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March 21, 2016

A ripe mound of earth, festering with sickly flowers and garbage, rises from the upstairs stage of the Flea Theater these days. Audience members in the front row for “Wolf in the River” — which opened on Monday night in a highly intimate in-the-round production — could easily lean over and rub their faces in the muck, which may well be the symbolic intention of this play’s creator, Adam Rapp. But mostly, this squalid pile exists as a place for an enthusiastic tribe of young theater folk — members of the Bats, the Flea’s resident acting company — to get dirty, histrionic and, on occasion, naked. It must be said that they seem to be having just as good a time doing so as Mr. Rapp apparently had writing and directing this tall and bloated tale of nasty doings on the banks of a cannibalistic river. Just so you know, we, the audience, are that river (as we’re told early on). In the world of Mr. Rapp, everybody gets to be a metaphor.

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