Letters

The plot of Southampton Village politics has become like nothing so much as a poor go at Shakespeare (minus the soaring language). Reason and civility have left the theater.

In this performance the curtain draws back, revealing, in counsel, the young prince, fraught with anger and distemper, hurling, in his ire, aspersions of “corruption” at a fellow nobleman. Thundering that his newest nemesis acquit himself of the charge of accepting that most tantalizing of bribes: a PBA card, which, as Milord well knows, is perforce the coin of the realm [“Southampton Village Mayor Jesse Warren Accuses Colleague Of Taking PBA Card In Exchange For Support,” 27east.com, April 9]. “Admit guilt” — there are no choices, or get thee to the rack where thine reputation will be stretched and pummeled! Or suffer banishment cast down among men.

The prince, ignoring the advice of at least some of his hand-wringing advisors (“The fault, dear sire, lies not in your slurs, but in your … in your …”; curtain drops), thence commands his heralds with fanfare to travel far and wide across the realm to justify and mystify what is clearly available to the senses common, and otherwise, of his people. “Do thou believe what thou hast seen and heard, or will thou dally and dance with me in the intoxication of my twirling spin?”

Entering the melodrama from stage left, hopelessly entangled with each other, are the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of this production, herein called Pilaro and Parash, to opine from the sidelines on the comings and goings of the court, and to muse: How best doth this serve me?

And, behold, with shivery countenance appears the new queen, head askance, fingers flying, muttering: “The text’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the attention of the king …” And she doth from time to time, and sends his message forth.

Intermission. How many more acts, asks the weary playgoer?

“All’s well that ends well?” Not a chance.

The best to hope for is that it will all simply end — and monies will be scattered hither and yon with abandon, as always, and business as usual will continue apace in the little Duchy of Southampton by the Sea.

Oh, wait, there is the Ghost of Michael Irving, who doth gave birth to the prince, readying to speak words of wisdom and counsel from the beyond.

Coming next week: “The Mouse That Roared,” weather permitting.

Frances Genovese

Southampton