Bradley Maniopolos has problems.
Spiritual Sedona plays host to them.
When attendees at the "Neo-Anthropocentric Models of Retrospective Freedoms" colloquium arrive in Sedona, they become facilitator Bradley Maniopolos's problem. Scholarly debate immediately devolves into who has freedom, who doesn't, who's getting it, who confers it, who assumes it, who guarantees it, and why the hell any of it matters. All while, pontificating on stolen land.
But Bradley has problems of his own. Looming retirement. His identity. Personal issues of a private nature he'd rather not talk about. Too bad his best friend can't keep his mouth shut, and the billionaire benefactors are keeping tabs through social media.
In the tradition of Catch-22, A Confederacy of Dunces, and The Sellout, Wrequiem at the Red Rocks makes you laugh until you see yourself. Then you cry. It's not art that wins universal praise, but in the brutalist tradition, the satire is functional and effective in exposing the hypocrisies we flawed humans depend on-and vociferously deny.
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