A misanthrope's cynical exercise in crowd manipulation. Its half-clever boxy homage to its venerable Mill District neighbors notwithstanding, the Guthrie's purported respect for its surroundings is belied by its preposterously blue exterior, resembling a grim-faced, pixelated robot with a probe ominously extended. The interior public spaces are cold and insultingly contrived--a cross between an airport terminal and a tube-and-ladder hamster cage. Towering ghosts of dead heroes, like fading Soviet billboards, occupy bleak surfaces. The lighting is harsh and isolating, invasively illuminating the scalps of thin-haired patrons in the least flattering way. While the allowed views are picturesque, looking through the sparse and awkwardly-arranged neck-level strips of windows in the cantilevered bridge, one gets the feeling one is being jerked around. You can almost feel the contempt of the totalitarian urban planner in the sky as he watches you ""doing it wrong."" The final zoological insult, as the crowd exits the theater and files somberly onto the claustrophobicly long and narrow meat conveyer down to ground level, is the overwhelmingly uncomfortable, ghostly reflection of the crowd that confronts patrons, force-feeding them the dehumanizing vision of themselves as mere heaving stock animals. Other than that? Performances? Parking? Actually, not bad
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