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Yesterday, I received a text from Moscow. “Stevka. Just to let you know what people think about the situation here. We hate this decision. We all think this is against the law. And people here are very scared what he [Putin] will do next. People don’t support this at all.”

Though it streaks across the theatrical firmament like a comet, its tail is more luminous than the substance of the object itself -- an object that rattles and prattles along its trajectory, unsure of whether it wishes to be regarded as an object of insight, of provocation, of titillation or of mystification. It can be seen as any or all of those descriptions. Such ambiguity is not necessarily a virtue.

One thing remains certain: No assembly bill or virus can kill the theater. It will simply move into other spaces, like a song that orbits for a while and then returns in the future with echoes of the past. We can dream.