Last night, Rob and I saw of the Broadway revival of Fiddler on the Roof. More specifically, we saw the first act and snuck out during intermission. The play was fine, if a bit flat: we were both simply exhausted and unable to focus on what was unfolding before our eyes. At one point, I nodded off, only to be awakened by a clamorous group of men dancing like Cossacks in Luke Skywalker's Tattooine desert outfit. At other points, I was so bleary that I could not differentiate between any of the trio of sisters whose unconventional marriages formed the center of the story. I found myself thinking they were all played by the same actress, even when all three were on stage at the same time.

I have never seen Fiddler on the Roof, even though, according to Rob, it has been on Broadway several times. I would imagine that its themes speak to each era differently. I was quite amused to note the brouhaha over the “sin” of men dancing with women, as men dancing with other men (and kissing each other, and sitting on each other’s lap) was quite the accepted norm in this small town. On the other hand, the anti-Semitism rang about as hollow as George W. Bush’s empty, empty head.

The most engaging thing about the production was the set, which was gorgeous but seemingly fashioned for an altogether different play. It gave me decorating ideas for when I get a room large enough to plant a forest of trees, hang lanterns from the rafters, and host a full orchestra playing “If I Were a Rich Man.”