Saturday Night By Stephen Sondheim and Julius J. Epstein
When future historians look back in search of pithy snapshots of the particular self-satisfaction, obliviousness and amnesia of this bloated moment in time, they could do worse than choose the past week of openings in the New York theater. These included: an innocuous, 48-year-old Arthur Laurents play whose meager emotional discoveries are wholly dependent on facile cultural generalizations and outdated sexual assumptions; a cartoonish staging of a lesser Bernard Shaw play that blithely reduces the work to exactly the trivial operetta conventions it was written to puncture; and a 45-year-old Stephen Sondheim musical, as dusty as the Laurents play, whose main justification for production seems to be that no one in New York ever produced it before.