Displaying items by tag: Matthew C Lee

White Rooster arrives at Lookingglass Theatre with the kind of wild, genre‑bending confidence that reminds you why this ensemble has always been one of Chicago’s most inventive storytellers. Ensemble member Matthew C. Yee - doubling as writer and director - conjures a darkly funny, legend-steeped ghost story that feels mischievously modern in this world‑premiere production. What begins as a family tale rooted in early‑1900s China unfurls into a surreal, music‑laced journey through a spirit-ridden American town of gold prospectors, where the living and the dead negotiate unfinished business with equal parts tenderness and absurdity.

That sense of slipping between worlds is echoed the moment you enter the space. For two gripping hours, the audience is submerged into a mysterious, rickety mining town - red light seeping through the floorboards as white, flowing curtains above and below the attic sensually breathe with every spectral draft. A mine entrance sits just below the stage; a shadowy passage characters slip into when needed to dig deeply for gold - and climb back out only if they are fortunate. 

The theatre is arranged in a bold, innovative configuration that feels unmistakably Lookingglass, and once the lights go down, our surroundings tilt sideways. White Rooster summons a realm of folklore and restless spirits in a spellbound theatrical storm. There isn’t a bad seat in the intimate Lookingglass house.

Yee’s setting brilliantly blends Chinese mythology with timeworn Americana, woven together through Lookingglass’ trademark physicality and vivid visual artistry. Lookingglass builds a set that’s equal parts dusty ghost town and drifting dreamscape, all weathered wood, shifting platforms, and shadow‑hungry corners. Nothing stays still for long. Cloth walls slide softly across the room, lighting tricks the eye into seeing motion, and the entire environment reacts to the characters’ emotional temperature - as if the town itself is leaning in to listen.

The tone in White Rooster swings delightfully between eerie and, at times, hilarious – a fiancé who won’t stay dead, a sister who won’t stay buried, and a rooster whose presence is as oddly ominous as it is absurd. The stage is set for a journey that feels truly singular, a ride unlike anything else audiences will encounter.

Karen Aldridge in Lookingglass' White Rooster. Photo by Justin Barbin.

The story centers on Min (finely played by Sunnie Eraso), a young woman desperate to outrun her past, only to discover that the past travels fast - especially when it’s carrying old curses, stubborn spirits, and grief that refuses to stay buried. As the spirit world starts calling to her, we’re left wondering whether she’ll remain among the living or cross over to the dead.

Min stands at the center of White Rooster like a live wire - restless and, at the same time, determined. I feel that through her, the story becomes something of a tug‑of‑war between who we were raised to be and who we’re trying desperately to become. And every time Min thinks she’s found solid ground, the environment around her shifts - sometimes literally - reminding her that souls from the past don’t just haunt; they negotiate, bargain, and occasionally throw a tantrum in grand fashion.

Maria (fiercely played by Karen Aldridge) and John (vibrantly inhabited by Mark Montgomery) are Min’s parents and June (Noelle Oh – bravo!) her sister. Together they orbit Min with the gravitational pull of family - comforting one moment, complicating everything the next. Maria brings the ancestral weight, the traditions and expectations that shape the supernatural rules of this world – and she can tell a mean ghost story.

Reilly Oh is outstanding as Pong, a mythic wildcard who brings humor, mystery, and a touch of the uncanny. Pong is the character who reminds you that in this universe, what lies beyond the veil isn’t just a threat - it’s a personality, a mood, a powerful force with its own agenda. He and Min develop real, and complicated, feelings for each other, until an unexpected twist shifts the story’s course and ushers the white rooster into a central role.

Through it all, Pong’s parents Judy (Louise Lamson) and Hao (Daniel Lee Smith) are a strong support system for both Min and their son. Their performances, full of humor and tenderness, add texture and tension - the sort of familial presence that renders grief both intimate and unwieldy. In the meantime, June, Min’s ethereal sister residing in the attic, expands the emotional landscape. She gives Min someone who reflects the stakes of staying connected even when everything inside her screams to run. Together, they form a constellation of women whose histories overlap, collide, and echo through the dust of this otherworldly settlement. And in a twist that complicates everything, June’s heart belongs to the version of Pong that no longer exists. Blink and you’ll miss something; the play keeps unfolding in unexpected ways.

Fang, a medicine man and Wu are played by Elliot Esquivel through April 5^th and Nik Kmiecik April 8^th-26^th. The two slip between identities with the fluidity of spirits who’ve long stopped caring about the boundary between the living and the dead. They capture the play’s obsession with inheritance - what we cling to, what we hide away, and what keeps clawing back to the surface no matter how deeply it’s buried. In the process, Esquivel scores a generous share of genuine laugh‑out‑loud moments.

Together, this ensemble of characters creates an atmosphere that’s sinister, hilarious, and deeply human, the kind of emotional tapestry that Lookingglass loves to unravel right in front of you. Though Yee’s approach is thematic rather than didactic, he offers no crystal‑clear moral - instead, June, Min’s spectral sister, delivers the closest thing to one: a deep, aching hunger for something she can’t find, especially heard in the way she screams “I’m hungry! I’m hungry!” It’s a hunger shared by every ghost drifting through this world or the next.

(from left) Noelle Oh, Reilly Oh, Sunnie Eraso in White Rooster at Lookingglass Theatre. Photo by Juston Barbin.

Ghost stories flare to life throughout the play by various characters - crisp, vivid, and wickedly staged - sending me right back to those childhood nights when one good scare made you latch onto the nearest friend. And, like a haunted house, the set and effects amplify it all, bringing this shadow-touched world to life with real ingenuity. Layered with White Rooster’s puppetry, which moves like a shared heartbeat - one force sculpting the landscape, the other lending its phantoms their physical form - the result feels kinetic in the eeriest way.

Yes, the puppetry slips right into this dimension, never as a gimmick but as the show’s beating heart of paranormal logic. From shadow‑puppeted silhouettes rippling across illuminated draperies to Dave and his scene‑stealing pet pig to the white rooster that becomes its own mythic force, the blend of object manipulation and visual animation is an imaginative jolt that feels handcrafted and otherworldly at the same time. Together, the set and puppets create a realm that feels porous and alive, the kind of roguish, immersive ecosystem where even the furniture seems menacingly capable of waking up. 

This haunted domain comes to life through the combined minds of Natsu Onoda Power (scenery), Mara Blumenfeld (costumes), Hannah Wien (lighting), Justin Cavazos (sound and score), Amanda Herrmann (props), and Caitlin McLeod (puppets). Their contributions braid together - darkness blooming, objects murmuring, fabrics holding memory - until the world feels less crafted than conjured. The result is a creation that’s tactile, mischievous and emotionally grounded even as it spirals into folklore‑fueled madness. Lookingglass completely immerses us in the supernatural.

Says Artistic Director Kasey Foster on Yee’s offering, “White Rooster has been a thrilling ride from its very first conception in 2020. Matt chooses unique stories to tell, entirely original and fresh, and in his debut role as Director at Lookingglass, he has brought that same originality and "cool" to the staging and design of White Rooster.”

And ‘cool’ is right, with cast members trading off on electric guitar - distortion blazing and ominous percussion driving the suspense. The show’s mix of humor and heartbreak, along with its inventive staging, makes it feel unmistakably like a Lookingglass premiere: collaborative, imaginative, and rooted in personal storytelling.

During the opening night festivities, I chatted briefly with co‑founder and board member David Schwimmer, who was clearly thrilled to discuss the theatre’s refreshed, reimagined space. Lookingglass Theatre’s recent renovation marks a striking reinvention of its public presence. The historic Pumping Station now opens directly onto Michigan Avenue, leading into a bright, flexible lobby that doubles as a café, gathering space, and creative hub. Modular seating, projection surfaces, and expanded rehearsal and education areas turn the venue into an all‑day destination, while warm touches - from celestial‑inspired terrazzo floors to an amber “lantern” box office - give the space its signature glow. More than a facelift, the redesign reshapes how Lookingglass engages its community, creating a welcoming, versatile home for its imaginative spirit.

In the end, in this recently renovated theatre and with this world premiere, White Rooster heralds Matthew C. Yee as a rising playwright‑director with a gift for weaving myth, humor, and heartbreak into something wholly new.

Highly recommended.

White Rooster runs at Lookingglass through April 26, 2026, with performances most Wednesdays through Saturdays at 7:30 p.m. and select matinees at 2:00 p.m. on Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Tickets through the Lookingglass box office start at $33, while Hot Tix lists discounted seats in the $51–$62 range, and select Lookingglass Class events offer pay‑what‑you‑can options. The run also features several special performances, including Folklore Day on March 22 at 2:00 p.m., a mask‑required show on March 25 at 7:30 p.m., open captioning on April 3 at 7:30 p.m., and AAPI Night on April 9 at 7:30 p.m. For tickets and/or more information, click here.

This review is proudly shared with our friends at www.TheatreInChicago.com. 

Lauren Yee’s Cambodian Rock Band begins and ends with music, not what Americans think of when they think of Cambodia, as the glib narrator points out, shifting from slides of musicians whose songs are nearly lost to history to more familiar images of the genocide that resulted in their loss. Yee’s play, now in its Chicago premier at Victory Gardens, is a celebration of the lives that were lost under the brutal Khmer Rouge regime, first to violence (nearly two million people were killed within four years), then to guilt, time and a desire to forget. Underscored and interspersed by classic Khmer pop songs, 60’s and 70’s Cambodian surfer punk, and original songs by Dengue Fever that pay tribute to their Cambodian roots, Cambodian Rock Band is about a band, a genocide and a Cambodian father and his American daughter trying to connect. There is a lot going on, not all of it works, and it can get messy at times, but ultimately, Cambodian Rock Band is a fast-paced, entertaining, timely and moving call to art and action with a rocking score.

Welcome to Cambodia! It’s 1974 and Cambodian band Cyclos is rocking out. Until they are ushered off the stage by an as-yet unnamed emcee who segues from the Cambodian musical scene into the atrocities that most Americans think of when we think of Cambodia in the 1970’s. Enter Chum, who settled in America in in the late 1970’s and who is back in Phnom Penh to pay a surprise visit to his 26-year-old daughter, Neary, who is helping prepare the case against a Khmer Rouge war criminal, Comrade Duch, the warden of the S21, a notorious prison that only seven inmates survived. Chum not only seems unimpressed by his daughter’s efforts (she could have gone to Cornell Law School), but also questions their exigency. In fact, Chum seems more taken aback by his daughter’s pursuit of the case than by the fact that her towel-clad boyfriend appears in the hotel room that she calls home (though the fact that his heritage is Thai is problematic). Chum, with his embarrassing dad jokes and inadvertent double-entendres tries to steer Neary to enjoying the pleasures of Phnom Penh, its fish spa and karaoke. Neary is focused on the upcoming press conference about the case against Duch. As Neary plumbs the depths of the case, searching out survivors of S21, Duch introduces himself, and Neary slowly gets to know her father and his past. 

Marti Lyons has assembled a hard-rocking ensemble, which handles both the classic pop and surfer punk with assurance. She smoothly directs the transitions between times and places, utilizing a spare set comprised of neon, road cases, a few wheeled set pieces and a few pieces of furniture by Yu Shibagaki, visually reinforcing both the ephemerality of the 1970’s music scene and the glowing modern city that arose from the remains of the Khmer Rouge reign. Lighting designer Keith Parham and sound designer Mikhail Fiksel deftly shift the scene between the bootleg recording session, cramped hotel room, upscale hotel lounge, and claustrophobic prison cell. Izumi Inaba offers period-perfect costumes for the band and the Khmer Rouge guards, crushed velvet for our emcee and conservative suits for the employees of the Center for Transitional Justice. Times and places fade into each other, both the physical space and the musical and aural landscape, as it becomes clear that the present is inextricably bound to the past. Lyons directs with an unsentimental, clear-eyed view, not editorializing, throwing into relief the overwhelming, heart-wrenching choices faced by the characters.

The cast is uniformly excellent, delivering both moving, grounded performances and propulsive music. Leading the ensemble is Greg Watanabe as Chum, in a time-traveling portrayal that shows him going from eager, embarrassing and judgmental dad to the youthful version of character, whose coming of age was interrupted by the Khmer Rouge, and finally the father who is forced to reconcile the two. Watanabe brings the right mix of energy, humor and gravitas to the role. The catalyst for the story is Neary, whose fight for justice in Cambodia also serves to teach her about her heritage, played with humor and exasperation by Aja Wiltshire, who also plays the lead singer of Cyclos, Sothea, with brash vibrance. As her co-worker and fellow-Westerner, Ted, Matthew C. Lee provides charm and clueless bonhomie. However, it is as the self-confident, preening lead guitarist Leng, whose survival instincts lead him into the darkness of the new regime, that Lee delivers a note-perfect portrait of hopeful youth. Peter Sipla and Eileen Doan round out the band, as drummer Rom and keyboardist Pou—both are remarkable musicians and actors who capture the different responses to the encroaching threat of the Khmer Rouge, as well as filling other roles in the narrative. As the Comrade Duch, Rammel Chan is disconcertingly ingratiating, deploying brassy, reptilian charm alternating with quiet reflection that calls into question what we know we should feel. Yee’s play requires whiplash-inducing tonal shifts, and the cast navigates the transitions between past and present effectively, bringing to life the people and music of Cambodia, and effectively showing what was lost with each well-documented death in the genocide.

Cambodian Rock Band is an occasionally uneasy hybrid between rock concert, sit-com and documentary record of the Cambodian genocide under Pol Pot, but somehow the format ends up being the right mix. Though laced with humor, maybe because it is laced with humor, the play is a vivid tribute to the art and individuals who were lost in the years when the Khmer Rouge were in power. The music by band Dengue Fever revives the sounds of Cambodia in the 1970’s—both the traditional pop songs and the more Western rock sounds, that nevertheless were delivered with a Khmer accent. In telling one story and offering a glimpse into the atrocities committed by one man, Lauren Yee powerfully reminds us that those rows of black and white photos and the piles of skulls that are often Americans’ first impressions of Cambodia are just the end of many lives and stories. The energetic, talented cast unsentimentally and unsparingly bring to life the rock band of the title. An entertaining tribute to human resilience, it also does not shrink from showing the choices that allow evil to flourish. 

Cambodian Rock Band runs through May 5 at Victory Gardens Theatre, 2433 N. Lincoln Avenue. Performances are Tuesday – Friday at 7:30 pm, Saturday at 3 pm and 7:30 pm, and Sunday at 3 pm. Tickets are $32-$65. For tickets and information, visit www.victorygardens.org, or call or email the Victory Gardens Box Office at 773-871-3000 or This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..