In Annie Baker’s The Antipodes, a group of people sit around a table telling, cataloging, and theorizing stories. Their purpose is never clear: are they brainstorming ideas for a TV show? A film? A mythology?
This is a world where ghostly fables co-exist with mundane discussions of snacks and sexual exploits, where the vague instruction to tell stories about “something monstrous” though “it might not be a literal monster” becomes maddeningly impossible. Part satire, part sacred rite, The Antipodes asks what value stories have for a world in crisis.