At the Auditorium Theatre, a building that itself carries the muscle memory of American performance history, the Martha Graham Dance Company marked its 100th anniversary with an evening that felt less like a retrospective than a living argument for why Graham still matters. This was not modern dance preserved in amber. It was modern dance breathing—angular, emotional, political, and insistently present.

Artistic Director Janet Eilber framed the evening with contextual remarks that were both generous and incisive, situating each work within Graham’s evolving artistic philosophy while emphasizing the company’s commitment to keeping these dances alive rather than embalmed. Founded in 1926, the Martha Graham Dance Company stands as the oldest modern dance company in the world, and its influence is nearly impossible to overstate. Graham shattered ballet’s decorative restraint, replacing it with contraction and release, emotional excavation, and a radical insistence that the body could think, rage, mourn, and remember. Entire generations of choreographers—from Merce Cunningham to Paul Taylor to Alvin Ailey—emerged from her orbit.

The first half of the program traced an emotional arc from love to grief to collective urgency. Diversion of Angels opened the evening with its luminous exploration of love’s many incarnations. Structured lyrically rather than narratively, the ballet presents three couples—youthful, mature, and seasoned—each embodying a different phase of intimacy. Norman Dello Joio’s undulating score supports movement that is buoyant yet grounded, joyful without sentimentality. The work’s Chicago roots add a quiet historical resonance: it premiered here 77 years ago under its current title, having debuted the year before as Wilderness Stair. Seen now, it feels ageless, its athletic lyricism and emotional clarity undimmed.

If Diversion of Angels celebrates connection, Lamentation confronts isolation and loss with ferocious simplicity. Premiered in 1930, the solo remains one of the most iconic works in modern dance. The dancer, seated and encased in a tube of purple jersey, becomes a living sculpture of grief. The fabric stretches, strains, and reshapes under the pressure of the body, creating stark diagonals and suspended tensions. The figure is deliberately abstract—neither gendered nor humanized—grief made manifest. The anecdote Graham often shared, of a woman who found permission to grieve after witnessing the work, still echoes here. Nearly a century later, Lamentation retains its power to dignify sorrow without theatrical excess.

The first half concluded with En Masse, choreographed by Hope Boykin, an Alvin Ailey alum, and receiving its Chicago premiere during this centennial engagement. Built around a rediscovered shard of Leonard Bernstein’s music—sketches believed to have been composed for Graham and later shaped by composer Christopher Rountree—the work bridges generations. Boykin’s choreography channels Graham’s collective intensity while speaking in a contemporary vocabulary. The dancers move as a charged unit, bodies surging and fragmenting, suggesting both solidarity and strain. It is a smart, muscular addition to the repertory, affirming that Graham’s legacy is not static but generative.

The second half belonged entirely to Chronicle, one of Graham’s rare openly political works and a striking reminder of her moral clarity. Created in response to her refusal to participate in the 1936 Olympics in Nazi Germany, the work is performed by an all-women cast and pulses with defiance. Its three movements confront war, nationalism, and resistance not through literal narrative but through embodied protest—sharp footwork, grounded stances, and unyielding group formations. In today’s political climate, Chronicle feels unsettlingly current, its urgency undiminished.

What made this anniversary evening resonate was not nostalgia but conviction. The Martha Graham Dance Company did not ask the audience to admire history; it demanded that we feel it—in our bodies, in our grief, in our collective responsibility. At 100 years old, Graham’s work remains unapologetically modern, and this performance made clear that her revolutionary spirit is still very much in motion.

Celebrating Women Leaders in Dance

25-26 Season

The Auditorium
50 E Ida B Wells Dr, Chicago, IL 60605
312.341.2300

We often forget that The Taming of the Shrew is, at its core, a play within a play - a bit of theatrical mischief in which characters watch other characters pretend. Marti Lyons’s ambitious new adaptation for Court Theatre not only remembers this but revels in it. She reframes Shakespeare’s battle-of-wills as a private, immersive experience for five elite guests - figures who could easily have wandered off the set of Succession—invited to indulge in a curated world of erotica, fantasy, and power play. This is not like any production of Shrew I have ever seen. And I love it.

Lyons taps into the erotic charge embedded in Shakespeare’s text. For Lyons the struggle between Kate and Petruchio isn’t a patriarchal lesson but a provocation - an invitation to consider what people consent to in the privacy of their desires, even when those desires run counter to their public personas. In fantasy, we try on identities we might never inhabit in daylight. Could Kate, in this telling, actually be exercising her agency by consenting to a submissive role in her intimate life while fiercely maintaining her autonomy in her public life? The question lingers.

The production openly engages with bondage, discipline, dominance, submission and S&M,  - not as taboo spectacle but as a consensual system built on trust, communication, and negotiated power. This is especially evident at Petruchio’s house.  Instead of treating Kate’s submission as Shakespeare’s dreaded moral, Lyons reframes it as a conversation about desire and embodiment. The cast leans into this with a refreshing clarity: pleasure, not punishment, drives the story. Power is a game, and everyone in the room is choosing to play.

By foregrounding the play-within-the-play structure, Lyons opens a fertile space not only to re-engage with the text but to ask ourselves uncomfortable, thrilling questions about love and control, submission and domination, agency and desire. It is rare for a Shrew to feel so sensual and so intellectually alive.

Much of the production’s force comes from its ensemble. As Katherina, Melisa Soledad Pereyra embodies fire, humor, and hunger—a woman who knows her own body and mind. Her chemistry with Jay Whittaker’s Petruchio is the engine of the evening: two equals circling, sparring, testing limits until the battle between them becomes a dance. Netta Walker’s Bianca is no docile ingénue; she claims her place with confident wit. Samuel Taylor, Nate Santana, and Dexter Zollicoffer bring sharp comedic flavor to Hortensio, Lucentio, and Gremio, while Ryder Dean McDaniel anchors Tranio with duplicitous cunning. The supporting cast - Alex Weisman, Monica West, and others - soften and sharpen the edges of the world as needed.

The design team conjures a world where erotic imagination thrives. Jackie Fox’s scenic design refashions Court Theatre into a sensuous playground of marble black-and-white tiled floors, sculpted statues, expansive botanical murals, and imposing wooden doors. Kotryna Hilko’s costumes heighten the atmosphere with daring textures - leather for Petruchio, jewel-toned gowns for the women, jacquard damask for the aristocrats - each piece balancing revelation and restraint, structure and seduction. Every visual element underscores Lyons’s central argument: desire is a kind of performance, and every performance is a negotiation of power.

This Taming of the Shrew pulses not with brute domination but with the sensual, exacting choreography of consent. Lyons doesn’t blunt the play’s jagged edges; she sharpens them into tools of erotic inquiry. Her staging invites us to feel the heat of what is given freely, the tautness of what is deliberately withheld, and the exhilaration of boundaries tested - then mutually defined.

Court Theatre’s production doesn’t simply reinterpret Shrew; it challenges us to reinterpret ourselves. By grounding the story in erotic power exchange and consciously negotiated dynamics, Lyons’s adaptation pushes us to confront the desires we rarely articulate. What do we relinquish willingly? What pleasure do we find in surrender? And what power do we claim by choosing when—and to whom—we yield? In Lyons’s hands, the theatre becomes a chamber of self-interrogation, where the line between performance and private longing thins, and we’re invited to examine the fantasies that shape us as intimately as any script.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

When: through Dec 14TH

Where: Court Theatre, 5535 S. Ellis Ave.

Running Time: 2 hours, 30 minutes 15 minute intermission

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

773-753-4472

www.courttheatre.org

New York City’s Hell’s Kitchen has birthed countless New Yorkers, none more recognized than 15-time Grammy Award winner Alicia Keys. Her life and artistry is now on display in  Hell’s Kitchen, the 2024 Tony award winning musical that arrived at Chicago’s Nederlander Theatre with a pulse as electric as the city it portrays. This is not your traditional jukebox musical. Hell’s Kitchen is a vibrant coming-of-age story where Keys’ music and Kristoffer Diaz’s book blend into a dramatically coherent whole.

The show’s beauty lies in its simplicity. Keys’ songs—familiar, melodic, emotionally direct—gain new shape and meaning when reframed for the Broadway stage. Unlike many jukebox musicals that force a narrative between pre-existing hits, Hell’s Kitchen succeeds because the music is truly part of the storytelling. Songs burst forward from moments of conflict, hope, and self-realization.

Hell’s Kitchen grounds its coming-of-age story in a web of relationships that shape and challenge young Ali, played with vivid intensity by Mya Drake. Questions of identity, belonging, and the messy beauty of adolescence come alive through her interactions with the adults and peers orbiting her turbulent world. Kennedy Caughell, as Jersey, embodies the protective-but-exasperated single mother whose love is both a shield and a boundary Ali keeps trying to outgrow. Ali’s tentative steps into first love—with JonAvery Worrell’s tender, conflicted Knuck—reflect the musical’s exploration of risk, desire, and the thrill of discovering your own heart for the first time. Mentorship emerges through the luminous presence of Roz White’s Miss Liza Jane, whose soulful, heartbreaking performance of “Perfect Way to Die” becomes a moment of clarity and grounding for Ali, reminding her that art can be both refuge and truth.

Family fracture, forgiveness, and urban resilience—are sharpened by the presence of Desmond Sean Ellington as Davis, Ali’s charismatic yet unreliable father. His complicated reentry into her life forces Ali to confront the emotional cracks she’d rather outrun. Chicago’s own Rashada Dawan brings strength and warmth to Crystal, adding texture to the story’s portrait of a community that raises, corrects, and ultimately protects its young people.

Hell’s Kitchen illustrates that growing up is rarely linear; it’s a dizzying blend of rebellion, discovery, heartbreak, and hope. Each character becomes a catalyst on Ali’s path toward finding her voice—both literally and spiritually, making the musical not just a story of one girl’s awakening, but a testament to the many hands it takes to shape a life.

The production’s physical world is equally alive. Scenic designer Robert Brill constructs a shifting jungle of steel girders and moving balconies that evoke a city in constant motion and perpetual construction. The set rises, retracts, and reconfigures like the city breathing. Lighting designer Natasha Katz amplifies this effect, creating a cityscape that refuses to sleep. Peter Nigrini’s projection design layers in close-up neighborhood imagery—street signs, building façades, glimpses of densely packed blocks—giving the illusion of living within a compact, ever-changing metropolis.

Choreographer Camille A. Brown infuses the show with organic motion, ensuring dance erupts naturally from each scene. Her work is sharp, grounded, and filled with communal energy, yet always tethered to character and environment rather than spectacle for spectacle’s sake. The costumes, period-specific, complement the choreography’s sense of youthful turbulence.

What ultimately makes Hell’s Kitchen resonate is its emotional clarity. It is a musical about becoming—about the messy, joyous, painful years when identity is still elastic and the world feels both infinite and suffocating. Keys’ music underscores these feelings with sincerity, and Chicago’s production honors that sincerity with a heartfelt, high-voltage performance.

Hell’s Kitchen is not just a tribute to a neighborhood or an artist; it is a celebration of the resilient young people who learn to sing above the city’s roar.

Highly Recommended
When: Through November 30
Where: James M. Nederlander Theatre 24 W. Randolph Chicago
Tickets: $50 - $149
Info: www.broadwayinchicago.com/shows/hells-kitchen/

America’s greatest sin is its obsession with race and skin color. From the first toll of the Liberty Bell, the nation has measured who is free and who is owned by the color of their skin. In Marcus Gardley’s The House That Will Not Stand, now given a rich and haunting revival by Invictus Theatre Company, that obsession becomes both a weapon and a wound. Gardley resurrects the forgotten world of Creole New Orleans—where wealth, whiteness, and womanhood are tangled together in knots—and transforms it into something exquisite, unsettling, and deeply human.

This production marks Invictus’s first offering since their remarkable Angels in America, and it stands as an equally compelling successor. Guided by the skillful direction of Aaron Reese Boseman, The House That Will Not Stand unfolds as both a gothic ghost story and a poignant parable about the boundaries of freedom in 1813 New Orleans—a city poised between the fading opulence of French colonialism and the strict racial divisions of the emerging American regime.

Britt Edwards commands the stage as Beartrice Albans, a proud free woman of color who has built her wealth and status through the plaçage system, a quasi-legal arrangement allowing Creole women to become the common-law wives of white men. With her lover, Lazare (played by the excellent Ron Quade), freshly dead and his body still on display in the parlor, Beartrice fights to protect her three daughters and her legacy as her world begins to crumble.

Those daughters—each beautifully rendered—embody the next generation’s struggle for identity. Kaylah Marie Crosby’s Agnès glows with youthful yearning, dreaming of love as a path to freedom. Sierra Coachman’s Maude Lynn retreats into rigid piety, while Aysia Slade’s Odette exudes charm and sharp wit, a realist surviving through grace and guile. Together, they capture Gardley’s kaleidoscope of womanhood—three shades of resistance against their mother’s rigid control.

Jimiece Gilbert’s Marie Josephine, the proverbial “crazy aunt in the attic,” turns her confinement into revelation. Her mad visions bridge the world of the living and the dead, anchoring Boseman’s ghostly approach to the story. Her voice, equal parts anguish and prophecy, reminds us that this is not just family melodrama—it’s historical haunting. Sandra Adjoumani brings a sly, spectral energy as La Veuve, the perpetual widow.

Meanwhile, Shenise Brown’s Makeda, the enslaved servant, gives the play its spiritual gravity. Her connection to African ancestry and unseen forces makes her both witness and conscience. Brown’s performance glows quietly, her stillness and humor cutting through Beartrice’s bluster with earthy wisdom.

Boseman’s direction leans into Gardley’s gothic sensibility. He treats the house as a living ghost, filled with whispers, candlelight, and secrets too heavy to contain. Scenic designer Kevin Rolfs has crafted a stunning 1800s New Orleans mansion divided into multiple playing areas: the elegant sitting room, the cool upstairs bedroom, the claustrophobic attic of Marie Josephine, and even the alcove where Lazare’s body lies in state. Levi Wilkins’s lighting balances warmth and eeriness, evoking both haunted house and holy shrine, while Terri Devine’s costumes—from black brocade mourning dresses to shimmering African prints and head wraps—are, as the name suggests, simply divine.

Still, not every element lands perfectly. While Edwards delivers Beartrice’s fiery pride with conviction, she occasionally overplays the register—spending much of the evening at full volume. Some lines blur in the shouting, and Gardley’s intricate text, already rich with historical and cultural nuance, sometimes gets lost. A few accents also stray, making the language harder to follow.

Gardley’s play doesn’t just dramatize America’s obsession with race—it excavates it. The story unfolds in the very region where mixed-race identities were codified into law, a world not far removed from the history of Pope Leo XIII’s own Creole ancestry. Gardley asks what happens when power, beauty, and belonging are measured by the shade of one’s skin—and Invictus answers with a production that is both eerie and elegant, steeped in laughter and lament.

In The House That Will Not Stand, ghosts are not just memories; they are the architecture of a nation still learning how to live with its past.

Highly Recommended
When: Through December 14
Where:  Invictus Theatre @ Windy City Playhouse, 3014 W Irving Park Rd, Chicago
Tickets: $25 - $38
Info: Invictustheatreco.com

TimeLine Theatre opens its 29th season with the world premiere of Hundreds and Hundreds of Stars, a deeply personal and politically charged play written by and starring Sandra Delgado. Under the careful direction of Kimberly Senior, the production folds an intimate family drama into the broader context of immigration under the Obama administration — a time when the tension between belonging and legality became a defining national paradox.

Delgado plays Clara, a woman whose life reads like a quintessential American story: educated in U.S. schools, an unemployed professional, a mother, an ex-wife paying alimony, and the devoted caretaker of her aging, recently widowed father. Yet, she carries one crucial distinction — Clara was born in Mexico. In the eyes of the government, despite her decades of living and contributing to the United States, she exists in a fragile legal limbo. It is this tension — between a lived sense of home and the precarity of status — that fuels Delgado’s heartfelt and sometimes haunting narrative.

The story unfolds in 2015, the final years of the Obama administration, when the nation’s immigration policy embodied contradictions. While Obama extended compassion through programs like DACA, his administration also deported more immigrants than any before it. It’s within that fraught atmosphere that Clara’s life unravels. As she plans an overseas trip, a bureaucratic hiccup exposes a youthful misstep from her past, threatening her livelihood, family, and even her right to remain in the country she calls home. What follows is both a bureaucratic nightmare and a spiritual reckoning, as Clara gazes skyward — toward “hundreds and hundreds of stars” — seeking guidance, belonging, and deliverance.

Senior’s direction is restrained and elegant, allowing Delgado’s writing to shimmer through the emotional and political layers of the story. The ensemble’s performances are uniformly grounded and generous. Ramón Camin gives Papi, Clara’s father, a stoic dignity — a man bound by nostalgia yet dependent on his daughter to navigate his new reality. Joshua David Thomas brings humor and restless charm to Ruben, Clara’s cousin, who juggles nursing school and low-level marijuana dealing with a kind of defiant optimism. Charlotte Arias’s Stella, Clara’s tween daughter with dreams of Paris, radiates a mix of giddy excitement at learning a new language and the tender angst of adolescence, embodying a generation eager to explore the world yet uncertain of their place within it. Charin Alvarez, playing every other woman in Clara’s orbit — from her attorney to her mother — threads the production together with wit, wisdom, and warmth.

Visually, the production achieves a graceful fluidity. Regina Garcia’s open set transforms seamlessly into apartments, offices, and memory spaces with minimal rearrangement, while Christine Binder’s lighting washes scenes in mood and emotion — from sterile bureaucratic glare to dreamlike luminescence. Willow James’s sound design and music further enrich the experience, grounding the play’s political urgency in emotional resonance.

Hundreds and Hundreds of Stars succeed because it is not a lecture on immigration policy, but a human portrait drawn from it. Delgado reminds us that behind every policy statistic — behind every deportation — lies a web of families, debts, dreams, and love stories. Clara’s story is one of endurance and faith, a meditation on identity and the invisible lines that divide “citizen” from “other.” In blending the personal and the political, TimeLine Theatre has once again illuminated how history lives — and aches — within the human heart.

Highly Recommended

When: Through November 9th

Where: Lookingglass Theatre, 163 E. Pearson Street

Running time: 90 minutes

Tickets: $40 - $95

(773)-287-8463

www.Timelinetheatre.com

Goodman Theatre launches its 2025/26 season at the Owen with Revolution(s), a world premiere musical that thunders with urgency and defiance. Written by Zayd Ayers Dohrn—2016 Horton Foote New American Play Prize winner and son of Bill Ayers, co-founder of the Weather Underground—the play carries the weight of history and the pulse of rebellion. With music by Tom Morello of Rage Against the Machine and Audioslave fame and direction by Steve H. Broadnax III, Revolution(s) explodes onto the stage as both a call to arms and a meditation on generational resistance.

Dohrn’s daring script weaves two timelines into one charged narrative. In 1989, African-American veteran Leon (Al’Jaleel McGhee) and his quick-thinking, idealistic wife Emma (Jackie Burns) find themselves fugitives, forced to flee with their newborn twin sons. Their flight captures the uneasy tension of a generation torn between paranoia and hope—a time when the dream of revolution still felt urgent and within reach. Fast forward to 2016, and those twins, now adults, grapple with the legacy their parents left behind. Hampton (Aaron James McKenzie), scarred by his service in Afghanistan, abandons his post and returns to Chicago’s South Side and to Lucia (Alysia Velez), his undocumented girlfriend who anchors him to a fragile sense of home. His brother Ernie (Jakiem Hart), once a prodigy on the guitar, has withdrawn from both his talent and the world—until Hampton’s unraveling forces him to confront the very past he’s been avoiding.

Broadnax directs with a ferocity that mirrors the play’s title, blending moments of tenderness and chaos with cinematic precision. He builds scenes that combust with tension and intimate ache, often within the same breath. The design work—gritty projections, steel scaffolding, and stark, rhythmic lighting—evokes both the bunker of a warehouse and the battlefield. There’s an immediacy here: revolution is not a metaphor, but a lived inheritance.

(L-R) Jakeim Hart and Aaron James McKenzie in Revolution(s).

Then there’s the music—pure Morello. The score, straight from the Rage Against the Machine playbook, fuses electric rebellion with spiritual yearning. Songs like “Battle Sirens,” “Hold the Line,” and “Whatever It Takes” roar as anthems of resistance, while “Rise to Power” and “Promenade” reveal unexpected warmth and vulnerability. The songs don’t so much advance the narrative as expand it, offering philosophical texture instead of plot propulsion. In Revolution(s), music is both protest and prayer—an act of survival.

What happens when the spirit of rebellion is passed down like trauma? What does it mean to inherit both resistance and loss? Revolution(s) suggests that revolution isn’t merely an act—it’s a legacy, coded into the body like memory or pain. Leon and Emma’s defiance becomes both a beacon and a burden for their sons, who carry the scars of a fight they didn’t choose but can’t escape. For Hampton, rebellion manifests as a restless need to confront authority—even when the war he’s fighting is within himself. For Ernie, it’s the refusal to participate, a quieter but no less radical protest against expectation. The play’s most haunting insight is that revolution reshapes generations; its victories inspire, but its wounds linger.

Dohrn’s writing captures this duality with compassion and fury, showing that to inherit rebellion is to inherit a question—how do you keep fighting without becoming consumed by the fire your parents lit?

Revolution(s) is a work of conviction—raw, restless, and unapologetically alive. It asks hard questions about legacy, freedom, and what we’re willing to sacrifice for change. In a cultural moment of complacency by our elected representatives, Revolution(s) doesn’t just remind us of what rebellion sounds like—it dares us to remember why it matters.

Highly Recommended

When: Through Nov. 16th
Where: Goodman Theater (170 N. Dearborn)
Tickets: $34-$104
Info: goodmantheatre.org

*This review is also shared on https://www.theatreinchicago.com/!  

Amiri Baraka’s Dutchman remains one of the most incisive allegories in American drama—a modern tale in which seduction, power, and racial history collide in the confined space of a subway car. Trap Door Theatre’s production, directed with precision and calculated risk by Keith Surney, resurrects the play’s mythic and political undercurrents, deepening its resonance as both ritual and warning.

Baraka titled his 1964 play after the legend of the Flying Dutchman, the ghost ship doomed to sail the seas forever, unable to find port. In Baraka’s interpretation, a subway car becomes that ship—an eternal vessel circling the underworld of American consciousness. The passengers are ghosts of history; the cycle of desire and destruction never ends. Surney underscores the play’s endless cycle of seduction and destruction by dividing Lula among three actresses—Carolyn Benjamin (white dress), Genevieve Corkery (red dress), and Ali Foley (blue dress)—each embodying a different facet of America’s recurring racial performance. Together, they form a chorus of seduction and menace, representing the shifting faces of white America—erotic, violent, and self-possessed. Their presence before the play begins, prowling the stage like sirens holding apples, transforms the theatre into a space of temptation and foreboding.

Surney himself plays Clay, the young Black intellectual aboard this spectral train unaware of his fate. His Clay is both composed and vulnerable—buttoned suit, tie, but no shirt—an image that literalizes the illusion of assimilation stripped of safety. Lula, one at a time, approaches him with the ferocity of predators, their sexuality exaggerated to the edge of discomfort. Surney embraces that discomfort deliberately, making it clear that the erotic tension in Baraka’s play is not merely physical—it is historical, rooted in the dangerous seductions of American liberalism and white desire.

The production’s design reinforces the tension between abstraction and reality. Viscaya Wilson’s bare stage of metal poles offers a skeletal suggestion of a subway car, though it lacks the oppressive grit that defines the New York underground. For a native New Yorker, the environment may not fully convince, yet its sparseness allows the actors’ physical and emotional choreography to dominate the space. Gary Damico’s lighting cuts through the minimalism - isolating bodies in sharp contrast.  The uncredited sound design fills in what the set omits. The deep metallic rumbles immerse the audience in a world both real and hallucinatory, the jazz soundscape itself becoming the heartbeat of Baraka’s infernal train.

At moments, Surney allows erotic interplay to linger past its breaking point, delaying the eruption of Clay’s righteous fury. Yet when that fury finally arrives, the scene ignites with the same volatility that scandalized audiences in 1964. The words still wound; the violence still feels inevitable.

One critic described Baraka’s original Dutchman as “an explosion of hatred,” a reflection of a truth white America could barely confront. Trap Door Theatre’s version does not soften that explosion—it contextualizes it. Baraka’s play is a parable of historical repetition. The subway, like the ghost ship, circles endlessly, carrying the same sins and the same souls. In this staging, Dutchman becomes a ritual exorcism—a reminder that America’s voyage through its own darkness is far from over.

Baraka would soon transform from LeRoi Jones, the bohemian poet of downtown New York, into Amiri Baraka, the militant architect of the Black Arts Movement. Dutchman marks that turning point—a theatrical bridge between personal identity and collective consciousness. Surney’s production captures this moment of awakening, reminding us that Baraka’s rage was never chaos but clarity: a demand that America look into its mirror and recognize the ghost at its shoulder. Trap Door Theatre’s Dutchman sails that ghost ship again, not to escape the curse, but to make us hear, once more, the hum of its unending voyage beneath our feet.

That clarity also defines Keith Surney’s directorial debut, a bold and fearless entry that takes genuine risks—some raw, some revelatory— announcing a director unafraid to challenge both text and audience. If Dutchman is a voyage into the heart of America’s contradictions, Surney steers it with both daring and intellect. I’ll be looking to see more of him in the future.

Highly Recommended

When: Through October 25

Where: Trapdoor Theatre, 1655 W Cortland St, Chicago

Running time: 50 minutes

Tickets: $22

773-384-0494

https://www.trapdoortheatre.com

Rajiv Joseph’s Mr. Wolf is a striking departure from the warmth and humor of his recent King James. Where King James used the comfort of sports as a language of friendship, Mr. Wolf asks us to sit inside the fragile, fractured space of trauma. In Steppenwolf’s intimate production, ensemble member K. Todd Freeman directs with an unflinching precision that refuses to soften the material. His approach creates a space where silence weighs as heavily as dialogue, where each pause presses the audience closer to the raw pulse of grief, survival, and uneasy healing. This is a small play set against a very large world, and its intimacy makes it resonant.

The play centers on Theresa (Emilie Maureen Hanson), a teenager recently rescued after twelve years of captivity. Her abductor, Mr. Wolf (Tim Hopper), is not only a predator but also an astronomy professor who reshaped her entire worldview with cosmic metaphors, rigid theories, and apocalyptic visions. For Theresa, the cosmos—and Mr. Wolf—are inseparable. He does not see the stars as sources of wonder but as proof of his twisted logic.

Mr. Wolf bends the language of science into a doctrine of control. Whereas most scientists keep religion and science in separate spheres, he blurs that boundary, turning the vastness of the universe into a kind of scripture. He declares Theresa a prophetess of the cosmos, teaching her to view the stars not through physics and wonder but through his rigid, apocalyptic framework. Hopper embodies this chilling certainty with unnerving precision, a man who once lectured on the heavens but now orbits entirely within his own delusions.

Now reunited with her parents—Hana (Kate Arrington) and Michael (Namir Smallwood)—Theresa must navigate a world that feels as alien as the galaxies she once studied under his command. Julie (Caroline Neff), Michael’s new wife, hovers between empathy and helplessness, unsure how to reach someone marked by unspeakable experience while quietly grappling with her own grief.

The acting is superb across the board. Hanson captures Theresa’s uneasy balance of fragility and resilience. Arrington and Smallwood embody grief in contrasting shades—Arrington’s sharp-edged regret against Smallwood’s wounded stoicism—while Neff supplies a warmth the others cannot. Hopper, disturbingly calm as Mr. Wolf, delivers control with the cool precision of a man who has transformed astronomy into a theology of delusion.

The design team amplifies this unsettling intimacy. Walt Spangler’s set suggests a world we recognize—rooms, walls, familiar structures—that have splintered into pieces. Watching the play, we feel as though we are tasked with reassembling it, just as the characters try to piece together their broken lives. Dede Ayite’s costumes root the play in ordinariness, and Josh Schmidt’s sound and original music create an undercurrent of wonder. Rasean Davonté Johnson’s projections echo the celestial images that once defined Theresa’s captivity, lingering like ghosts of her indoctrination.

Freeman’s direction sharpens the play’s unease into something inescapable. Rather than offering distance, he compels the audience to witness the jagged rhythms of survival. Where King James thrived on joy and connection, Mr. Wolf strips us down to silence and difficult truths. It is a play less about resolution than endurance, and in Steppenwolf’s hands, it becomes a stark reminder of how trauma ripples outward—and how putting the pieces back together is never simple, but always necessary.

RECOMMENDED

When: Through Nov. 2nd

Where: Steppenwolf Theatre, 1650 N. Halsted St.

Running Time: 90 minutes

Tickets: $20 - $133.50

312-355-1650

www.steppenwolf.org

*This review is also shared on https://www.theatreinchicago.com/!  

Court Theatre has opened its 2025/26 season with a thunderclap: Theodore Ward’s Big White Fog directed with remarkable sensitivity and vigor by Resident Artist Ron OJ Parson. This is not only a revival of a classic work from the Federal Theatre Project era—it is also a reminder of how eerily contemporary Ward’s questions of ideology, disillusionment, and power struggles remain nearly ninety years after the play first startled audiences at Chicago’s Great Northern Theatre in 1938.

At its center, Big White Fog dramatizes the life of the Mason family, a striving Black household in Depression-era Chicago. Ward places the Mason living room at the intersection of history’s most turbulent crosscurrents: the false promise of the American Dream, the fiery appeal of Marcus Garvey’s “back to Africa” movement, and the revolutionary fervor of Communism. The fog of the title is both literal and metaphorical—a veil of economic despair, racial injustice, and ideological confusion that threatens to swallow the family whole.

Ron OJ Parson, long admired for his deft handling of Black classics, stages the play with clarity and urgency. Parson respects the density of Ward’s text but never lets the ideological debates bog down the human drama. Instead, he finds the beating heart in the Mason family’s conflicts—the stubborn pride of the patriarch, the sacrifices of the women, the fragile dreams of their children. Parson’s direction makes clear this is not an artifact of theatre history; it is a living work, pulsating with relevance for an America once again convulsed by inequality, polarization, and disillusionment.

The cast assembled for this production is outstanding. Joshua L. Green brings charisma and conviction to Victor Mason, the father whose fierce commitment to Garveyism and economic uplift sets him on a collision course with his family. Green embodies Victor’s unbending pride, making his devotion to a nationalist vision both inspiring and tragic. As Ella Mason, Sharriese Hamilton gives the play its moral core: her performance glows with quiet dignity, balancing love for her family with the weary pragmatism of a woman trying to hold a household together as history presses in from all sides.

Patrick Newson Jr. is superb as Lester Mason, the eldest son, a man who has had to stifle his own dreams, his every ambition weighed down by the crushing realities of family duty and economic hardship. Newson brings a heartbreaking openness to the role, embodying the innocence crushed under the weight of adult failures and historical forces. Greta Oglesby, as matriarch Martha Brooks, is simply unforgettable. Oglesby’s performance is steeped in humor, wisdom, and resilience; she grounds the play in generational memory. Her presence on stage is nothing short of magnetic.

The production’s design team gives Big White Fog a visual richness that matches its thematic weight. Jack Magaw’s scenic design transforms the Court stage into a lived-in Mason household, layered with details that evoke aspiration. Yvonne L. Miranda’s eye-popping 1920s costumes dazzle while grounding each character in their social and ideological context, making the clash of visions as visible as it is spoken. Lee Keenan’s lighting design shifts the mood with precision. Adding another layer of atmosphere, Christopher Kriz’s original compositions during scene changes, underscores the emotional undercurrents of the play and keeps the audience tethered to its restless rhythm.

The ideological clash within the Mason household is the play’s dramatic engine. Victor’s belief in Garvey’s call for Black economic independence and a return to Africa is met with resistance from his family, who seek other paths—through Communism, through assimilation, or through personal ambition. Ward refuses to let any single vision emerge as the sole solution, instead dramatizing the painful divisions that ideological fervor can create within a family. In the end, no ideology rescues them from the crushing realities of poverty, racism, and systemic neglect. This tragic irony is what makes Big White Fog so haunting.

Ward’s writing is radical for its time. To depict a Black family grappling openly with competing ideologies and the hypocrisy of the American Dream in 1938 was nothing short of revolutionary. It’s no wonder Big White Fog had a fraught reception in its original run. Yet the very qualities that unsettled audiences then—its candor, its ideological clashes, its refusal to reduce Black life to stereotype—are what make it feel so piercingly contemporary now.

The play’s questions echo loudly: What system, if any, can deliver justice and dignity to Black Americans? What price must be paid for loyalty to one’s ideals? And can a family survive when its members are torn apart by competing visions of liberation? In today’s America, as the nation debates racial justice, economic inequity, and the limits of free speech, these questions resonate with uncanny force. The Mason family’s divisions mirror our own: parents and children, neighbors and colleagues, citizens and leaders locked in ideological combat while the fog of inequality thickens around us.

Theodore Ward dared to write the truth. At a time when most mainstream depictions of Black life trafficked in stereotype or sentimental uplift (think “Cabin in The Sky”), Ward insisted on portraying the complexity, dignity, and contradictions of ordinary people. His plays carved out space for honest exploration of the Black experience—politically charged, socially grounded, unflinchingly real. Ward’s commitment cost him: his leftist sympathies drew the scrutiny of the FBI, and he was effectively blacklisted during the McCarthy era. Yet his legacy endures, shaping the lineage of Black theatre from Lorraine Hansberry to August Wilson and beyond.

Court Theatre’s revival is more than an act of cultural memory. It is an act of cultural urgency. To stage Big White Fog now is to recognize that the struggles Ward captured in 1938—the tensions between faith and politics, survival and principle, hope and despair—are still the struggles being faced in 2025. Parson and his cast honor Ward’s achievement while challenging us to confront the fog we still inhabit.

In the end, the play offers no easy answers. Ward was too honest for that. But what he gives us—through his words and through this luminous production—is the reminder that theatre can be a forum for grappling with the hardest questions of human existence. Big White Fog demands that we listen, that we argue, that we reckon with the past and the present alike.

Court Theatre has given Chicago audiences a gift in reviving Theodore Ward’s masterpiece. And with Parson’s masterful direction and this ensemble’s unforgettable performances, the fog clears just enough for us to see the truth: Ward’s voice still matters, perhaps now more than ever.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

When: Through Oct 11th

Where: Court Theatre, 5535 S. Ellis Ave.

Running !me: 2 hours, 15 minutes  - 15 minute intermission

Tickets: $27 - $94 Student, Group and military discounts available

773-753-4472

https://www.courttheatre.org

*This review is also shared on https://www.theatreinchicago.com/!  

Kimberly Dixon-Mays’ debut play Rabbits In Their Pockets, developed in the Lifeline BIPOC 2024 Workshop and now receiving a world premiere under the direction of Christopher Wayland, is a bold but uneven first effort. The play aspires to braid together family drama, Black folklore, and speculative Afrofuturism, but its script often buckles under its own ambition. Fortunately, Wayland’s staging and the committed, charismatic performances of his cast keep the production afloat, offering the audience enough vitality and resonance to stay engaged.

At the heart of the play are two sisters facing grief and legacy. Ash (Lakecia Harris), the elder, is a methodical aerospace engineer who believes joy can be engineered, even embedded into the walls of their late father’s home. Harley (Simmery Branch), younger, mercurial, and endlessly playful, sees improv as a distinctly Black technology—an art of survival through adaptability and wit. Together they clash over what to do with the family house: sell it, reinvent it, or transform it into something larger than themselves. Along the way, they are joined by Jasper (Marcus D. Moore), a friend and aspiring performer, and Inola (Felisha McNeal), an enigmatic elder who oscillates between investor, trickster, and perhaps even ancestor.

The script brims with ideas—sometimes too many for its own good. Dixon-Mays clearly has a fertile imagination and a keen sense of cultural inheritance. Br’er Rabbit folktales and the language of improvisation surface as recurring motifs, meant to show how Black families survive through cunning, resilience, and creativity. But rather than letting these motifs emerge organically, the dialogue often pauses to explain them at length. Ash’s “joy technology” speeches are dense with jargon, and Harley repeats her philosophy of improv as survival until the point is belabored. What should be vibrant metaphors instead risk feeling like lectures.

The dramatic stakes are also uneven. The decision to sell or keep the house is meant to stand in for deeper questions of legacy, cultural continuity, and grief. Yet too often the debate feels abstract, more a clash of ideas than a struggle rooted in palpable necessity. What happens if they don’t sell? If Ash’s joy system fails? If Harley’s dream fizzles? The play gestures toward these consequences without fully realizing them, softening the urgency.

Some characters suffer from this imbalance. Jasper, despite Marcus D. Moore’s affable performance, fades into the background as the sisters’ conflict escalates. Inola, wonderfully embodied by Felisha McNeal, is fascinating but underdefined: sometimes elder, sometimes ancestor, sometimes entrepreneur. This ambiguity could be powerful if sharpened, but as written, it feels more inconsistent than intentional.

Where Dixon-Mays overreaches, Christopher Wayland’s direction provides clarity. He keeps the pacing brisk, shapes the tonal shifts with care, and leans into the play’s improvisational spirit without letting it sprawl.

The performances are this production’s saving grace. Lakecia Harris gives Ash a flinty discipline that gradually reveals a woman undone by grief. Simmery Branch lights up the stage as Harley, balancing mischievous humor with aching vulnerability. Marcus D. Moore mines Jasper for humor and pathos, especially in his monologue about being both celebrated and consumed as a “rabbit.” And McNeal, magnetic and sly, grounds the play’s slipperiest role with commanding presence.

Rabbits In Their Pockets is not yet a fully realized play—it is a workshop bursting with possibility, weighed down by over-explanation and underdeveloped stakes. Yet as a debut, it reveals Dixon-Mays as a writer unafraid to ask large questions about joy, memory, and cultural survival. Thanks to Wayland’s sharp direction and the cast’s deeply felt performances, audiences can glimpse the vibrant play struggling to emerge.

Recommended

When: Through October 5

Where: Lifeline Theatre,  6912 N. Glenwood

Running time: 90 minutes

Tickets: $25 - $45 at

773-761-4477 and www.lifelinetheatre.com