April 18, 2026 – There was a technical glitch during the performance of Gem of the Ocean that I saw. Midway through the first act, a candle is lit on a small altar downstage, closer to the audience than almost any other person or object in the show. At some point, the candle is supposed to be blown out. For whatever reason, on Saturday night, the electric candle prop refused to turn off once it had been turned on, despite multiple actors’ attempts and repeated fiddling with the prop. Even in what would otherwise have been blackouts, the candle never stopped glowing.
I feel pretty confident that wasn’t supposed to happen, but I think it should have. I think it improved the show. I think it was the perfect visual representation of what was either the play’s thesis or just the line that stabbed me right in the chest and has remained lodged in my ribcage ever since: “You have a duty to life. So live.”
I loved Gem of the Ocean. I loved the big, open, community space at Hibernian Hall where the show was produced. I loved Isaak Olson’s nimble lighting design, particularly the gorgeous patterned projections during the journey to the City of Bones. I loved Aubrey Dube’s engrossing soundscape during the same journey and the way diegetic and non-diegetic sound, particularly the drums and rattles used by the characters, blended to create something that felt mystical and lush without losing its grounding. I loved the actors’ warmth and subtlety and I loved that their chemistry as a cast was so first-rate that, even when they accidentally stepped on each other’s lines (unsurprising, given the rhythmic circularity of August Wilson’s dialogue), they apologized and kept moving in ways that felt like people who loved each other making for-real conversational gaffes. I loved Jonathan Kitt as Solly Two Kings so much that I intend to see every show he’s in from here on out, forever and ever, amen. The man is a bottomless fountain of charisma. Every line he says brims with energy and humor and warmth, warmth, warmth, the whole play is so warm. If, for any reason, in these or any other dark times, you need a story about people who face insuperable odds and suffer and die and still open their arms and their hearts and their kitchens to each other, who insist on peace when the whole world is begging for violence, who disown their family members for becoming cops and get a little too involved in labor disputes on the side of labor, who speak like poets and yet somehow also like real people, who believe in magic but mostly believe in goodness – this is that story. Seriously. Please go see it. I’m considering seeing it again before it closes.
Gem of the Ocean runs at Hibernian Hall until May 17, 2026, and tickets start at $25. Live a little. Live a lot, even. Go see it. You will be so, so glad you did.
April 12, 2026 – If nothing else, When Playwrights Kill prompted in me some serious introspection. When we emerged from the theater, I asked my partner, “Do you think I’m allergic to sincerity?”
The answer, by the way, was no; I’m just allergic to scripts in which each character gets at least one and up to three earnest, turn-to-the-audience monologues about how the Theater is So Important and Everyone’s Role Matters and Making Art Is Complicated But Good. (Except, of course, for the one character of color, who instead gets a monologue about how it’s fucked up that they’re the one character of color, but not in a way that is nearly as cheeky or self-aware as my description makes that sound. Diversity win?) It drives me up the wall to hear a theatermaker, in the voice of characters who are also in theater, praise a theatergoing audience for going to the theater. We all know what we’re here for! We wouldn’t be supporting the arts if we didn’t support the arts! I am begging you to write about something, anything, else!
It sounds, I know, like I hated this show. I didn’t! I really liked the theater history thread that ran through the whole show, the parallels between the Neil Simon-Mary Tyler Moore feud and the plot only enhanced by learning, after the show, that the plot itself was based on a similar episode in the playwright’s own life. And what’s more, I thought it was hilarious! The vast majority of the jokes landed for me, even if the punchlines did get over-explained here and there. As a comedy, the show works. As a story, I don’t think it does. It’s too sardonic to be serious, too earnest to understand that it’s part of the culture it’s sending up, and the plot chases its own tail, repeating the same scenes (whose gist is largely “this aging actress is annoying and has a drug problem” with occasional sympathy for said aging actress thrown in for color) over and over. The farcical cat-and-mouse attempted-murder spree for which the show is named and by which it’s advertised lasts for maybe half of the second act, if that. The rest is mostly just listening to The Playwright (played expertly by Matt Doyle, and by expertly I mean he got me to actually root for the character despite him being the exact kind of Pippin-ass, Mark Cohen-ass, generic white dude whose struggles, if they can be called that, just bore the hell out of me-ass character that I ordinarily find it very hard to root for) complain and occasionally have revelations about how his behavior impacts other people, only to immediately forget those revelations and keep complaining. Okay, maybe I did hate this show a little bit.
In terms of individual creative shout-outs, I tip my hat to costumer Alejo Vietti not only for Beth Leavel’s exceptional red gown/cape situation but also for putting her in an arsenic-green dressing gown on the fatal play-within-the-play’s opening night, a nod to the death of Moliere that, blessedly, did not receive its own explanatory aside. The illusions, done by Skylar Fox and Daniel Weissglass, were impressively convincing – I particularly liked the knife in Beth Leavel’s purse. The whole cast was excellent, with great timing and big choices, although my favorite was Adam Heller, whose Producer felt the most like a real human being, with all the greed and foibles and nuance that entails. I wouldn’t be surprised if, on the strength of its creative team, this show all about Broadway tryouts makes it to Broadway after all. I’m glad I saw it in Boston and saved myself some money. I would have been an awful lot more disappointed if I’d spent Broadway money on this mediocre script.
When Playwrights Kill runs at the Huntington Theatre through April 18, and tickets start around $80.
March 22, 2026 – The End Is Nigh is the most show I’ve ever seen. This compact piece packs more theater per theater into the theater than any theater should be capable of. The tone yo-yos wildly from extreme silliness to horror to tooth-rotting sweetness, and somehow it sticks a pretty nuanced and bittersweet landing. The nimble cast of six actors represents, by my count, at least eighteen characters (counting hooligans, Horsemen, divers, and Dick; not counting the shark). There’s clowning, and shadow puppetry, and live music, and a big BOOO sign (yes, with three O’s). I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to assert that every exit and re-entrance I saw had a costume change in the middle.
And what costumes they were! Kristen Connolly, the show’s costume designer, is a creative force comparable in power to a fifth horseman of the apocalypse. Frankly, I’m rooting for her to replace one of the big four – she’s got a facility and a flair with trash that suggest she could wear Pestilence’s crown, no problem. Cascading potato-chip-bag collars, massive Muppety cloaks of plastic-tassel fur, slinky chain mail made of soda can tabs, all visually stunning and yet all obviously handmade in a way that made me go, God, I have to spend a decade getting really good at crafts. To be clear, I don’t think any number of decades would make me as good a designer as Kristen Connolly, but her work has a way of looking impressive and doable at the same time, which is, as a no-budget theater lover, the highest compliment I know how to give.
Of the bodies that wore Connolly’s costumes, Jesse Garlick deserves a special shout-out as Klezmer Moskowitz, whose heart I loved watching grow three sizes in real time and whose lovely voice lent itself equally well to pop-rock and lullabies and a rousing rendition of a song called “Le Fish” delivered entirely in ersatz French. Speaking of the music, sound designer Matan Rubinstein had his hands full between the many songs and the many, many sound effects (if I have one real criticism of this show, it’s that there were just too many goddamn sound effects), but he made it look, or rather sound, easy.
Unfortunately, the end of The End Is Nigh is nigh. It ran from March 12 to 22, 2026. Here’s hoping the real world stops ending long enough for Liars & Believers to resurrect this show.
March 14, 2026 – At this point it feels redundant to review Stereophonic. It’s the most Tony-nominated play of all time. It’s received near-universal acclaim for its writing, its music, its set, its lights, its in-joke-inducing bits and weirdnesses. Stereophonic is a good show, and if you needed me to tell you that? I’m glad I told you that.
In fact I’m having a hard time sitting down to review it, because what I really want to do is write fifteen pages of analysis on the marvelous futility of the whole damn story and the way this show uses silence and the friendship between Diana and Holly and how badly I want to wear those body-hugging fit-and-flare ‘70s pants that make everyone’s ass look fantastic.
It’s not a perfect show or anything – I think the touring company still has a couple kinks to work out, with Reg being leaned on too heavily for comic relief in the second half and losing some of the desperation and emotional turbulence that makes his character interesting, and the lack of time and date surtitles on all but the first and last act coupled with some explanatory lines cut from the script making it nigh-impossible to tell how far apart in time these vignettes are or how much has happened between scenes unless you're consulting your program throughout the show, which I wasn't, because I was too swept away by the propulsive story. But these are nitpicks. Jiyoun Chang’s lighting design suffuses the entire play with a butter-colored glow that the audience misses all the more when the scene snaps to harsh blue or white lighting in tense moments. Denver Milord (God, what a name) is believable, pitiable, and entirely hateable as Peter, capturing a particular type of brilliant-yet-helpless-genius-artist-manchild so well that I spent several scenes literally vibrating with the desire to punch him. I have a crush on Cornelius McMoyler’s Simon, which I promise is a compliment.
The touring company is only in Boston this week (tickets start at around $60), after which they move on to dazzle other cities. You might be able to catch them in Waterbury, CT, at the end of March if you act fast. And you should – you will be a sad, sad man in a blanket if you don’t see this show.
March 1, 2026 – Sometimes I worry that Kate Hamill is going to run out of classic literature to adapt into theater, or at least that she’ll run out of her favorites. Her Emma at the Actors’ Shakespeare Project was rapid-fire and hilarious, two hours of the best gossip I’d heard in months. Her Odyssey at the American Repertory Theater was grand without being moralizing, uneasy without leaving the audience unsatisfied. It was clear, in both of those shows, that Hamill loved the material she was adapting, and that love shone in every line.
I’m not sure if Kate Hamill loves Little Women. I’m not even really sure if she likes it. Compared to the other adaptations of hers I’ve seen in Boston, the script was ham-fisted and unrelentingly earnest, with little of the wry humor and subtlety I’ve come to associate with her writing. When I tell you that Jo literally turns to the audience to declare, “I’m not like other women,” I’m not exaggerating. The themes – oh boy, are there themes – are reiterated in plain terms over and over, in case the audience happened to miss the first umpteen times one character tells another to “grow up” or frets about being “childish.” (If I had taken a shot every time the word “childish” was repeated in this script, I would have passed out drunk around when Beth passed out from scarlet fever.) Worse, the story centers Jo – as it should, honestly, given that she’s the storyteller of the bunch – but claims, right at the end, to have actually been Beth’s story, because stories about good, kind people who aren’t epic heroes or adventurers deserve to be told, nay, need to be told. Hamill, ordinarily so adept at giving underwritten characters more developed inner lives in her adaptations, told us nothing about Beth other than that she loved flowers and piano-playing and wanted nothing except what she already had. Not much of a story, if you ask me.
There were plenty of kids at the matinee I saw, and while I think it does kids a disservice to suggest that they can’t appreciate subtle storytelling, I can imagine Hamill writing more straightforwardly for a younger intended audience. But the performance did the script no favors. All of the actors, regardless of what age they were playing, delivered their lines with shouty, wide-eyed, declarative naivete that stifled their emotional ranges and became grating well before intermission. I was thrilled when Act II opened with a time jump, assuming that the actors would now be speaking like adults, but no dice. Given that this weirdly childish (take a shot!) register was universal, I have to assume this was a directorial choice, and a regrettable one at that. My favorite moments were, unsurprisingly, those when the actors got to flex their actual skills rather than being trapped in schoolyard cadence. Olivia Fenton’s rendition of Meg March’s jam-based breakdown was hysterical in every sense of the word, and Amy Griffin’s comedic chops as Mrs. Mingott lent the play some rapid-fire funny moments that it was sorely lacking otherwise. The creative team also worked wonders. Deb Sullivan’s lighting design was immensely clever – I was a particular fan of the noir-inspired publishing office complete with typewritten words projected in light over the scene – and Zoe Sundra’s costumes were attractive, evocative, and impressively flexible for all of the indoor-outdoor scenes. I would do some unspeakable things to get my hands on the March sisters’ orange plaid coat, not to mention pretty much everything Jo wears.
Little Women closed on March 1. If you missed it, don’t fret – there will surely be another, hopefully better, Kate Hamill adaptation in Boston next season. Glory, glory, hallelujah!
February 21, 2026 – About thirty minutes into Hub Theatre's delightful and jarring Ionesco double feature, I caught my breath long enough to think, God, I can feel myself developing new vocal stims in real time. Which is kind of the point. The Bald Soprano was inspired by Eugene Ionesco's English lessons, full of bizarre (or should that be "bizarre!" with a crisp RP accent and a flourish?) sentences repeated over and over. From the start, the dialogue is slightly off-kilter, with contradictory or downright nonsensical sentiments delivered over and over in a pleasantly flat English affect.
This was my first in-person experience with theater of the absurd, and I can very easily see a world in which it would have fallen flat for me. In scripts designed to lack any of the elements that normally keep me leaning slightly forward in a dark room for two hours – things like a coherent narrative or at least emotional arc, witty jokes, and/or characters making truly terrible choices – the nonsense could blur into white noise. Luckily, Hub Theatre's stated mission with this show is to make their audience "laugh loudly but think deeply," and with a cast of stellar actors and Bryn Boice's precisely calibrated direction, they had me doing both, often simultaneously, often without quite understanding how I'd gotten there.
Among that stellar cast, Siobhan Carroll stands out as Mrs. Smith (or at least, as the Mrs. Smith who opens The Bald Soprano, not to be confused with Jessica Golden's Mrs. Martin-turned-Mrs. Smith, and no, I'm not going to explain it any further than that). Never have I seen someone express such a convincing emotional range while keeping her face in a smile-slash-grimace so taut I could practically see the marionette strings. She’s proper, she’s frenetic, she’s horny for the Fire Chief (but who isn’t?), she’s barely keeping it together. I’m obsessed with Carroll’s performance and you should be too. Brooks Reeves, too, is excellent, particularly as the Professor in The Lesson. The moment when the play slides irrevocably into horror, powered by Reeves’ turn from pompous bloviations into pure, hypnotic psychopathy, made me gasp aloud. Of any actor, he also got the most laughs out of me, which is a dubious honor considering how loudly and disruptively I laugh. Hopefully I wasn’t too distracting.
Finally, I absolutely have to shout out the production team, particularly scenic designer Justin Lahue and sound designer Mackenzie Adamick, for the “Leave It To Beaver” gloss they put on the whole production. The impressively designed gigantic TV (with turnable knobs!) provided both the literal and metaphorical frame I needed to get my head around a show that could easily have been too confusing for a narrative-loving doofus like me to understand, and the mid-century music and advertising that cushioned both acts (not to mention the deeply ominous clock tolling) helped to lend the disjointed dialogue the feeling of rapid channel surfing. It took Ionesco’s overwhelming writing to the same realm as doomscrolling, which also helped The Lesson’s final political gut-punch feel warranted, if not quite smoothly integrated with the rest of the show. I want to see everything else this production team works on, because they know exactly how to use the look and sound of the stage to elevate the action.
The Bald Soprano & The Lesson runs until March 8, 2026, and tickets are pay-what-you-want. If you haven't gotten the chance yet, I implore you to see it while you still can, and then come back and re-read this review. It won't make any more sense than it did the first time around. I promise.
February 15, 2026 – Full disclosure: I’m a recovering Classics major. I love the Odyssey. I read Emily Wilson’s translation in one night (seriously) and read the poem again in Greek, some sections more than once. Classical reception is a touchy subject with me, and I have annoyingly, pretentiously high standards for mythological retellings. That said, I’m not impossible to impress, and adaptation offers a lot more flexibility than translation or straightforward attempts to retell a tale. I loved, for example, last year’s The Odyssey written by Kate Hamill and commissioned by the A.R.T. One of the best things about that production was its willingness to expand and explore characters who receive little development in the version of the epic that’s been transmitted to us over the centuries.
In addition to being an Odyssey lover, I’m also an Aimee Doherty stan. I have watched everything she’s been in since I moved to Boston. I loved her as Sherlock Holmes. I loved her as Dolly Gallagher Levi. Whatever gene gay men have that makes us squeal at the top of our lungs for Cher or Madonna or Lady Gaga makes me seriously consider starting an Aimee Doherty fan site on a regular basis. A one-woman musical starring Aimee Doherty as Penelope, recounting her side of the Odyssey, is absolute catnip for me personally.
It’s a shame about the script.
I have nothing but admiration for Doherty’s singing (gorgeous belting, heartfelt without being cheesy) and acting (jaded, funny, filled with yearning). I’m very impressed by Courtney O’Connor’s direction (dramatic and emotional; leaning into Penelope’s pendulum swings and keeping the action perfectly in sync with the music). I thought the songs were catchy and the lyricism serviceable. The band was great, particularly Kett Lee’s mood-setting violoncello. The best moment of the play, for me, came when all of these threads twined perfectly in "Drunk Iliad." Penelope offered a front-row audience member a stiff drink and recounted the entire Trojan War in three-ish minutes of snarky, tipsy, one-liner-y, earworm-y musical banter. I was hooked.
But, for reasons I cannot fathom even as someone picky about the accuracy of my classical reimaginings, the script seemed afraid to say anything about Penelope, or allow her to say anything about herself, that the Odyssey doesn’t already say. Penelope is by herself in Ithaca for twenty years, ruling despite the intensely misogynistic cultural forces working against her, battling unruly suitors and raising a son and managing an entire island (or city? The modern-ish setting is kept somewhat nebulous) all by herself. The audience doesn’t get to watch her do any of that. Instead, the story begins the literal day before Odysseus comes home. The audience doesn’t even really get to hear her explain what she's been up to for the past two decades other than passing references to having lots of “work to do.” Instead, Penelope spends probably 60 minutes of this 80-minute show singing about how much she’d like her husband and son to come home and how much easier things will hopefully be once the men in her life have returned. Sometimes she sings about how she maybe doesn’t want them to come home and would instead like to live life on her own terms. Once, she sings about how she’s just about to stop waiting and start living. And then, instead of doing that, Odysseus comes home, at which point she sings about how they’re going to have a long conversation in the morning once he’s had his rest. Notably, the show ends before that conversation.
The audience is left in the exact same position as Penelope: waiting desperately for something interesting to happen, only for the climactic moment to never quite arrive. Maybe that was intentional on the part of the writing team, but if so, I’m afraid they wasted the opportunity to let Penelope tell her side of the story, or even to tell a story, or really to do anything but yearn for something, anything, besides what the script has given her. When I walked out of the theater after what was, I cannot stress enough, a one-woman show, my honest first thought was, man, I wish they’d given her more to do.
Penelope runs until March 1, 2026, and tickets start at $25.