It's elegantly directed (this is David Cromer after all) and well written and played, but THE SOUND INSIDE doesn't get anywhere. Or not to where it thinks it gets. This is a very literary play--a play about a novel or the writing of one--and so it relies exclusively on narrative techniques. The play's action is alternately described and enacted and, while this is skillfully maneuvered, it has no real cumulative effect. Two people are writing stories. At some point the stories, both dark and sad, intertwine and each affects the other. The play is cryptic; it hints at meanings but it doesn't find them. This is fair enough--and appropriate to Rapp's existentialist temperament--but THE SOUND INSIDE is indeed bound to the kind of internal experience--the motion of memory, the way that time elides reality--that is best captured by a reader's imagination as it combines with an author's. Readers are writers, too. Audiences, however, are witnesses. THE SOUND INSIDE reads to us when what we want is to be shown something.