solid concreternwith a dull-gray hue, giving an AtlanticrnWall appearance. The main building,rnwhich rises above the rest, is the mostrnprominent of the group and resemblesrnone of the massive flak towers constructedrnin Berlin during Wodd War II to providernshelter from the destructive airrnraids. It has a distinct Art Deco, NewrnAge look (like many of the new, sinisterrnstructures in Atlanta or the infamousrn”Batman” building in Nashville, to namernbut a few); at any moment, I expected tornsee Skeletor himself emerge from thisrntower of darkness, to boast of his prowessrnbefore the good guy He-man (or perhapsrneven Buck Rogers). If not Skeletor, thenrnwhy not such real-life characters asrnHitler, Stalin, or Mussolini—or even Prometheus?rnUnfortunately, evil rarely assumesrnsuch obvious, outward forms. As so aptlyrnillustrated by C.S. Lewis in the prefacernto The Screwtape Letters, it residesrnwithin and “is conceived and orderedrnDECEMBER 1996/47rnrnrn