Eine kleine nacht spiel, part five: the so-what of it
My teenage son and I walked away from the theatre, north on Upper St, past the Hope & Anchor, the rock basement where I spent so many hot and sticky evenings in the late 1970s — when my theatre, I guess, was seeing Joe Strummer in the pink zoot suit he wore as a 101er, clambering over amps and barking Them’s Gloria.
Well? I asked my son.
Hmm, he said. (Or something of the like.) What was it about? he asked. What was the point of it?
If I’d been really on the button, I’d have said: That you came to ask what was the point of it, that was the point of it.
But I wasn’t and I rambled a bit about how sometimes the things which have an obvious meaning later come to seem as if they have actually have no or little meaning.
At least he didn’t suggest that it’s not just psychoanalysts make bad parents but students of psychoanalysis, too. Too polite for their own good, perhaps, today’s teenagers.
Next up The sixth of the five parts of Mrs Klein. (I told you the collective noun is a complex of analysts.)