Regina Robbins

Theater of War Productions has brought classical drama to some very tense and sometimes dangerous places: Rikers Island, Guantánamo Bay, Fukushima. Using texts that range from the ancient Greeks to modern writers such as Tennessee Williams and Eugene O’Neill, the New York City–based company engages audiences that are coping with trauma, such as veterans, the incarcerated and survivors of natural disasters. But artistic director Bryan Doerries hesitated when he was approached about taking his troupe to Missouri in the aftermath of Michael Brown’s 2014 death, which sparked days of civil unrest. “Nothing intimidated me more than the idea of going to Ferguson,” Doerries says. The resulting production, Antigone in Ferguson, premiered there in 2016 and has since traveled nationally and globally. It’s been seen by New York audiences, too, but only in brief engagements. (A one-night staging last year at a basketball court in Brooklyn drew more than a thousand people.) If you missed those performances, now may be your chance: Starting on September 13, Antigone in Ferguson will run at Harlem Stage for five weeks. All tickets are free, and Theater of War Productions is making sure the house is full every night. “We’re sending transportation to pick people up, and we’re providing dinner for them,” says Doerries. “We’re trying to reverse the flow of culture.”  “We’re trying to reverse the flow of culture." Before black teenager Brown was killed by a white police officer, Doerries says, h

And Then We Were No More, a new play set in a future that feels a bit too near, includes a scene in which a Lawyer (Elizabeth Marvel) attempts to persuade a large jury to spare her client’s life. The Official (Scott Shepherd) in charge protests: The only purpose of this proceeding is to determine the method by which the condemned woman, known as the Inmate (Elizabeth Yeoman), will eventually be put to death. The Lawyer perseveres, questioning the court’s logic and the state’s motives, but when she requests permission to refer to the Inmate by her actual name, she is sharply rebuked for trying to sway the jury with irrelevant emotions like empathy and compassion. As stand-ins for the jury, the audience is likewise barred from knowing not only the convict’s name, but also those of the Lawyer, the Official or anyone else. And Then We Were No More | Photograph: Courtesy Bronwen Sharp Playwright Tim Blake Nelson—who is also a novelist, a filmmaker and one of the Coen brothers’ favorite actors—has synthesized more than a century’s worth of ideas from dystopian fiction into a chilly, talky two hours of nameless people in a soulless system. Directed by Mark Wing-Davey, it wears its influences on its sleeve: Kafka, Orwell, Philip K. Dick (Nelson appeared in the film Minority Report, which was based on one of Dick’s stories) and Caryl Churchill, whose work Wing-Davey has directed on several occasions. Marvel’s Lawyer has grudgingly come to terms with her irrelevance in this world, in

Theater review by Regina Robbins  Blind since infancy, the title character of Brian Friel’s 1994 drama Molly Sweeney is a self-sufficient, well-liked woman living a quiet life in Northern Ireland. That changes when she meets and marries a man with a passion for self-improvement who wonders if Molly’s sight can be restored. At his insistence, she meets with a renowned eye doctor who advises surgery. The chances of success may be slim, he reasons, but it’s surely worth a shot. After all, what does she have to lose? Molly Sweeney is the fourth and final play in Irish Rep’s season-long tribute to Friel, who is perhaps best known for his 1990 work Dancing at Lughnasa. Its structure is deceptively simple: The three characters deliver monologues about the same series of events but never interact. Molly (Sarah Street) is positioned between her doctor, Mr. Rice (Rufus Collins), and her husband, Frank (a masterly John Keating), who instinctively dislike each other but find common cause in their mission to give Molly her sight back. Conditioned from childhood to be a people-pleaser, Molly lacks the self-assurance that might allow her to resist these two men, whose desire to bring her into the seeing world is tangled up with their feelings about what they’ve done, or haven’t done, with their own lives. Director Charlotte Moore has applied a feather-light touch to this production, trusting Friel’s subtle yet multi-layered writing to do most of the work. The result is eminently watchable,

Broadway review by Regina Robbins Broadway has been catching up with the News this season. The smoky-voiced, harmonica-playing Huey Lewis and his band racked up a dozen top-10 singles in the U.S. between 1982 and 1991, one of which—“The Power of Love”—was featured in 1985’s biggest movie, Back to the Future. A musical adaptation of that time-travel classic, which has been giving Broadway audiences a nostalgia fix since last summer, includes it alongside another song from the movie, “Back in Time.” Both songs are now also featured in The Heart of Rock and Roll, which goes all in on Lewis, using his catalog—singles and deep cuts, plus one song written for the show—to transport us to a hot-pink version of the 1980s, cheerfully unbesmirched by the Cold War, AIDS or cocaine. At a cardboard packaging company in Milwaukee, Bobby (Corey Cott) is a would-be rocker turned working stiff who channels his ambition into a 9-to-5 job. (Cue “Hip to Be Square.”) Determined to succeed at something, anything—unlike his father, a musician who died years ago—he’s gunning for promotion to the sales team. Also trying to prove herself is the boss’s daughter, Cassandra (McKenzie Kurtz), a Princeton grad who crunches numbers but aspires to impress her father (John Dossett) in a leadership role. They may both get their chance at a trade convention in Chicago, where Owen Fjord (Orville Mendoza), a hotshot Swedish furniture mogul, will be the keynote speaker; making a deal with him would give the compan

Broadway review by Regina Robbins  When the women’s-rights activist Alice Paul, the central figure of Shaina Taub’s musical Suffs, starts planning a march down Pennsylvania Avenue ahead of Woodrow Wilson’s 1913 inauguration, a fellow protester volunteers to ride a white horse at the head of the procession. Paul and others are skeptical: With everything else on their plates, who has time to find a horse? But when the day arrives, their comrade does lead the demonstration astride a white steed—an amusing and historically accurate flourish in an otherwise earnest scene. This early triumph for the suffragists, however, is followed by a steep uphill climb toward the passage of the 19th Amendment. Their struggle is compounded by political and personal conflicts among women divided by age, race and class; alliances are strained, friendships are tested and blood is spilled for the cause of equality. When the curtain comes down for intermission, the returning image of that young woman on horseback may now put a lump in your throat. Suffs | Photograph: Courtesy Joan Marcus After premiering at the Public Theatre in 2022, Suffs now marches to Broadway with its intrepid director, Leigh Silverman, still leading the way, and most of its principal cast intact: Writer-composer-lyricist Taub makes her Broadway debut as Paul; the invaluable Jenn Colella is Carrie Chapman Catt, the reigning grande dame of the suffrage movement, and Nikki M. James is the civil-rights leader Ida B. Wells. These p

Theater review by Regina Robbins In the Southern Breeze takes its title from “Strange Fruit,” the anti-lynching protest song made famous by Billie Holiday, and the specter of racist bloodshed haunts Mansa Ra’s new drama. Alone in his apartment, isolated by the coronavirus pandemic and his own anxiety, an unnamed Black man (Allan K. Washington) ponders whether such brutality is inescapable and whether, if so, he just should cut to the chase: “It is bad that sometimes I just want to rush the process?” he asks, imagining slipping his own neck into the noose. As he wrestles with his choice, mysterious figures from the distant and not-so-distant past appear: Black men running from danger or toward liberation, from shackles both literal and figurative. Despite their common goals, they engage one another warily, their well-founded fears as likely to drive a wedge between them as to bind them together. It’s a tantalizing setup, but director Christopher D. Betts hasn’t found a coherent tone for the piece; moments that reach for absurdism sometimes land as uneasy comedy, and the play’s resolution feels unearned. That’s a shame, because Ra’s writing is, at its best, thoughtful and poetic. Clocking in at just over an hour, In the Southern Breeze is only slightly longer than a group-therapy session, and in many ways it functions like one, with its characters modeling connection and catharsis. One suspects that a well-meaning desire to bring of-the-moment plays to the stage as quickly as p

Theater review by Regina Robbins  Questioned about his odd last name, the antihero of Will Eno’s Gnit shrugs and replies, “It’s a typo…but we decided to just go with it.” That no-big-deal energy is prevalent throughout Eno’s new play, whose characters grapple with the biggest of big questions—What is love? Is there a God? What is my purpose?—with almost pathological nonchalance, to both mournful and hilarious effect. Gnit is a reworking of Henrik Ibsen’s Peer Gynt, a verse epic based on Norwegian folklore and the playwright’s own tortured family life. For audience members who know the source text, Eno’s take will be a hoot; for those who don’t, it might well seem like a strange, jaunty trip through random dramatic tropes. Eno hews closely to Ibsen’s plot, following the self-absorbed protagonist, Peter (Joe Curnutte), as he leaves the miserable home he shares with his despairing mother (Deborah Hedwall), becomes a fugitive, recklessly woos several women and flees his homeland for exotic adventures abroad. There are a number of 21st-century updates—flirty dairy maids are now a trio of DTF grad students—but the play also keeps one foot in a simpler, semi-magical Scandinavian past, complete with trolls. Eno’s more substantial innovation is to substitute a deceptively breezy absurdism  for Ibsen’s romantic grandiosity. Director and frequent Eno collaborator Oliver Butler has cracked the code on the playwright’s comedies of existential dread; he expertly steers Gnit’s cast of six t

Theater review by Regina Robbins  Young Jean Lee’s We’re Gonna Die puts the most inescapable fact of human existence—and the very thing we spend the most time trying to escape—right there in the title. First performed in 2011 by the playwright herself as an intimate, partly autobiographical rock cabaret at Joe’s Pub (and later at Lincoln Center’s Clare Tow Theater), the show has now returned on a bigger stage, with Janelle McDermoth taking Lee’s place as the Singer. Staged by the up-and-coming choreographer Raja Feather Kelly in his directorial debut, We’re Gonna Die is set in what is normally a very depressing modern locale: a waiting room. But the space, equipped with an antique snack machine and retro plastic chairs, is bathed in soothing pink and purple light, and its inhabitants happen to be the members of an impossibly cool, casually diverse band. Without fanfare, the Singer picks up a mic and starts telling stories about moments in life when she may have felt like she wanted to die, from childhood frenemy drama to romantic disappointment to family tragedy. These episodes lead to musical numbers that put a positive spin on the trauma, either through humor (“If we got old / And we were strong and healthy / We wouldn’t wanna die! Oh no!”) or solidarity with others coping with existential anxiety—which, after all, is everyone. The show’s simplicity is its greatest innovation; its rejection of traditional notions of character and plot is of a piece with its general skeptici

Theater review by Regina Robbins  The cast of Zawe Ashton’s for all the women who thought they were  Mad comprises six black women, a black girl and one white man, and it’s the outsize influence of that one male figure—sometimes a boss, sometimes an amorous coworker or a concerned medical professional—that drives the drama. The play revolves around the ambitious Joy (Bisserat Tseggai), an African-born woman living in a western nation. Wholly focused on her corporate career, she is beginning to crack under the pressure of innumerable daily humiliations, from backhanded compliments about her hair to people barging into her office without knocking. The other women onstage confer about how to help her if it isn’t too late. Could their collective power counteract the toxic environment in which Joy finds herself trapped? “We speak with one voice or not at all,” declares the motherly Margaret (Sharon Hope). It turns out that’s not so easy. Actor-playwright Ashton, who is currently appearing on Broadway in Harold Pinter’s Betrayal, weaves her poetic text around an all-too-realistic scenario that slowly evolves into a full-on fever dream. Past, present and future converge as Joy finds memories of her mother country intruding on her thoughts—and sometimes her body—while she tries to prepare for a crucial business meeting. The other women try to throw her a lifeline, offering various forms of black female solidarity, but Joy stubbornly clings to her professional identity: sexless, child

Theater review by Regina Robbins Can George Bernard Shaw’s Caesar and Cleopatra, an old play about even older events, still make audiences laugh and think in the 21st century? Its plot centers on the relationship between an aging man and the teenage girl he “mentors,” and it unapologetically insists that the dissemination of classical culture and philosophy throughout the Roman Empire was, on balance, a good thing for the conquered. One scene features a prisoner of war declaring, “Only as Caesar’s slave have I found real freedom,” which is roughly the opposite of woke. But Shaw—who was, for the record, a fervent believer in socialism, vegetarianism and equal rights for women—had no use for moral or political absolutism; every radical idea in Caesar and Cleopatra is tempered by a profound cynicism about human nature. The friction produced is reliably funny and frequently poignant. In Shaw’s conception, Cleopatra (Teresa Avia Lim) is not the cunning seductress of legend but a credulous, high-spirited teenager with no parents, cared for and controlled—barely—by a stern nursemaid called Ftatateeta (Brenda Braxton). Caesar (Robert Cuccioli) finds her hiding from her enemies, including her own younger brother, in the Syrian desert; at first, he doesn’t believe her when she tells him she really is the queen of Egypt. But once he’s convinced, he sees great potential in the royal teen and, like a proto–Henry Higgins, sets out to prepare her to assume the throne. Cleopatra isn’t sure

Theater review by Regina Robbins The welcoming ensemble cast of Theater Mitu’s HOUSE or how to lose an orchard in 90 minutes or less greets you at the start of the show to help you test the headphones that you'll be wearing for the duration of the performance. This audio component, which features both live and prerecorded elements, puts you in a position of sharing an experience with your fellow audience members even as it isolates you from them—one of the many contradictions that characterize this appealing but vague production. HOUSE interpolates a number of texts—Anton Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, as well as vintage video, original music and transcripts of interviews—to examine the complex emotions involved in inhabiting, leaving and losing a home. In Chekhov’s play, aristocrats lament the forced sale of their family estate, the site of childhood joys and adult disappointments. The house and its grounds are suffused with personal memories, but they are also monuments to class privilege: the products of a lifestyle made possible only by the exploitation of the poor. HOUSE makes that theme of exploitation explicit by including testimony from people affected by the recent mortgage crisis in the U.S., in which families without means grasped—beyond their reach—at the chance to own their homes and, by extension, their histories. As HOUSE interrogates American history and Western culture, it also strives to create an inclusive environment with ethereal interludes of music and mo

Theater review by Regina Robbins  A kooky slice of California life, Carla Ching’s Nomad Motel focuses on two families who have lost their bearings, if they ever had any to begin with. Teenager Mason (Christopher Larkin) has lived in the U.S. for four years; his super-intense dad, James (Andrew Pang), sends him money from their native Hong Kong, expecting him to get straight A’s and acceptance to Harvard, but the kid is a musician at heart. Mason’s classmate Alix (Molly Griggs) is a SoCal native who lives in a cheap motel with her little brothers and her flaky mom, Fiona (Samantha Mathis), because they have lost their house. Alix yearns to flee to college in New York, while Mason can’t manage to draft an application essay. Teamed up for a class assignment, they are drawn closer together as their respective parents screw up on monumental levels.   Ching’s script, which veers from dark comedy to heartfelt drama to borderline farce, contains some truly lovely moments; a scene between Alix and her earnest ex, Oscar (Ian Duff), is especially poignant. But Nomad Motel has a few too many plot threads—panic attacks, a rescued baby bird, a Chinese crime syndicate—and after setting up an admirably diverse cast of characters, it settles for a conflict in which two young men of color vie for the affection of a cute white girl. Director Ed Sylvanus Iskandar stages the action without blackouts or breaks, which lets lighting designer Jeanette Oi-Suk Yew and set designer Yu-Hsuan Chen display

Theater review by Regina Robbins  About two-thirds of the way through Christopher Chen’s extraordinary new play Passage, ensemble member Lizan Mitchell acknowledges that some in the audience may be experiencing a kind of déjà vu. Based on—but in no way bound to—E.M. Forster's A Passage to India, Chen’s text takes colonialism out of any specific racial or temporal context in order to examine power, exploitation and resistance as nakedly as possible. And yet, Mitchell admits, context is everything: Everyone in the room, onstage and off, brings their own life experiences to this moment. Still, she says, “I am trying to bring us all to the same page. Even though…that’s impossible.” She pauses. “Right?” Passage begins with Q (Andrea Abello), a citizen of Country Y, travelling to join her fiancé in Country X, where he has relocated for “opportunity.” On the way, she encounters F (Linda Powell), another Country Y-er moving to X for work, who is also in search of something deeper that she can’t find in her country of origin. After arriving, F meets B (K.K. Moggie), a Country X doctor who, despite her stellar reputation, is obliged to take orders from her Country Y superiors at the hospital where she works. The trio embark on an excursion to mysterious local caves; there, in darkness, fears and prejudices are exposed and lives are turned upside down. Stripped of names and nationalities, the characters in Passage (portrayed exclusively by actors of color) are nevertheless totally cons

The Fringe is dead. Long live the Fringe! After celebrating its 20th birthday in 2016, the New York International Fringe Festival decided to skip 2017 altogether, like a college student taking a gap year to gain some perspective. Now the annual showcase is back—with some major changes. It comes to us in cool October instead of sweltering August, and it has slimmed down from more than 200 shows to fewer than 90. Instead of occupying existing downtown venues, the festival is using unconventional spaces in the West Village that have never served as theaters before; audiences meet at the Fringe Hub at 685 Washington Street and are guided to the shows from there. (The Fringe has also embraced the outer boroughs, inviting companies outside Manhattan to join the new Bring Your Own Venue wing of the festival.) Even with fewer shows to choose from, however, navigating the Fringe can be daunting. The festival offers a head-spinning array of options, and the most exciting thing about it—wading into a sea of little-known artists—can also be its biggest challenge. Here are a few of the best bets. Go forth and Fringe, New Yorkers! 1. The Classical You’ll see familiar plots and characters at the Fringe, but they’ll have a unique spin. For example, Makbet shakes up Shakespeare by having actors switch roles mid-performance. There’s also the queer-themed Starcrossed, in which Mercutio and Tybalt replace Romeo and Juliet as the cursed couple; a kid-friendly version of The Odyssey; and AntiCone,

Jelani Alladin wasn’t expecting much when he auditioned for Frozen. “I assumed the powers that be would cast it as they did the movie,” he says—that is, with all white actors. To his surprise, the African-American Alladin is now making his Broadway debut as the lovable Kristoff. “I don’t take it lightly and will never take it for granted,” he says. So, is this story a one-off or a sign that the theater world really wants to be more diverse? By one standard—Tony nominations—this year looks better than last year. In 2017, only half of the eight acting categories included nominees of color (none of whom won), seemingly a step backward from 2016, when the cast of Hamilton all but swept the musical awards. This year, every one of those categories includes minority actors—one of whom, Children of a Lesser God’s Lauren Ridloff, is also deaf. RECOMMENDED: Complete guide to the Tony Awards Broadway producers created more opportunity for representation this season, too, by giving us Summer: The Donna Summer Musical, the Middle East–set musical The Band’s Visit and a revival of the Caribbean-themed Once on This Island. Plays were less fruitful, though revivals of Angels in America, Lobby Hero and M. Butterfly provided a few choice roles for black and Asian actors. John Leguizamo’s Latin History for Morons provided a choice role for—who else?—John Leguizamo. A number of actors of color also scored in roles that usually go to white actors. Some got there partly through star power, like D