
All the press surrounding Ed Schmidt's My Last Play, which he performs in the living room of his Brooklyn apartment, led me to expect something altogether different from the actual piece I saw Friday night.
As someone who, like Mr. Schmidt, has been toiling away at this theatre habit (in my case by writing and directing) for more than 20 years, I had jokingly remarked to friends that I was disappointed Mr. Schmidt had beaten me to the punch, that from the sound of it, he had written the play that my own frustrations with this Habitrail called Showbiz might have birthed. But the 110 min. show I saw Friday night was so much deeper, so much more loving and enduring than its press would suggest.
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