There is nothing glib or cheap or frivolous about Talbott’s plays. There is no slick, witty banter or easy irony to distance you, no gentle exposition to ease you into the world. His deeply damaged characters greet you head-on, pulling you into the deep water with them.

West Village, 1960s, long before the whitewash: when hippies were young, rents were cheap, and Carmine Street was still the realm of the possible.