Twenty minutes in, every card in its deck is already on the table. It doesn’t flop hard - with its limited ambition, it has no height from which to fall. And what do 40- muffled-sound-year-old women want? We want rueful stories about mothers and daughters! We want Elizabeth Strout novels! We want Laura Linney! Every Venn-diagram circle about a certain kind of woman - the sort that subscribes to nonprofit theaters, specifically - overlaps in this little sliver. Recent figures tell us that 68 percent of Broadway audiences are women. Everything about programming the one-woman performance in Manhattan Theatre Club’s Samuel J. Of all the questions flooding through a mutinous brain during My Name Is Lucy Barton, “How did we get here?” has the most obvious answer.
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