I recently found myself at an intimate theatre in a tony section of town watching a workmanlike production of an old chestnut when I was overwhelmed by a sudden blandness. The design, the construction, the stage, the lights, the actors, the wardrobe. Everything. It wasn’t bad, by any means, just unimportant. A theatre of shrugging. But, there was something else. Something indicative. Something new in its vapidity. Then I heard a...