PoMo in SoHo

Last night I went to a reading of a play - Jean Anouilh's verson of the Greek tragedy Antigone - by a small group of young actors in the very early stages of putting together a production. It took place after hours at a place called Manhattan Bistro in SoHo, what neighbourhood I rarely venture to since I'm more of an Anarchist Forum Meeting on the Lower East Side New Yorker than a shoe-shopping between cocktails one.

The reading was green, enjoyable, overwrought, endearing, uncomfortable, all of the above.

Add:
a) Antigone being paged on the intercom/phone from the kitchen mid-scene.*
b) A young woman in the audience periodically leaving her barstool to sob loudly outside the restroom.*
c) Creon competing to be heard over the owner and a manager, who are arguing heatedly about unexplained suppliers' bills.
d) Another woman in the audience snickering, heckling, guffawing, suggesting throughout much of the second act.*

So here's the question. Which one was the real play, people? Oooooooo....

*Note: everyone in New York is an actor.