Gregory Fletcher — Theater Critic

Yet these are minor disruptions in an otherwise cohesive experience. Broken Snow ultimately delivers on its opening promise. The “moment where everything changes” lands with both weight and clarity, reframing what came before it in a way that feels earned rather than engineered. More importantly, the relationships at the play’s core resonate. This is not just a mystery for mystery’s sake; it’s a story about connection, consequence, and the quiet ways lives intersect. For audiences who enjoy assembling the pieces as they go, Broken Snow offers a satisfying challenge—and a touching reward once the full picture comes into view.

What emerges is a vivid exploration of artistic survival, resistance to censorship, and the enduring necessity of live theater. Molochnikov’s production doesn’t merely argue for theater’s relevance—it embodies it, with restless energy and a palpable love of the form. In its final moments, Seagull: True Story reminds us that even in exile, even under constraint, art finds a way to take flight—and here, it soars.

Public Charge is clearly a well-intentioned piece, one that honors both its subject and the ideals she represents. While the production’s cool, methodical staging keeps the audience at arm’s length, the story it tells—of an immigrant who rises to shape global policy—remains a compelling and distinctly American narrative, even when the drama itself struggles to fully ignite. The final note lands with a bittersweet irony, as optimism about leadership collides with the audience’s awareness of how history ultimately unfolded.

For all its aspiration, Sulfur Bottom feels more like a workshop draft than a finished play. Its mix of social indictment, family drama, and absurdist allegory never coheres, and its earnest themes collapse under the weight of muddled storytelling. As one theatergoer muttered while leaving: “What was that?!” Which, in truth, was a lot nicer than what my theater companion declared.

Morgan resurrects Maya’s voice with both reverence and playfulness. He performs Frank’s controversial Liberace rant, and later a monologue about dating called “The First Time You Go Home With Someone.” He sings three of Maya’s songs: “Polaroid Children,” “Boxes of You,” and “Mourning and Militancy,” and he also recreates signature Maya bits: an audience Q&A (for which Morgan provides pre-written questions), “Letters from Dead People” (featuring a note from Lucille Ball), and — most astonishingly — a letter from Frank himself, written to Morgan! Okay, even if it’s not true, the moment is funny, absurd, and yet moving all at once.

Name-calling, bullying, cliques, and cafeteria caste systems have always been part of teen life—and Heathers doesn’t flinch, nor does it apologize. And no trigger warnings in the pre-show announcement either. Instead, as the audience and characters experience the two-hours and twenty minutes of laughter in the darkest corners of adolescence, Veronica’s journey reminds us that acceptance isn’t about being popular—it’s about being seen, being kind. And in a world of curated identities and online validation, that’s a message that lands. If the screaming teens in the audience are any sign, Heathers is still speaking loud and clear.

The play is composed of dozens of brief seemingly disconnected scenes that resist any traditional arc. Don’t expect a protagonist’s journey or a narrative climax. What you get instead is a string of moments—each a tiny pearl—that, taken together, form a quietly resonant necklace of meaning. But be warned: those craving linear clarity may find their patience tested.

The audience is seated on three-sides of a bare stage, but Johan Kølkjær’s setting won’t remain empty for long. Representing America, the sets are gradually built upon a dirty tarp as the performance progresses. A church will be constructed, as well as a merchant store, a bank, a politician’s office, a pioneer home, a Chinese restaurant, a bar and whorehouse, a jail, and an outdoor holding pen. Oh, and a railroad track runs down the center of the stage ending at the mines. Plus, the endless props by Marie Rosendahl Chemnitz, cameras displaying live filming of scenes as they take place (video designer Rasmus Kreiner), and microphones (sound designer Ditlev Brinth). By the end, there’s so much scenery that other spectators disappear from view. Stage Manager Svante Huniche Corell and his crew notably uphold the challenging staging, allowing the pandemonium to unfold with perfection