Fabrication " review by Lyn Gardner

Print Room, LondonLike an overripe cheese that's been left out too long, Pier Paolo Pasolini's play about a father's obsession with his teenage son's penis is a maggoty old thing, writhing with over-excitement and self-loathing. It is both ponderous and ridiculous. The ghost of Sophocles, author of Oedipus the King, from which this takes its cue, chides himself for not having written plays like Pasolini. Lucky for us…

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