safronia at Lyric Opera of Chicago emerges as a deeply personal story of the Great Migration - one that resists grandiosity in favor of something more intimate, more lived-in, and ultimately more affecting. Drawn from the family history of Chicago’s inaugural Poet Laureate avery r. young, the work feels less like a conventional opera and more like an embodied poem, carried on breath, rhythm, and memory.

Young himself, as Fiery Baar Booker, gives a performance that is searing. There is fire in his portrayal - a man negotiating identity, displacement, and legacy. Opposite him, Maiesha McQueen’s Magnolia is the emotional anchor of the piece. Her performance radiates warmth and steadiness, embodying the sustaining force of family amid upheaval. She nurtures without sentimentality, giving Magnolia strength.

Lorenzo Rush Jr. brings a charismatic edge to King Willie Tate, a figure caught between aspiration and instability. His chemistry with Meaghan McNeal’s safronia is particularly compelling. McNeal delivers a spiritual performance - her safronia is less a single character than a vessel of generational memory, carrying the emotional weight of those who moved, hoped, and endured.

The company of safronia. Photo by Kyle Flubacher.

The looming presence of white power is sharply rendered through Zachary James as Cholly and Jeff Parker as Bossman. Their performances are unsettling not because they are exaggerated, but because they are so matter-of-fact. The banality of their authority underscores the systemic nature of the oppression the Booker family faces.

The ensemble - Bailey Haynes Champion, Sydney Charles, Miciah Lathan, Eric Andrew Lewis, Renelle Nicole, Jessica Brooke Seals, Maxel McLoud Schingen, and Kendal Marie Wilson - serves as a living chorus, shifting seamlessly between roles while maintaining a unified emotional pulse. They embody community, memory, and migration itself.

Musically, Paul Byssainthe Jr.’s conducting and orchestration weave together spirituals, blues, and textures into a soundscape that feels both rooted and expansive. Under Timothy Douglas’s direction, the production is carefully shaped, allowing stillness and movement to coexist in a way that honors the story’s emotional depth.

Yet for all its power, safronia at the Lyric Opera feels like a work yearning for closer quarters. Its most resonant moments are the quietest ones - the glances, the silences, the shared breath between performers and audience. It is fitting, then, that the production will be remounted at Court Theatre in May 2027. In that more intimate space, safronia may fully realize its potential, allowing audiences not just to witness the story, but to feel it - deeply, personally, and without distance.

Steppenwolf Theatre Company’s, Windfall arrives with all the promise its pedigree suggests. Written by Academy Award–winning ensemble member Tarell Alvin McCraney and directed by Awoye Timpo, the production aspires to be a pulsing, lyrical meditation on grief, justice, and the uneasy intersection of activism and capitalism. What unfolds instead is a work rich in intention but frustratingly elusive in execution.

The play centers on a protest encampment that erupts into violence, culminating in the shooting of Eli, a member of Never Wrestle Justice - a group of activists unafraid to raise their voices. In the aftermath, Marcus (Glenn Davis), who has transitioned, lingers alongside his aging adoptive father, Mr. Mano (Michael Potts). Mano is left reeling, unable to fully accept the reported death of his child, Eli (Esco Jouléy). It’s a potent premise: a father who refuses to confirm his child’s death, a government eager to offer a financial settlement, and a moral dilemma that questions whether survival can - or should - be measured in dollars. Tarell Alvin McCraney frames the story as a “chosen family” drama, but the emotional foundation never fully coheres.

Marcus urges Mano to identify Eli’s body and accept the settlement, arguing that “blood money is still money.” Yet Mano resists, clinging to the unbearable ambiguity of loss. The arrival of various state representatives - played with dynamic range by Alana Arenas as First Lady, Miss Second, and The Last One - pushes the narrative into increasingly surreal territory. These figures, along with Jon Michael Hill and Namir Smallwood in multiple roles, embody a bureaucratic machine that is at once apologetic, predatory, and opaque.

There are flashes of McCraney’s signature lyricism, particularly in the spectral appearances of Eli. Whether ghost, memory, or manifestation of guilt, Eli’s presence should anchor the play’s emotional core. Instead, it muddies the stakes. When Eli ultimately reappears - alive, defiant, and ready to fight - the revelation feels less like a cathartic turn and more like a narrative sleight of hand that the play hasn’t earned.

This points to the central issue: the characters are too thinly drawn to sustain the weight of the play’s ideas. We see Mano’s grief, Marcus’s urgency to settle, and Eli’s activism, but we rarely feel them. The stakes, which should be life-altering, register as curiously low. Even the moral dilemma - to take the money or resist the system - never fully ignites because the emotional investment isn’t there.

Timpo’s direction leans into the play’s abstraction, emphasizing its communal and ritualistic elements. At times, this works; the staging has a fluidity that suggests a world where reality and memory bleed into one another. But the lack of clarity ultimately undermines the experience. Confusion becomes less a deliberate aesthetic choice and more a barrier to engagement.

There is also the question of place. Though the play is set in Chicago, it rarely feels rooted there. References to Rainbow Beach or Pequod’s Pizza read as surface-level markers rather than lived-in details. For a story so deeply tied to protest, policing, and community, the absence of a tangible sense of Chicago is a missed opportunity.

Still, the performances strive to elevate the material. Arenas is the undeniable standout, bringing vitality and nuance to each of her roles. Whenever she takes the stage, the play briefly finds its pulse. Potts lends dignity to Mano, though the script gives him limited room to build a fully realized arc.

McCraney has proven himself to be a playwright of profound depth and clarity. Windfall gestures toward that brilliance but never quite achieves it. It is a communal experience, yes - but one that leaves you searching for emotional and narrative footing long after the final moment fades.

Somewhat Recommended

When:   Through May 31

Where:  Steppenwolf Theatre, 1650 N. Halsted

Tickets: $20 - $148.50

Box Office: 312-335-1650

www.steppenwolf.org

Shakespeare’s comedies share a familiar architecture: mistaken identity, disguises, intersecting plotlines, a generous helping of prose, and language that delights in wordplay and double entendre. They are also, crucially, driven by sharp, intelligent women who often see more clearly than the men around them. With that foundation in mind, Chicago Shakespeare Theater’s production of The Merry Wives of Windsor leans confidently into these conventions - and then accelerates them - resulting in a delightfully mischievous evening.

Directed with precision and pace by Phillip Breen, the production wastes no time settling in. It moves briskly, almost breathlessly at times. Breen understands that comedy, especially Shakespearean comedy, thrives on rhythm. Doors must slam at just the right moment, disguises must be revealed a beat too late, and jokes must land before the audience has time to anticipate them. Here, the timing is razor-sharp, aided immeasurably by a cast of 22 actors who navigate the text with clarity and ease.

Max Jones’ set design cleverly situates Windsor in a contemporary world of affluence and quiet excess. This is a town where privilege is not just visible - it is assumed. Children attend private school, men play rugby, and women occupy a social sphere of lunches and shopping that doubles as a kind of informal power network. The Garter Inn, rendered as a dimly lit bar with a billiards table anchoring the space, becomes a playground for Falstaff’s schemes. In contrast, Dr. Caius’ sterile office reception area offers a clinical absurdity, while the Ford household gleams with white carpeting, glass, and sweeping staircases - its opulence undercut by the chaos unfolding within. A particularly fluid set change transforms the space with near-magic, reinforcing the play’s obsession with illusion and transformation. The final forest scene, textured with dirt mounds and trees, grounds the production just enough before it tips fully into theatrical fantasy.

What emerges most clearly in this production is the idea that Windsor is a world turned slightly askew. No one is quite what they claim to be. The knight, Sir John Falstaff, is anything but noble - he is vain, opportunistic, and gloriously ridiculous. The doctor, Caius, is less healer than hot-headed rival, perpetually threatening violence. The clergyman’s thick accent renders him a subject of humor rather than authority. Even the Justice of the Peace seems more eager for confrontation than civility. It is a community in which status is worn like a costume—and just as easily discarded.

Photo by Kyle Flubacker.

At the center of it all are the “merry wives,” who prove themselves to be the most grounded and perceptive figures on stage. Ora Jones’ Mistress Page and Issy Van Randwyck’s Mistress Ford  anchor the production with wit and composure. They are never merely reactive; they orchestrate the action, turning Falstaff’s attempted manipulation into a series of escalating humiliations. Their intelligence drives the comedy, ensuring that the laughter always has a point of view.

The supporting cast is equally strong. Chike Johnson’s Master Page exudes an easy confidence, while Timothy Edward Kane’s Master Ford leans fully into the character’s jealousy, finding both humor and unease in his suspicion. Nate Burger’s Dr. Caius is a comic standout, his bluster and indignation landing with delightful force. Nancy Voigts brings a bustling energy to Mistress Quickly, threading together the play’s many schemes, while Paul Oakley Stovall’s Justice Shallow captures the absurdity of self-importance.

And then there is Jason Simon’s Falstaff - a performance that embraces the character’s excess without apology. Legend has it that Queen Elizabeth I so adored Falstaff that she demanded to see him in love. Here, however, Falstaff is in love with nothing so much as himself. Simon leans into that vanity, crafting a figure who is both despicable and irresistibly watchable. His repeated downfalls never diminish him; instead, they reveal the elasticity of his ego.

Ultimately, this production succeeds because it trusts the mechanics of Shakespearean comedy while fully committing to its world. Disguises are embraced, identities are blurred, and language sparkles with innuendo. Yet beneath the laughter lies a sharper observation: that power, status, and even identity itself are often performances. In Windsor, everyone is playing a role - some just play it better than others.

Highly Recommended

When:   Through May 3

Where:  Chicago Shakespeare Theater 800 East Grand Avenue in Chicago

Tickets:  $60 - $120

Box Office: 312-595-5600

Info: www.chicagoshakes.com

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

As I entered the black box studio at Chicago Shakespeare Theater, I’ll admit - I wasn’t in the best frame of mind. Before leaving home, I’d watched the news: the endless cycle of violence, bombings, and that tired “us versus them” narrative that seems to define our moment. My spirit felt worn down. On top of that, I had spent the day finishing a review from earlier in the week, so I arrived more drained than inspired. Theatre, on this night, felt like an obligation.

Then Mrs. Krishnan’s Party happened - and everything shifted.

Instead of the usual routine of being guided to my seat by The Saints, I was greeted at the door by James (Justin Rogers), dressed in an outfit that immediately caught my attention. He asked my name. We talked. It wasn’t forced or performative - it was genuinely human. By the time he led me to my seat, the invisible barrier between audience and performer had already begun to dissolve. He introduced me to the people around me: to my left, a well-traveled gentleman from Ohio by way of India; to my right, a mother and daughter who helped identify James’s attire as a South Indian costume, rich with cultural specificity. Already, I wasn’t just watching a show - I was part of a group.

That’s when I realized we were not simply audience members, but guests of James, who was hosting a surprise party for his landlady. The occasion is Onam - a vibrant harvest celebration rooted in the southern Indian state of Kerala. What unfolds is not just theatre, but an act of radical hospitality. Music pulses. Conversations bloom. Strangers become co-conspirators in joy. This show is more than immersive - it is enveloping, dissolving the line between performer and audience until you’re no longer watching a story, you’re living inside it.

This approach is the hallmark of Indian Ink Theatre Company, the New Zealand-based ensemble behind the production. Founded by Justin Lewis and Jacob Rajan in the late 1990s, the company has earned an international reputation for creating intimate, actor-driven works that blend South Asian storytelling traditions with contemporary theatre. Their work explores identity, migration, and cultural hybridity through a deeply human - and often humorous - lens. More than anything, they prioritize connection: their productions don’t just tell stories; they build shared experiences.

And that’s what undid me.

Photo courtesy of Indian Ink Theatre Company.

When Mrs. Krishnan (Kalyani Nagarajan) finally arrives, she is startled to find the back of her small shop filled with strangers. There’s hesitation - this wasn’t her plan - and beneath it, something heavier lingers. As the evening unfolds, we begin to feel the weight she carries: the loss of her husband, the quiet ache of a son - an architect - now gone. These moments settle into the space with a tender gravity, reminding us that her warmth is hard-earned.

And yet, just as the story begins to lean into that sorrow, the play grabs and lifts us again. Laughter breaks through, balloons appear. Music returns. The room brightens. What begins as disruption transforms into delight as she embraces the gathering and, in a gesture both intimate and communal, decides to cook daal for all of us. In that moment, grief and joy exist side by side—each making space for the other.

Somewhere between the laughter, the dancing, and the smell of daal, the heaviness I carried into the theatre dissolved. Not in a naïve or escapist way, but in a way that felt necessary. Soundly directed by Justin Lewis, the show doesn’t ignore the fractured world outside; it quietly insists on another possibility within it: community, warmth, shared humanity.

By the end of the evening, I realized I hadn’t just watched a play - I had been in community with people different than me, yet deeply the same. In a time when division dominates the headlines, Mrs. Krishnan’s Party offers something deceptively simple and profoundly radical: a room full of strangers choosing, for a moment, to be together.

And that, right now, feels like everything.

Recommended

When: Through May 3rd
Where: Chicago Shakespeare Theatre 800 East Grand Avenue in Chicago.
Tickets: $74 - $90

Box Office: 312.595.5600
Info:  www.chicagoshakespeare.com

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

Goodman Theatre’s production of Ma Rainey's Black Bottom arrives with the weight of expectation - and under the dual direction of Chuck Smith and Harry Lennix, it does not merely meet that weight, it reshapes it. This is not a revival of August Wilson’s searing text; it is a precise, muscular excavation of its tensions, its music, and its truths.

From the outset, the production leans into what makes Ma Rainey distinct within Wilson’s canon: its compression. There is no sprawling Hill District, no generational sweep - only a room, a day, and a reckoning. Smith and Lennix understand this pressure-cooker structure and allows it to simmer deliberately. The pacing is patient but never indulgent, each pause and eruption calibrated to expose the fractures between the woman, the men and the system that contains them.

At the center stands E. Faye Butler’s Ma Rainey, and “center” is not metaphorical - it is gravitational. Butler embodies what makes Ma singular among Wilson’s women: she is not surviving the system, she is making the system bend to her will. Where characters like Rose in Fences or Bertha in Joe Turner’s Come and Gone endure with moral resilience, Ma operates with economic and performative authority. Butler’s Ma is unapologetically self-possessed, openly sensual in her relationship with Dussie Mae, and fiercely aware of her value. Every demand - a Coca-Cola, a delay, a correction - is less eccentricity than strategy. She dictates the terms, and the room adjusts.

Surrounding her is a cast that functions both as ensemble and as volatile elements in a dramatic equation. Al’Jaleel McGhee’s Levee is electric, restless, and dangerously unmoored. He captures the tragic duality of the character: brilliance tethered to illusion. His performance builds like a slow burn until it detonates, revealing the unresolved trauma and misplaced faith in a system that will never reward him. In contrast, David Alan Anderson’s Cutler is grounded, pragmatic, a man who has learned the cost of survival. Kelvin Roston, Jr.’s Toledo brings intellectual weight, his reflections on Black identity landing with quiet force, while Cedric Young’s Slow Drag occupies the margins with understated authenticity.

The white power structure—embodied by Matt DeCaro’s Sturdyvant and Marc Grapey’s Irvin - is rendered with chilling subtlety. There is no overt villainy here, only the smooth machinery of exploitation. Irvin’s politeness is the point; it is the veneer that makes the system function.

Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom at Goodman Theatre. (L-R) Jabari Khaliq, E. Faye Butler, Kelvin Roston Jr.

Visually, the production is nothing short of exquisite. Linda Buchanan’s set design transforms the stage into a 1920s Chicago recording studio that feels both expansive and suffocating. The inclusion of distinct spaces - the recording area, control room, rehearsal room, even a suggestion of the street - creates a dynamic environment while maintaining the play’s essential confinement. This is a world built for observation and control.

Jared Gooding’s lighting design elevates this world into something almost cinematic. The suggestion of the Chicago Loop’s overhead train is particularly striking, its presence looming like an industrial heartbeat. Gooding uses light not just for visibility but for composition - creating tableaus, isolating tensions, and guiding the audience’s eye with precision.

And then there are Evelyn M. Danner’s costumes, which operate as visual dramaturgy. The color palette tells its own story: Irvin and Sturdyvant in stark black and white, embodiments of rigid power; the band in various shades of brown, signaling labor, reliability, and earthbound existence; and Ma Rainey in a commanding money-green dress, a walking declaration of her worth. Dussie Mae’s yellow flapper dress, accented with green, subtly marks her proximity to that wealth and power. Even Sylvester’s patterned brown attire hints at his connection to Ma’s orbit. Every choice is intentional, every color a statement.

What ultimately distinguishes this production is its understanding of language - not just Wilson’s text, but the music within it. The scenes among the band members crackle with rhythm and lyricism, their banter and arguments forming a kind of blues composition. It is beautiful, but volatile - a powder keg of masculinity, frustration, and deferred dreams.

What Chuck Smith and Harry Lennix achieve is extraordinary. They do not merely stage Ma Rainey's Black Bottom; they orchestrate it, allowing every performance, every design element, every silence to resonate with intention. Nowhere is that more evident than in Levee’s arc, where Al’Jaleel McGhee delivers a performance that simmers with ambition and barely contained rage, his volatility carefully shaped into a slow, inevitable unraveling.

This is direction of the highest order - precise, unflinching, and deeply attuned to the rhythms of Wilson’s language and the weight of his themes. What emerges is not just unforgettable theatre, but necessary theatre: a production that insists we listen more closely, look more deeply, and reckon more honestly with the truths it lays before us.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

When: Through May 3

Where: Goodman Theatre, 170 N. Dearborn St.

Tickets: $44-$84

Info: www.goodmantheatre.org

Box Office: 312-443-3800

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

Kirsten Greenidge’s Morning, Noon & Night, currently receiving its Midwestern premiere at Shattered Globe Theatre, is an ambitious, mind-bending exploration of the “new normal” in post-pandemic America. Greenidge, a playwright unafraid of tonal hybridity, situates her story at the uneasy intersection of middle-class and magical realism. Under AmBer Montgomery’s direction, the production attempts to navigate the landscape of family connection, digital surveillance, and the psychic fragmentation wrought by living life through digital screens.

The play unfolds over the course of a single day in the life of Mia, a work-from-home mother teetering on the edge of burnout. Kristin E. Ellis anchors the production with a performance that captures both the brittle humor and simmering desperation of a woman expected to hold everything together. Her Mia is perpetually toggling—between Zoom meetings and grocery lists, between maternal patience and private panic. Ellis embodies the quiet terror of a generation of women asked to endure the unendurable with a smile.

Opposite her, Emefa Dzodzomenyo gives Dailyn a restless, electric presence. As the hyper-aware Gen Z daughter oscillating between existential dread and a yearning for authentic connection, Dzodzomenyo resists caricature. Her Dailyn is sharp, wounded, and achingly perceptive—someone who has inherited not only climate anxiety and algorithmic pressure but also the emotional residue of her mother’s exhaustion.

The supporting cast deepens the sense of a household under strain. Christina Gorman’s Heather, Mia’s friend and confidant, functions as both comic relief and quiet warning sign—her lingering pandemic anxieties and conspiratorial asides suggest how prolonged fear can harden into identity. Hannah Antman and Soren Jimmie Williams lend a jittery immediacy to Nat and Chloe, capturing the skittish vulnerability of teens shaped by social media’s relentless gaze. That said, both performers read slightly younger than I imagined the characters to be, which subtly shifts the dynamic; their portrayals emphasize innocence and volatility over the more self-aware cynicism often associated with girls of that age.

The production’s most striking presence is Leslie Ann Sheppard as Miss Candice, a “Donna Reed  - Father Knows Best” AI-generated avatar of curated perfection who steps out of the algorithm and into the family’s living room. Sheppard’s performance is chilling in its serenity. With a voice that soothes and a gaze that scans, Miss Candice represents not simply technology but the seductive promise of optimized living—an influencer deity promising order amid chaos. Her presence pushes the play from realism into something more speculative, even dystopian.

Jackie Fox’s set and lighting design effectively ground the story in its post-pandemic malaise. The living room, cluttered yet aspirational, feels very lived-in and slightly unraveling. The use of projections is particularly striking; at times the audience feels as though it is peering through a phone screen. Notifications flicker, curated images intrude, and the boundary between the digital and the tangible dissolves. The design serves as a digital mirror—reflecting how social media refracts reality rather than simply documenting it.

Yet for all its thematic ambition, the production occasionally exposes a disconnect between script and staging. Greenidge clearly has much to say about female rage, consumerism, intergenerational trauma, and the violence of constant connectivity. However, Montgomery’s direction seems to engage these ideas primarily at a surface level, with moments of genuine thematic revelation passing too quickly to fully resonate. The result can feel unintentionally algorithmic—significant insights obscured beneath repetitive beats.

Moreover, despite the performances and the evocative design, the stakes never quite rise to meet the play’s expansive conceptual ambitions. Whether this disconnect stems from the script, or the direction is difficult to determine, but the result is the same: the looming threat of digital colonization and familial fracture hover suggestively rather than landing with decisive impact. The danger feels atmospheric instead of urgent, diffuse rather than devastating.

Morning, Noon & Night offers a portrait of contemporary anxiety, capturing the low-grade dread of a culture caught between the longing for authentic connections and the seductive pull of curated isolation. Like the screens it interrogates, the play pulses and glitches—at times mesmerizing, at times disquieting—but always insistently present, morning, noon & night.

RECOMMENDED

When: through March 28th

Where: Theater Wit, 1229 W Belmont Ave, Chicago, IL 60657

Running Time: 90 minutes no intermission

Tickets:  $20  -  $60

773-770-0333

www.sgtheatre.org/season-35/morning-noon-night

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

I love when I’m surprised by a writer I assume is new to the scene, only to discover she has been honing her craft for years, quietly building a body of work the rest of us somehow missed. I love it even more when that discovery feels like striking gold. Such is the case with Kristen Adele Calhoun. A superior writer—assured, funny, emotionally and culturally precise—whose name, until now, had somehow eluded me. With Black Cypress Bayou, now receiving an unbelievable production at Definition Theatre, Calhoun announces herself (at least to Chicago audiences) as a major voice worthy of far more attention than she has received.

Under the smart, lively direction of Ericka Ratcliff, this production hums with comic electricity and emotional undercurrent. Ratcliff clearly trusts the text, allowing its humor to bloom organically while never losing sight of the deeper currents flowing beneath the laughter. The result is a staging that feels both buoyant and grounded—like the bayou itself, shimmering on the surface while concealing depth below.

The play centers on the Manifold women, and Ratcliff has assembled a quartet of actresses whose distinct comedic styles interlock beautifully. Michelle Renee Bester’s Ladybird Manifold anchors the evening with sharp timing and a steadiness that suggests stern resolve and steel. Bester understands that the funniest lines land best when rooted in truth.

Rita Wicks, as RaeMeeka Manifold-Baler, nearly steals the show with a performance that is riotously funny without tipping into excess. Her physical comedy is precise, her reactions razor-sharp. She seems to ride the rhythm of Calhoun’s language like a seasoned jazz musician, finding unexpected grace notes in throwaway lines. The audience’s laughter often arrives in waves when she’s onstage.

RJW Mays brings Vernita Manifold to life with a grounded warmth that balances the more explosive personalities around her. There is a generosity in Mays’ work—a listening quality—that allows scenes to breathe. Meanwhile, Jyreika Guest’s Taysha Hunter offers a refreshing contrast: contemporary, alert, and emotionally transparent. Guest navigates the character’s shifting loyalties and vulnerabilities with admirable nuance.

What makes this ensemble particularly thrilling is that each performer operates in a different comedic key, yet Ratcliff orchestrates them into harmony. The tonal blend—broad, dry, wry, heartfelt—shouldn’t work as seamlessly as it does. But here, it absolutely does.

In a production centering women both onstage and behind the scenes, there is an undeniable sense of cohesion and purpose. Scenic designer Alyssa Mohn, lighting designer Conchita Avitia, and sound designer Willow James conjure a fishing wharf deep in the bayou that feels at once literal and slightly mystical. Weathered wood textures, humid washes of light, and the subtle lapping of unseen water create a world that breathes. The environment is not mere backdrop; it is an active presence.

The costumes further ground the characters in time, economic reality, and personality. Fabric choices, silhouettes, and wear patterns quietly communicate history. We understand who these women are before they speak.

Ratcliff has described Calhoun as “tragically under produced.” After seeing Black Cypress Bayou, that phrase lands with force. If the rest of Calhoun’s catalog carries even half the wit, structural confidence, and emotional intelligence on display here, then Chicago theatres—and American theatres more broadly—have some catching up to do. Calhoun’s other plays, including works that explore Black Southern life, intergenerational memory, and the elasticity of family bonds, reportedly continue her signature blend of humor and haunting. One leaves this production not only satisfied, but curious—eager to track down everything else she has written.

Definition Theatre has given this play the gift every writer deserves: a production that listens, that elevates, that celebrates. Black Cypress Bayou is not simply entertaining, it is invigorating. It reminds us that discovery is one of theatre’s great pleasures. And sometimes, the most thrilling “new” voice is one who has been waiting patiently for us to catch up.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

When: through March 15th

Where: Definition Theatre@55th, 1160 E. 55^th Street., Chicago, Il.

Running time: 90 minutes no intermission

Tickets: Start at $25

312-469-0390

definitiontheatre.org

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

There is something almost perversely apt about staging Miss Julie inside a birdcage.

Under the direction of Gabrielle Randle-Bent, August Strindberg’s most celebrated chamber play, Miss Julie—an autopsy of class warfare disguised as seduction—arrives at Court Theatre in a production as conceptually bold as it is frustratingly self-defeating. Scenic designer John Culbert places the entire action within a giant birdcage veiled in scrim. The metaphor is unmistakable: these three characters are trapped—by class, by gender, by desire, by the invisible architecture of hierarchy. Within this enclosure they circle one another warily, predator and prey trading positions until collision becomes combustion.

And yet, the scrim that literalizes Strindberg’s thesis also undermines the very essence of chamber drama.

Chamber plays depend on proximity. They require that we see the flicker of doubt before it becomes cruelty, the calculation before it becomes command. The scrim, however gauzy, creates a barrier. We are not fully privy to the faces or the minute mental machinations of the actors. Instead of sitting in the kitchen with them, breathing the same charged air, we observe as though through glass. The concept imprisons not only the characters but the audience.

Still, the performances press fiercely against those confines.

Mi Kang’s Miss Julie is volatile and wounded, her aristocratic arrogance masking a desperate hunger for annihilation. She plays Julie not as a naïve romantic but as a woman testing the edges of her own destruction. Kelvin Roston Jr.’s Jean is taut with ambition. His Jean calculates even while seducing; every flirtation carries the weight of social ascent. The push and pull between Kang and Roston Jr. has genuine danger, their exchanges tightening like wire.

Rebecca Spence’s Kristine, meanwhile, anchors the production with moral steadiness. Kristine is the quiet witness to the carnage—a woman whose survival depends on understanding the rules rather than challenging them.

Kelvin Roston Jr. and Mi Kang in Miss Julie at Court Theatre.

The uncredited score becomes an unexpected fourth character. It begins with what sounds like a restrained string quartet—orderly, almost classical—before devolving into ear-piercing, disconnected, harsh chords. The progression feels deliberate: a descent into madness mirroring Julie’s psychological unraveling. It is invasive, unsettling, and impossible to ignore.

Raquel Adorno’s costumes subtly delineate class distinctions without ostentation. Fabric and silhouette do the quiet work of social architecture. No detail feels accidental.

This may well be Strindberg’s season in Chicago. Across town, Steppenwolf Theatre Company is mounting The Dance of Death, another of the playwright’s bruising dissections of intimacy and entrapment. That two major companies are wrestling simultaneously with Strindberg’s merciless worldview suggests a cultural appetite for dramas in which love is war and escape is illusion.

Court Theatre’s Miss Julie, guided by Gabrielle Randle-Bent’s disciplined direction, understands that these characters are caged long before the lights rise. The tragedy is that the scrim—meant to emphasize their confinement—keeps us from fully experiencing the suffocating intimacy that makes the play detonate. Strindberg wrote this as chamber music for three instruments. When we cannot quite see the musicians’ fingers on the strings, some of the music is inevitably lost.

Even so, the production lingers. Like the final discordant notes of its score, it vibrates with unease long after the cage goes dark.

RECOMMENDED

When: through March 8th

Where: Court Theatre, 5535 S. Ellis Ave.

Running time: 90 minutes no intermission

Tickets: $60 - $90.00 Student, Group and military discounts available

773-753-4472

www.courttheatre.org

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

Collaboraction  Theatre Company could not have chosen a more resonant inaugural production for its new House of Belonging than Trial in the Delta: The Murder of Emmett Till. In this sleek, in-the-round studio in Humboldt Park, the company inaugurates its new home by opening an old wound—one that America has never fully allowed to heal. The result is not merely a staging of history, but an act of communal witnessing, one that insists the past is not past.

Co-adapted by G. Riley Mills and Willie Round and co-directed by Anthony Moseley and Dana N. Anderson, Trial in the Delta transforms the 1955 courtroom proceedings in Sumner, Mississippi, into a visceral live docudrama. Actors emerge, take the stand, and deliver testimony drawn from the long-buried trial transcript of Roy Bryant and J.W. Milam, the men who kidnapped and murdered 14-year-old Emmett Till. In this immersive setting, spectators are not allowed the comfort of distance. You are seated inside the machinery of injustice.

The production’s most devastating power lies in its restraint. This is not melodrama; it is documentation made theatrical. When NK Gutiérrez steps forward as Mamie Till-Bradley, the room seems to recalibrate its breathing. Her presence is not performative grief but moral force. Mamie’s insistence on truth—her refusal to look away, her demand that the world see what was done to her son—becomes the spiritual engine of the evening. Darren Jones’s Mose Wright, Mysun Aja Wade’s Willie Reed and Donald Fitzdarryl’s Chester Miller, embody the perilous bravery of Black witnesses testifying in a Jim Crow courtroom, where truth itself was an act of defiance.

The ensemble functions as a grim chorus of American roles: judges, clerks, journalists, sheriffs, defendants, and bystanders. Richard Alan Baiker’s Judge Curtis Swango carries the chilly authority of a system that pretends neutrality while protecting white supremacy. Tyler Burke and Matt Miles, as Roy Bryant and J.W. Milam, avoid caricature; their ordinariness is the horror. Evil here is not monstrous but banal, upheld by procedure and custom. That banality is the production’s sharpest blade.

Prosecutor Gerald Chatham (John Henry Roberts, center) holds a photo of Emmett Till as he asks Till’s murderers Roy Bryant (Tyler Burke, left ) and J.W. Milam (Matt Miles, right) if they recognize their victim, as Till’s mother Mamie Bradley (NK Gutiérrez) looks on, in Collaboraction's Trial in the Delta: The Murder of Emmett Till. 

Emmy Weldon’s set and Levi Wilkins’s lighting make elegant use of Collaboraction’s new 99-seat flexible studio, shaping the room into a courtroom that feels both provisional and eternal—anywhere, anytime. Shawn Wallace’s original music hums beneath the proceedings like a low current of grief and warning, while Warren Levon’s sound design places the audience inside a sonic environment of testimony, tension, and aftermath. The design team’s work never distracts; it quietly conspires with the text to tighten the emotional vise.

What distinguishes this staging from earlier iterations is how fully the new space is activated as a moral arena. The reserved jury seating—occupied by audience members—does more than gesture at interactivity. It implicates. You are reminded, without theatrical gimmickry, that verdicts are rendered not only in courtrooms but in communities, institutions, and histories. The post-show “Crucial Conversation” deepens that charge, extending the production beyond performance into dialogue—an extension of Collaboraction’s KEDA methodology in action.
KEDA—Knowledge, Empathy, Dialogue, and Action—frames the company’s belief that theatre should not end with reflection, but move audiences toward change.

Opening the House of Belonging with Trial in the Delta is a statement of values. This is not a theater christened with spectacle or escapism, but with reckoning. In a cultural moment eager to repackage or blunt the edges of history, Collaboraction insists on confrontation. The question the production leaves behind is not simply what happened in 1955, but what we have allowed to keep happening since.

Trial in the Delta: The Murder of Emmett Till does not offer catharsis. It offers clarity. It reminds us that justice delayed is not just justice denied—it is justice rehearsed in different forms, across different bodies, in different decades. In Collaboraction’s new home, the walls are fresh, the tech is state-of-the-art, and the future feels open. But the story told on opening night is a reminder that belonging, in America, has always been contested—and that the work of making it real is unfinished.Top of Form

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

When: Extended through March 29th!

Where: Kimball Arts Center, 1757 N. Kimball Ave

Running time: under two hours, including a short Crucial Conversation after every performance

Tickets: $25 - $55.00 (10% discount for groups of 10 or more)

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(312) 226-9633

Patti LuPone’s long-running concert piece Matters of the Heart unfolded on the stage of the National Historic Landmark The Auditorium Theatre not as a greatest-hits parade, but as a seasoned artist’s intimate conversation with her own past. Premiering some 25 years ago at Lincoln Center’s Vivian Beaumont Theater in New York City, the show has aged not into nostalgia, but into something more textured: a living scrapbook of memory, mischief, heartbreak, and hard-won grace.

LuPone has always commanded a fiercely loyal LGBTQ following, and the sold-out house in Chicago testified to that enduring bond. The atmosphere felt at times like a cabaret. You could sense an audience primed not merely to applaud, but to commune. There was something for everyone here—Broadway diehards, pop romantics, and those who come for the diva energy and stay for the vulnerability.

Accompanied by a pianist and a string quartet, LuPone curated a program that balanced theatrical bravura with intimate confession. Her Broadway selections landed with the authority of a performer who has lived inside these songs. “I’m In Love with a Wonderful Guy” from South Pacific sparkled; “Not a Day Goes By” from Merrily We Roll Along unfurled in aching, mature regret. “Being Alive” from Company—the great anthem of ambivalent longing—rang with the clarity of someone who has wrestled with love and come back wiser, if not unscarred. “Back to Before” from Ragtime surged with emotional velocity, while her unexpected, intriguingly restrained take on “Easy to Be Hard” from Hair reframed youthful protest as weary, rueful remembrance.

LuPone’s comic timing remains lethal. Her wry humor bubbled up in “Shattered Illusions,” “Better Off Dead,” and “I Never Do Anything Twice,” songs that let her weaponize self-awareness and mischief in equal measure. She skewers romance and ego with relish, but never without implicating herself in the joke. This is the diva who knows her myth and plays with it. And the surprises. “God Only Knows” by The Beach Boys arrived like a soft confession, stripped of pop gloss and steeped in tenderness. “Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper was rendered not as a radio staple but as a promise dedicated to her family. These choices reveal LuPone’s instinct for emotional translation, taking familiar songs and making them speak in a new dialect.

Most affecting were the quieter moments, where LuPone let her guard down. In “Unexpressed,” “Alone Again (Naturally),” “The Air That I Breathe,” “Sand and Water,” “My Father,” and “Look Mummy, No Hands,” she showed a softer, contemplative side—less brassy legend, more vulnerable human being. These songs felt like pages torn from a private journal, offered up without ornament. It was here that Matters of the Heart earned its title.

LuPone, being the diva that she be, did get into a little kerfuffle this past summer with the theatre community. She apologized, took responsibility and, as these things tend to go in a resilient artistic ecosystem, everyone seems to have moved on. There are bigger issues pressing on the country today, and this evening reminded us that art’s role is not to litigate old wounds, but to open space for empathy.

In a moment when America feels increasingly brittle, Matters of the Heart lands as a small act of emotional repair. We could all use more love in this country right now—more listening, more generosity of spirit, more room for contradiction. LuPone, in all her fire and fragility, offered exactly that: a reminder that hearts break, heal, and, if we’re lucky, learn to sing again.

National Historic Landmark

The Auditorium

50 E Ida B Wells Dr, Chicago, IL 60605

312.341.2300