I’m a firm believer that things can be bad and still be interesting. Naomi Iizuka’s Polaroid Stories is definitely bad – pretentious, meandering, noisy – but is it interesting? A week later I’m still undecided. The acting is fine, the directing is interesting, the set is pretty nifty. Set in an anonymous city in the mid-nineties, it’s a gloomy show about drug-addled teenagers who also happen to be Greek gods. It’s tonally reminiscent of Larry Clark’s 1995 movie Kids, a waning cult favorite that I’ve always hated. As the play went on, my notes became a string of question marks and exclamation points, the ten actors zipping on and off stage while their self-absorbed characters all behave miserably toward one another.