dry and amusing but rarely stunning, Stoppard emulates Hamlet perfectly in that the command of language is enthralling but the plot is very boring. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead hints at a larger question that I’ve never seen addressed in media before: is death a performative act? in dying, is there some part of us that is still playing to the crowd? a deeply haunting and troubling thought, but not one that is actually addressed in-depth here. there are smarter things out there. I continue to find plays to be mostly a circle-jerk.