There’s something a little spooky (but not scary) about the 1700 stretch of Church Street NW. Maybe it’s the closed-in nature of the block, bounded by 18th Street on one side and Stead Park on the other. Or its narrowness exacerbated by the old trees that loom overhead. Or the last stone vestige of the original St. Thomas Church, scorched by arson in 1970 and finally rebuilt in 2019. But as dusk turns to dark, it just feels a little … uncanny. 

That eeriness makes it the perfect location for The Woman in Black, the late Stephen Mallatratt’s stage adaptation of Susan Hill’s gothic horror novel, running at Keegan Theatre through Nov. 17. In a dual role as director and scenic designer, Josh Sticklin thrillingly brings what was once London’s second-longest-running play to new life.

Sticklin’s production opens with a jolt, as an arrogant young actor (Noah Mutterperl as Kipps) aggressively prods an uncomfortable man (Robert Leembruggen as Actor) to recite a personal monologue with increasing vigor. Anyone else would’ve walked off the stage at the hands of such insults, but the older man has a story that needs to be told—or, more truthfully, a secret to tell—and this is the only way. Together, they prepare a revelatory performance for the older man’s loved ones, re-enacting the circumstances and decisions that led to his first confrontation with the ghostly, lace-draped Woman in Black (costumes by Paris Francesca), who has haunted him for decades.

Mallatratt’s script is skillful in its sustained release of seemingly innocuous details that quickly add up near the play’s end. Compared to other gothic horrors, like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, The Woman in Black doesn’t pose big moral quandaries that inspire deep reflection. Sure, there are questions of loss, regret, and hubris. But the play is first and foremost a ghost story, and its compelling plot and satisfying twists are more than enough to keep a viewer invested. In its relative simplicity, it is refreshingly spooky. 

Leembruggen and Mutterperl are markedly different, but complementary, in their performances. Mutterperl energetically commands attention in a way that endears his otherwise arrogant character to the audience. Leembruggen, on the other hand, offers a quieter performance, his misty eyes and tight-lipped hesitation betraying the measured manor with which his mournful character moves through the world. Both performances lead to a deeply satisfying end, as Mutterperl descends into helplessness and haunted terror, and Leembruggen finally finds peace in his vulnerable confession. Well, for a moment, at least.

But the real star of the production is, shockingly, a turntable, which garnered an audience gasp at the performance this reviewer attended. Les Miserables, with its rotating barricade, arguably kicked off an enduring extravaganza of turntables (moveable platforms built into the stage that spin to offer a 360-degree view). You’d now be hard-pressed to find a major musical that doesn’t rely on this old tool (Hadestown and Hamilton among them), but the old trick is often trite; usually a play at showmanship to conceal a lack thereof. 

Sticklin, however, makes this literal centerpiece of the stage his production’s most essential element, to exciting effect. Its initial rotation reveals a carousel of cloth-draped set pieces whose regular unmasking goes a long way in building the play’s world (with additional help from Brandon Cook’s clear, clever sound design). But we soon see its real function. The turntable serves as a speedy means for the Woman in Black to appear and vanish in exciting illusions (especially effectively with Sage Green’s strobe lighting). It literally adds momentum to the staging, underscoring the sense that young Kipps is powerless at the hands of the Woman in Black and the remote manor house she haunts. The tool is so engrossing that the tarnished gold proscenium that frames the stage in an attempt to evoke the Victorian theater where the play takes place practically goes unnoticed. 

Puzzlingly, though, Sticklin has chosen to forgo a curtain call. This decision was presumably made to leave the audience feeling unsettled after the play’s final, shocking revelation. That outcome is achieved, but for the wrong reason; they were simply wondering whether the play was actually over and when the actors would be appearing for applause. Without the resolve of a clear ending, no matter the motivation, the post-play diminishes the previous 90 minutes of great work.

With one exception, Sticklin refrains from the kinds of jump scares horror aficionados may be expecting. And between his direction and Mallatratt’s stylized adaptation, The Woman in Black feels wholly contained and accessible to those of all sensitivity levels. It’s spoo–… well, you know. And that alone makes this Church Street trick a real Halloween treat.

The Woman in Black, written by Stephen Mallatratt, based on the novel by Susan Hill, and directed by Josh Sticklin, runs through Nov. 17 at Keegan Theatre. keegantheatre.com. $44–$54.

“This R&J is not a love story.” 

That’s a bold declaration for what is arguably the world’s most famous romantic tale, and likely sacrilege to the very William Shakespeare traditionalists who gleefully trot into the recently (and stunningly) renovated Folger Shakespeare Library for a date with the Bard. But in his program note for Romeo and Juliet, playing at Folger Theatre through Nov. 10, director Raymond O. Caldwell makes clear that his production will buck traditional treatment of the famed star-crossed lovers, and focus on the societal forces that lead to their—400-year spoiler alert ahead—untimely death.

He wastes no time in doing so, either. As audiences enter the Elizabethan-style theater, a series of preperformance political speeches (projections by Kelly Colburn) illustrate Caldwell’s Verona as one plagued by warring political dynasties, the Capulets and the Montagues. We soon come to realize that this city and its people are marked by decadence (namely in power, luxury, and substances) that will come to wreak havoc on this tale of romance (for the uninitiated: The scions of each family fall in love, are rejected by friends and family, attempt to elope with the assistance of two well-meaning elders, but instead perish because of a little miscommunication—in this staging a result of spotty cellphone service). By the final confrontation, the thirst for blood, revenge, and blame is so unyielding that one gets the sense Verona will soon be nothing more than a literal ghost town.

But if Caldwell’s comment is that the primary sin of the families in question is their affair with indulgence, the director flirts with his own brand of the same transgression. His production has no room for the kind of rose-tinted sentimentality that other interpretations and adaptations, including West Side Story, rely on. Instead, he recasts the titular pair as badass teens and comic leads, playing the early bits for laughs to remold our preconceived notions. But Shakespeare’s text is only so pliable, and by the time the star-crossed (or in this case, star-cross-faded) lovers are barreling toward death, some in the audience are so primed to laughter that even innocuous interactions between Friar Lawrence (Brandon Carter) and Paris (Gabriel Alejandro) elicit nervous chuckles as Juliet lies unconscious. 

One may wonder how that could possibly be, considering the play’s tragic reputation. Crack it up to concept, the double-edged sword by which so many modern-dress Shakespeare productions live and die. In this instance, it manifests as a series of hyper-modern interpolations: doctored thirst-traps of Lord Capulet’s (Todd Scofield) handpicked son-in-law, Paris (or @ill.always.have.paris, per the onstage Insta handle); Juliet (Caro Reyes Rivera) sniffing her own armpits for unwanted body odor in pubescent panic; a vile of poison dropped from the rafters in an Amazon Prime envelope (which, remarkably, matches the Montague color scheme); and, perhaps most shockingly, a hand-rolled joint in the famed balcony scene. “But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” It is the east, and Juliet is … a stoner?

In this regard, Caldwell’s production is massively reminiscent of Baz Luhrmann’s 1996 film Romeo + Juliet (yes, a plus, not an “and”), starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes. Like Luhrmann, Caldwell casts the Capulets as a Latino family (which allows for several excellent bilingual Spanish-English sequences in which the exquisite Luz Nicolas very nearly walks off with the show as Juliet’s Nurse). He also introduces a range of drugs for both families’ teens to abuse, and then arms them with a wide array of weaponry. The most obvious nod to the film, however, comes when Romeo (Cole Taylor) and Juliet meet at the Capulet ball. Though Caldwell leaves out the iconic fish tank, he achieves the same breathtaking moment of connection as a sampled riff on Des’ree’s “Kissing You” plays softly (sound designer and composer Matthew M. Nielson’s work is uniformly great).

Caldwell adds an additional layer, though, to underscore the families’ power divide. The Capulets are dripping in red, with a pompous Lord Capulet sporting a southern accent and angling to amass additional power through an arranged marriage, while the Montagues are sheathed in shades of blue (the sumptuous costumes are by Jeannette Christensen, whose footwear selections are especially fabulous). Lady Montague (Renee Elizabeth Wilson) sits as the head of their dynasty (in one video, she makes reference to a coconut tree and the context in which one exists in an obvious nod to a certain presidential nominee). Alberto Segarra’s neon lighting design flashes bold shades of the respective colors, but as Romeo and Juliet become increasingly entwined, they begin to wear shades of the other’s colors, eventually finding bipartisan love beneath a bright purple blanket.

The results of Caldwell’s ambitious, encompassing modern concept are mixed; a case of flair over fundamentals. In the first half of the play, the production’s technical features frequently overwhelm the text that has made Romeo and Juliet an enduring work. And that tonal shift between the early comic spin and the inevitable devastation of the play’s ending are responsible for some of the aforementioned whiplash.

On the flip side, many of Caldwell’s decisions add new, exciting luster to otherwise secondary characters. His Friar Lawrence is a spiritual influencer dependent on streaming to spread the good word. Benvolio (John Floyd, heartbreaking) is queer-coded and gentle, devastatingly stylish and utterly devoted to Romeo. And Tybalt (Alina Collins Maldonado) and Mercutio (Giovanna Alcântara Drummond) defy gender stereotypes to offer some of the most thrilling moments of the play with Robb Hunter’s fight choreography (Drummond’s “Queen Mab” speech is spellbinding).

Of the couple in question, Taylor has the easier go at bringing his ultra-charming Romeo to life, but performing Shakespeare is no easy endeavor. His portrayal is nuanced, thoughtful, and expertly paced. We see him mature quickly, but naturally, in the face of catastrophe, and his performance is a highlight of the night.

As Juliet, Reyes Rivera has a harder path. At times, the naivete as written is at odds with the rambunctious young woman in Caldwell’s vision. Reyes Rivera’s antidote is to commit fully to the scene, which she does time and time again, and her performance only becomes more assured as the play carries on. In particular, her chemistry with Luz and Fran Tapia (as Lady Capulet) is palpable, and together they create a complex, compelling triangle of maternal love. 

Even with its warts, this Romeo and Juliet is awfully pretty (choreography is by Tiffany Quinn and scenic design is by Jonathan Dahm Robertson), consistently entertaining, and ultimately moving. That the plays can withstand such a heavy touch of reimagination is only testament to their genius. Caldwell’s ability to take a well-known entity and make it fresh and exciting shows his directorial imagination and boldness. Theater is a living form, and Shakespeare’s plays shouldn’t be left in amber. But maybe next time we leave the coconut trees out of it.

Romeo and Juliet, written by William Shakespeare and directed by Raymond O. Caldwell, runs through Nov. 10 at the Folger Theatre. folger.edu. $20–$84.

By the time the lights come down on Christopher T. Hampton’s Cracking Zeus, playing at Spooky Action Theater through October 13, what was once a tiny white pebble has grown into the equivalent of a tennis ball-size moon rock. As it passes through the community’s hands, this embodiment of crack cocaine glows brighter as it grows in correlation to the destruction it serves to catalyze.

But, despite the constant pall of addiction that hangs over the play, Cracking Zeus is not really a play about crack. Instead, Hampton used the recreational drug to explore gnawing hunger in its many manifestations: loneliness, vindictiveness, curiosity, addiction, and greed among them. When Greek goddess Hera (Nicole Ruthmarie) discovers that her unseen husband Zeus’ infidelity has produced a son, Baniaha (Charles Franklin IV), she descends onto the boy’s mortal community to kill him in revenge. Seeing the power that the drug holds over residents of the neighborhood, she resolves to reveal Baniaha’s godly lineage and deceive him into addiction, crushing his mother, church leader Momma Jo (Lolita Marie), alongside him.

Blending elements of classic Greek storytelling, including a chorus, with modern structure, Hampton has crafted a wholly original work that successfully merges the two worlds. He accomplishes a driving momentum throughout the play’s concise 95-minute run and avoids a detour into the history of crack in favor of a laser focus on story. By doing so, he frees the characters to deliver subtle but clear commentary on addiction, greed, and religion (and the relationship between all three). He writes naturally and distinctively, a talent that allows him to take the bold dramatic risks on which Cracking Zeus relies, and the final product makes for a deeply satisfying, if not altogether perfect, trip to the theater.

Ironically, it is in Hera that we see the bulk of the fissures in Hampton’s otherwise taut text. Hampton sets Hera apart as a mythical being primarily through grandiose language (and Ruthmarie embodies an accordant stature and delivery as well as possible), but her entrances often feel like speed bumps in otherwise snappy, economical dialogue. The shift often catches the audience by surprise and requires readjustment. That the other characters engage with Hera in their own natural speaking patterns, but seemingly fail to acknowledge her own rarefied delivery, induces some further confusion. One wonders whether adapting her character to more closely align with the majority of the play’s style would in turn strengthen the character’s case for blending into the community as she works to exact her revenge. The balance of the plot devices Hampton employs and the production elements that signal her presence are surely enough to differentiate her as a divine being.

Even so, director Reginald L. Douglas (artistic director of Mosaic Theater Company who also directed this month’s Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar and Grill) smoothes the few rough edges, securing a happy marriage of text and talent. Marie delightfully turns on a dime from inspiring church matriarch to money-hungry businessperson as church “owner, founder, treasurer and pastor” Momma Jo. As Rufus, a former boyfriend of Momma Jo who assists Hera on the promise of help to overcome his addiction, DeJeanette Horne channels both the euphoria of intoxication and the agony of withdrawal without transcending into caricature. Both Marie and Horne skillfully tee up their characters for a wide redemption arc from the outset, facilitating a rewarding, if difficult, final turn.

As Baniaha, Franklin IV is fully committed to the performance, even in the moments when he fades (purposefully) into the background. He seizes on Baniaha’s pain at not knowing his father’s identity to heartbreaking effect, but when a first taste of romantic love and his innate power are revealed, Franklin’s entire demeanor changes in a scary transformation. Tasked with undergoing the starkest evolution, from doormat to demigod, Franklin plays every moment earnestly to the play’s inevitable, yet still surprising, end. Cracking Zeus makes clear that, like Hampton, Franklin is a talent to watch, as are the four young performers who double as church youth group and Greek chorus. Howard University students Destiny Jennings, Christina Daniels, and Dupre Isaiah, and Bowie State University student Jacobie Thornton, are natural talents, pumping refreshing energy into the performance and pulling the spirit of Momma Jo’s budding movement out onto the brand-new marble steps for us to see.

On a postage stamp-size set (consisting mainly of a church stoop and encampment where Rufus sleeps), scenic designer Barrett Doyle has managed to provide six distinct entryways, which Douglas employs to keep the action moving quickly and the audience engaged with the entire space. Malory Hartman’s lighting design goes far in defying the limits of the small physical space and filling in the setting, and sound designer Navi nicely conjures tempestuous weather. 

The 60 or so seats in the small downstairs space at the Universalist National Memorial Church are not enough to accommodate all of those who should see this play in its brief run. And there’s an irony that Hampton’s first full-length work, in a strong world premiere, is being performed literally on the ground floor. Get in while you can. 

Cracking Zeus, written by Christopher T. Hampton and directed by Reginald L. Douglas, runs through Oct. 13 at Spooky Action Theater, located inside the Universalist National Memorial Church. spookyaction.org. $15–$37.50. Pay What You Can performances available.

To listen to Billie Holiday is to find oneself in emotional limbo. Greatest hits or deep cuts, it makes no difference, even a cursory listen leaves one feeling as if they’re suspended between the ecstasy of her unmistakable sound and the sheer devastation of the story she weaves. 

That same tension extends, for better or worse, to Lanie Robertson’s bio-drama, Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar and Grill, directed by Reginald L. Douglas in a co-production of Mosaic Theater Company and Washington Performing Arts.

In Robertson’s play, though, the first time the audience hears Holiday’s voice (delivered and portrayed by Roz White) is not in song, but in shout. Refusing to come onstage, she eventually emerges after some coaxing from the audience and her band. She needs the money and has signed a contract, so she reluctantly returns to Emerson’s Bar and Grill in Philadelphia for another night of singing for her supper. And for the next 90 minutes, Holiday trots out her contractually obligated greatest hits and drinks herself into one of the stupors that would eventually contribute to her premature death at age 44 in 1959.

While Holiday’s struggle with addiction is well known, aided in part by films such as 1972’s Lady Sings the Blues and 2021’s The United States vs. Billie Holiday, Robertson’s play is an obvious ticking bomb for disaster in real time. It is evident from the first moments that we are heading somewhere bad—and quickly—as the band plays on. 

As Holiday unravels before the audience’s eyes, she piles on story after story of triumph (seemingly scant in Robertson’s telling) and tribulation (an avalanche of addiction, sexual abuse, incarceration, and, most consistently, racial discrimination). If Robertson’s point is that everyone in Holliday’s life failed her, he makes it abundantly clear and difficult to disagree. It wasn’t only the lover who encouraged her to try heroin for the first time, or just the mother who pushed her toward sex work and abuse. It wasn’t even just the racists who humiliated her time after time who pushed her to the brink. Forget the United States, it was the World vs. Billie Holiday.

But as if singing that old familiar tune, Robertson cuts the devastation with ecstasy, slotting uptempo bops like “What a Little Moonlight Can Do” and well-known Holiday hits including “Strange Fruit” and “God Bless the Child” between the stories. The mood of the audience noticeably lifts when the music begins, and therein lies some tension that Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar and Grill can’t quite overcome.

Even in death, Holiday is still singing for her supper, raising the question of whether a modern audience is still complicit in her downfall by remembering her this way. Are we entitled to Holiday’s struggles and songs for our entertainment? 

In stories of great adversity, audiences often seek the comfort of final acts of heroism or victory. But in the case of historical fiction based on a true story, the editorial strings can only stretch so far. We know that Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar and Grill finds her in a valley of her life. We know that Holiday would soon succumb to the wounds of her addiction. We know that not every story has a happy ending. But in watching Holiday fall apart over and over again, are we paying tribute to a legend or perpetuating her exploitation?

As Holiday, White appears to wrestle with the dignity of tribute and indignity of the role as written. Especially in the ample profanities Holiday tosses around in her between-song banter, White seems almost self-conscious in showing the singer’s grittier side. She grows into the role as the play continues on, however, leveraging each song to convey her obvious admiration for Holiday and expanding to the space in several exquisite musical performances. These are moments of love, and they make the heartbreak worth it. She rightfully resists any urge to do what some might recognize as a “Billie Holiday impression,” instead developing a freestanding character at the nexus of her own artistic strengths and Robertson’s text.

She is backed by an apt trio of musicians: William Knowles (on the keys as music director, and playing Holiday’s apologetic accompanist Jimmy Powers), Greg Holloway (drums), and Mark Saltman (bass). The trio provides dutiful backup for White and have the opportunity to shine in a few instrumental numbers when Holiday storms offstage. As Holiday descends into an intoxicated stupor, though, the band appears unaware, even as she hunches over and clings to the mic for stability. Are they, too, an extended metaphor for the enablers on and offstage who allowed Holiday to deteriorate while extracting her talent? Or are they simply caught up in the music?

The high ceiling and broad width of Atlas Performing Arts Center’s Sprenger Theatre challenge scenic designer Nadir Bey’s best efforts to conjure a cozy basement bar. The intimate play sometimes appears overwhelmed by the space, as banquette seating wraps around the perimeter of the room and hovers a level above the stage-side tables. But lighting designer Jesse Belsky’s moody blue and pink washes contribute tremendously to the coziness, especially when coupled with yellow pendants hanging overhead throughout the room. Ian Vespermann’s sound design is well-balanced and rightfully puts White’s vocalization front and center. Costume designer Moyenda Kulemeka has White in a creamy dress with floral flourishes to match the signature gardenia she places in her hair (wig design is by Larry Peterson). And as director, Douglas brings these elements together in an ultimately strong, straightforward production of a tricky play.

Midway through Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar and Grill, Holiday confesses that she’d recently heard a radio host refer to her as “Lady Yesterday.” The gasps from the audience, and the unmistakable joy that White infused into each song, made it abundantly clear that such a crass remark is neither fair, nor true. Despite the struggle she endured, Holiday’s musical legacy continues uninterrupted. Today, tomorrow, and always.

Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar and Grill, written by Lanie Robertson, directed by Reginald L. Douglas, and presented by Mosaic Theater Company in partnership with Washington Performing Arts, runs through Oct. 6 at Atlas Performing Arts Center. 2024 Fall Arts Guide Rating: 3.5 out of 5. mosaictheater.org. $20–$80. 

Temperance. The Magician. The Moon. The Devil. One by one on her dressing room floor, playwright and performer Priyanka Shetty reveals the tarot cards in her shuffled stack, allowing their meanings to guide her through a string of personal stories and epiphanies in The Elephant in the Room. Over the course of Shetty’s 90-minute solo journey, running at Keegan Theatre through June 23, she delves into love, loss, and determination to gain greater understanding of what it means to belong.

The Elephant in the Room begins with Shetty, portraying a version of herself, pacing in her dressing room before performing this same play. Nervous that her parents are waiting in the audience after having flown in from India, she discovers a mysterious package containing tarot cards illustrated with the Hindu deity Ganesha (who has the head of an elephant, Shetty’s favorite animal). As she flips through the deck, the various cards inspire her to take stock of the revelations and relationships that have driven her to this nerve-wracking moment, and the hurdles that remain in her way. The emotional turmoil the cards conjure leave us wondering whether Shetty (the character) will end up performing the play (within the production we’re watching) at all.

In constructing The Elephant in the Room, Shetty (intentionally or not) has essentially landed on two distinct sections: cultural criticism and personal narrative. While the two parts are linked by some loose connective dramatic tissue, her evaluation of what it means to have an identity shaped by Indian culture, legacies of British colonialism, and American culture make up the bulk of the first half. These sequences unfold almost as a stand-up comedy routine, with extended commentary on concepts like “vulnerability,” heavy metal music, and yoga as a “booming industry.” 

After sizing up the cultural forces around which she navigates, Shetty transitions into the complex relationships that shaped her decision to quit a software engineering job in India and pursue a master’s in acting at the University of Virginia. These personal components of Shetty’s story prove more engaging and allow her to exercise greater command of the audience. 

Portraying oneself is an extremely difficult endeavor. Shetty achieves the greatest synergy between her writing and her performance when reenacting exchanges between those who’ve shaped her life: her parents, brother, aunties, and romantic interests among them. In these moments, Shetty is able to settle into an organic rhythm, at times relaxing so deeply into the sequence that she appears to be reliving the conversations spontaneously. Rather than attempting to connect with the audience across the lip of the stage, her gaze often strays upward or to the sides of the theater, somehow fostering a deeper, quieter intimacy than when she is explicitly breaking the fourth wall.

Emerging out of these moving moments, which make up much of the stronger second half, however, Shetty struggles to bring the show to a tidy, satisfying end. In the play’s final moments, Shetty (the character) resolves to put self-doubt aside and perform for her parents as planned. She declares strongly that she has “been afraid” of letting people down and has essentially allowed others to determine her path. While this affirmation is noble and encouraging, it’s also puzzling. 

Her story is, by any account, one of strength, perseverance, and self-determination. Once a precocious child, she became a successful software developer, authored a well-respected blog, started a theater troupe, left a stable career to pursue her artistic calling, earned a full scholarship, immigrated to the U.S., and, when she struggled to land satisfying roles, authored and performed her own show. On their own, any of these accomplishments exhibit great drive. When taken together, they’re extraordinary, especially considering the family and cultural dynamics Shetty identifies as barriers. In implying that she had been a pushover to this point, Shetty inadvertently undermines all of the courage she has shown over the previous 85 minutes. And by dismissing the parts of her story with which the audience has come to identify and admire most, Shetty suddenly muddles her message at its greatest potential for impact.

Director Suli Holum has Shetty often moving between three or four distinct stage zones—each signal a narrative shift (the relatively sparse, but carefully color-coordinated scenic design is by Dirk Durossette). A few cushions in the downstage right corner are home to the splayed tarot cards and often signal a transition into a new story or emotion. A chair at the stage’s center is often home base for telling lengthier stories. An upstage dressing table generally brings emotional revelations. And two towers on both sides of the stage illuminate the various tarot cards that serve to incite new stories and breakthroughs (lighting designer Julie Briski’s practical offerings are subtle but effective). 

The Elephant in the Room exemplifies much of the spirit of Keegan’s developmental Boiler Room Series, under which this solo work received a workshop and presentation in 2020. It’s also the first piece in a “triptych” of solo shows from the playwright (the second, #Charlottesville premiered as a solo in early 2021; the final piece, The Wall, is currently in the works, according to her website). As Shetty continues to refine her voice as both a writer and a performer further experimentation with—and exploration of—structure and form will only elevate her promising work. Where will it lead? Consult the cards.

The Elephant in the Room, written by Priyanka Shetty and directed by Suli Holum, runs through June 23 at Keegan Theatre. keegantheatre.com. $45–$55.

“What happens to the living when all our hopes and dreams are reserved for the afterlife?” It’s a question that has been mulled over, in one way or another, since the beginning of modern religion. And it emerges again as the guiding question in Amm(i)gone, a new play created and performed by Adil Mansoor and running at Woolly Mammoth through May 12.

Born in Pakistan and reared in Chicago, Mansoor straddles a number of unique, and sometimes divergent, identities. Perhaps none have been more detrimental to his relationship with his mother, who has become an increasingly devout Muslim over time, than those of “queer person” and “theater practitioner.” Amm(i)gone finds Mansoor attempting to build understanding across those identities by inviting his mother to help him create a new translation of Sophocles’ Antigone in their native Urdu. Working through the play’s questions of family and faith (Antigone faced death for defying an edict prohibiting a holy burial for her disgraced brother), Mansoor develops a deeper understanding of his mother and struggles to square his dreams with the inevitabilities of their evolving relationship. 

Amm(i)gone (a made-up word combining the Urdu word for mother—“ammi”—and Antigone) is an astonishingly vulnerable endeavor for Mansoor. Delving at times into feelings of elation, nostalgia, mournfulness, and embarrassment, it is functionally a confession: Mansoor wishes that his mother would accept all facets of his identity wholeheartedly, but understands that asking her to do so is to ask for an abandonment of her faith. All the while, his mother prays daily that he will return Islam so his eternal soul may be saved. The conundrum he faces is one that so many queer people have faced; one that spans faith traditions and origins. But in articulating the challenge so succinctly, Mansoor is able to achieve both intellectual and emotional empathy on a deeper level.

On the whole, Amm(i)gone is remarkably succinct. It’s obvious that Mansoor, who is also a professional director, thinks in terms of structure and the play is reflective of such dramaturgical attention. Taking an academic approach from the start, he quotes linguists and translators (and, yes, Judith Butler) about the challenges of reinterpreting work. There are clear “scenes,” each demarcated by movement, the incorporation of multimedia elements and/or content shifts.

But in that careful structuring lies some trouble. Amm(i)gone struggles to shake off its presentational air, landing as something more akin to a TED Talk than the kind of one-person dramatic narratives Woolly has seen in recent years (including Alex Edelman’s Just for Us and Ryan Haddad’s Hi, Are You Single?). Employing an academic bent from the start (complete with what is essentially an overhead projector that pre-SmartBoard students will remember well), when Mansoor moves into baring his soul, the tonal shift catches the audience off guard. To be clear, there is nothing remotely phony about Mansoor’s text or delivery. And the academic approach that reflects his strong theatrical training (he has a master’s in directing from Carnegie Mellon, one of the country’s most well-regarded drama schools) and the emotional reactions that are central to his relationship with his mother are both key parts of his sense of self. But Amm(i)gone hasn’t yet developed the proper connective tissue to bridge the respective tones in a way that facilitates a stronger emotional response for audiences beyond sympathy. 

Mansoor and co-director Lyam B. Gabel’s production benefits tremendously from a sleek, attractive design. In both the lighting and set, Xotchil Musser creates a beautiful space for Mansoor to move through. One-person shows can often leave their performer appearing stranded in emptiness onstage, but Musser offers several distinct playing areas for Mansoor to maneuver. They employ beautifully ornate carved wood panels and boxes of varying sizes, adding visual depth and enriching the cultural intricacies that influence Mansoor’s relationship with his mother. Their soft lighting design, which eventually comes to illuminate the smaller wood boxes around the stage and audience, is warmly inviting and intimate.

The production relies heavily, and to great effect, on video and projection (co-designed by Joseph Amodei and Davine Byon, with assistance from sound designer Aaron Landgraf). In several sequences, Mansoor shows photos from his childhood (with the portions that depict his mother covered or embroidered out of respect for modesty customs) or scrolls of transcripts that sync with recorded conversations. Not only do these multimedia moments break up the narrative and foster continued audience engagement, but they also facilitate a realistic illustration of Mansoor’s dynamic with his mother. They give voice to a woman we do not see, allowing the audience to connect with her more effectively.

They also provide a more developed sense of who Mansoor is when he is not onstage. In these recorded conversations, he is more casual, even if nervous. Without the confines of a script, blocking, and technical cues, he becomes all the more relatable and engaging. But while these clips augment the emotional development of the story and undeniably add production value, they also unintentionally amplify some of the stiffness in Mansoor’s live narrative sequences. Perhaps that stiffness will soften with time (this particular production is embarking on a tour, with a stop at Connecticut’s Long Wharf Theatre later this month), but it’s a reminder of the paradoxical pitfall of shows like this: sometimes the hardest role to play is yourself.

Regardless, Amm(i)gone is a great reminder of the challenges that still exist for queer people on individual scales. While news media typically focus on the community-wide consequences of legislation or violence, queer people are often left to navigate complex instances of homophobia and transphobia in their families on their own. Amm(i)gone is a touching distillation of Mansoor’s experience, but in the face of rejection and misunderstanding, his approach is decidedly constructive, guided by tremendous love for his mother and the courage of his convictions. As the onset of Pride Month inches closer each day, Mansoor’s message is a welcome harbinger.

Amm(i)gone, created and performed by Adil Mansoor and co-directed by Lyam B. Gabel, runs through May 12 at Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company. woollymammoth.net. $25–$82.

It begins with a pitched sigh from the depths of the belly, lingering for a moment before the button gets pushed. Originating millimeters from the microphone’s waffled cap, the forced air grows tighter and fuller, morphing into a pulsating, gentle “shhhh.” Another push. Like a descant above a meditative symphony, the kinetic crackle of a shaking jaw bounces in the breeze. Push. And there, in the air, hangs the ocean. 

So it goes in Islander, a soaring new musical that blends loop technology with the miraculous versatility of human sound, playing at Olney Theatre Center through April 28 in the last stop of its North American tour. Defying the classical conventions of musical theater, Islander demands its two performers become their own accompaniment, while drawing firmly on musical and mythical folk traditions to deliver a touching story of heart and home.

But Islander is anything but traditional. Audiences will find neither a conductor, nor an orchestra. Rather, they will see a mostly bare stage with a single music stand, two microphones, and a bowl-like platform whose wide lip accommodates the actors as they “travel” across Kinnan, the fictional Scottish island setting. Relying on their bodies and a live-loop device, the performers record and rerecord bits of sound, from sung music to atmospheric effects (including wind, waves, and whales), to perform the show’s entire score.

Despite making regular reference to the effects of climate change on ecosystems and wildlife, Islander is, at its core, a story of home and growing up. Eilidh (Sylvie Stenson) is one of the few young people left in Kinnan’s tight-knit, insular community. Long in economic decline, the town becomes abuzz when the “Big Land” government offers to relocate all of Kinnan’s residents to alleviate financial burden (coming to a head at a community meeting, or “Spikkin”). Eilidh grapples with the decision to stay or go, feeling deeply connected to the island, but recognizing that its chances for economic and ecological sustainability are dwindling quickly. After developing an emotional connection with a beached whale, she soon encounters a mysterious young woman named Arran (Julia Murray), with whom she, too, immediately relates. As their friendship blossoms, they must make mature decisions about the futures of themselves and their people, and evaluate where they truly belong.

As Eilidh (pronounced “ay-lee”) and Arran (like “air-in”), Stenson and Murray (Lois Craig and Stephanie MacGaraidh at other performances, respectively) are transcendent. In interpreting Stewart Melton’s book, they carve out characters who feel familiar within just a few lines. And, in an exciting coup, their skill extends beyond their primary characters and into each of the 20 or so Kinnan locals they must also embody: an exasperated radio DJ, an mischievous grandmother, a near-term mother-to-be, and a deeply distraught neighbor whose search for his missing garden gnome consumes his waking hours, among them. From Melton’s palette, they paint an entire community. And, in maneuvering between the silly and the serious, they never once condescend to the characters or their audience.

Their hard work pays off, elevating what in lesser hands could quickly become an overly sentimental faux fairy tale with a technical gimmick into a deeply affecting story. Stenson’s performance aches of loneliness, as her Eilidh relies on “distance learning” to complete her education. In stumbling upon the whale calf, we get a full view of Eilidh’s capacity for empathy when she realizes the stranded animal is not long for the world. And when she faces another loss later in the show (“Sorry for Your Loss”), Stenson delivers the kind of gut-wrenching sobs that could only come from the deepest recesses of one’s soul. 

While Murray often acts as a comedic foil to Stenson’s Eilidh (very successfully, with exquisite timing), she too captures the realization of responsibility that teens face in the transition to adulthood. Having allowed her curiosity to derail an essential responsibility, Murray’s Arran flees her community, knowing that she may never be capable of returning. Murray is heartbreaking in sharing Arran’s fear of rejection as she cautiously reveals the extent of her shame to Eilidh. 

Melton’s airtight book is a masterclass in balancing detail and dramatic drive. With astonishing efficiency, his vivid writing captures not only the essence of life on Kinnan, but does the hard work of practically constructing the island out of thin air. Particularly when taken with Finn Anderson’s score, which takes a back seat to the book, but is accomplished in its own right, the pair is able to evoke this world so clearly that it practically flashes before you in each blink.

The quality of the material is made all the more evident by the sparseness of the production. Emma Bailey’s angular platform is offset by the curved bowl atop it, underscoring the contrast between Eilidh’s and Arran’s worlds, and the different lives available on Kinnan versus the mainland. Hahnji Jang’s costume design is practical and straightforward, but Eilidh’s baggy green cable-knit sweater captures both the style of a contemporary teen and traditional regional attire. Simon Wilkinson’s lighting design is reminiscent of lapping waves, but when a tempest tosses Eilidh and her neighbors, he steps forward to reflect the true terror of the storm. And working in tandem, sound designer Sam Kusnetz and Anderson (who also serves as music director and loop station sound designer) build the bedrock on which the rest of the musical is able to exist. From everyday technology, they make transporting art.

The production has gone out of its way to ensure audiences can enjoy the story to its fullest, hedging against the thick Scottish accents by distributing page-and-a-half synopses to entering patrons. While admirable, the gesture felt like overkill, particularly given that, at the hand of original director Amy Draper and associate director Eve Nicol, Stenson and Murray need no assistance in telling the story. In their awareness of American ears, the two performers pace the show masterfully, using illustrative but natural gestures to make the action clear, even if the meaning of words like “bosie,” “numpties,” and “sixtember” are not. A touch of the magic felt lost in previewing the plot.

Coming from Scotland’s famed Edinburgh Festival Fringe, where in 2019 it was named Best Musical and Olney artistic director Jason Loewith first encountered the show, Islander brings a piece of Scotland to D.C.-area audiences and, with it, a welcome message of belonging. Thousands of miles away from their homes, the artists remind audiences of what it means to find ours. In a region with a reputation for population transience, any such story would be well-positioned for impact. But in its inventiveness, Islander’s telling is simply pitch-perfect.

Stewart Melton’s and Finn Anderson’s Islander, conceived and originally directed by Amy Draper with staging and associate direction by Eve Nicol, runs through April 28 at Olney Theatre Center. olneytheatre.org. $50–$91.

It’s hard to imagine that, when writing Little Shop of Horrors in 1982, composer Alan Menken and book writer and lyricist Howard Ashman were hoping to elicit a reaction of, “Well, that was sweet.” After all, a people-eating plant capitalizing on one man’s unchecked greed to devour human flesh and take over the world is hardly the stuff of rom-coms. Sociologists may tell you that, in the four decades since its premiere, society has become desensitized to such acts as a result of the violent images both in entertainment and the news. But, in the case of Ford’s Theatre’s garden-variety Little Shop, running through May 18, the more likely culprit is simply that, in its slickness, the show struggles to leave any blood on the stage.

Based on the 1960 film of the same name, Little Shop of Horrors centers on Seymour (Derrick D. Truby Jr.), a schlubby Skid Row florist whose interest in “strange and exotic” plants leads him to an unknown species resembling a Venus flytrap. Seymour realizes that the plant feeds on human blood and flesh. Initially hesitant to facilitate feedings, Seymour soon discovers that the more the plant flourishes, the more successful he becomes in life and love. Before long, he has the father he always wanted (flower shop owner Mr. Mushnik, portrayed by Lawrence Redmond), the girlfriend he’s dreamed of (Audrey, played by Chani Wereley), and more money than he’s ever had. But when things spiral out of control and heads begin to roll—or get swallowed—Seymour struggles to keep the plant’s power at bay. The musical’s beloved score contains such hits as “Suddenly Seymour” and “Somewhere That’s Green,” among several lesser-known, but equally terrific, bops.

In its cross-pollination of musical styles, from girl group doo-wop to rock ’n’ roll, and deep roots in dark comedy, Little Shop of Horrors can easily become a rollicking romp that glosses over its darkest subject mater. Ashman’s book is among the most underrated in the musical theater canon, simultaneously hilarious and rife with heartbreaking subtext related to the chronic effects of domestic abuse, male loneliness, and the addictive nature of success. Perhaps, that’s why, in the glory of the puppets, musical numbers, and comedy that are as much hallmarks of the show as the darker bits, it’s become a favorite for high school theaters, despite its final body count.

But in professional production, with a supply of talent and skills to raise the emotional stakes, Little Shop has the potential to pack a heavier punch (as evidenced in the terrific off-Broadway production currently running at New York’s Westside Theatre). That the Ford’s production foregoes that opportunity in order to deliver gloss over grit is especially surprising given its director, Kevin S. McAllister, is a prolific stage actor in D.C., who for years has shown his extraordinary talent for taking audiences through the darkest depths of despair and to the highest reaches of jubilation (he did both as Coalhouse Walker Jr. in Ragtime at Ford’s back in 2017). In Little Shop, he leans in to the latter at the expense of big emotional payoff. 

This is especially evident in the abusive treatment of Audrey by her sadistic dentist boyfriend Orin (Joe Mallon). The depictions of his violence toward her are scary, but move quickly. On the other hand, the moments when Orin is the focus of the action move indulgently slowly, allowing Mallon to milk every possible ounce of physical comedy and slapstick humor out of the scene and somehow softening his villainy. In comparison, Audrey, unfortunately, seems like an afterthought in this staging.

To his credit, Truby captures much of Seymour’s unspoken loneliness, adding welcome complexity to the mix. Impressively tall, he towers above many of his castmates, but from the start gives the impression of a man who feels awfully small. Taken in by Mushnik as an orphaned boy, Seymour admits in “Skid Row” that his boss “Treats me like dirt/ Calls me a slob/ Which I am.” His delivery is neither one of self-pity nor resentment, but resignation, and it is heartbreaking. Even so, as Seymour gains wealth and fame alongside Audrey II (his endearing name for the dastardly plant), Truby doesn’t quite capture a comparable level of emotion in exhibiting his character’s newfound confidence. Perhaps this was a choice to underscore the persistence of Seymour’s shame, but the journey is less satisfying as a result.

As is so often the case, street urchins Ronnette, Chiffon, and Crystal (played by Kaiyla Gross, Nia Savoy–Dock, and Kanysha Williams, respectively) practically make off with the show. McAllister has assembled a trio who blend magnificently well, adding exciting new riffs to well-known harmonies and buoying the energy in the room every time they walk onstage, especially when executing Ashleigh King’s choreography. Redmond’s Mushnik is comparably radiant, landing jokes and embracing the character’s sliminess without overdoing it. And as the voice of Audrey II, Tobias A. Young shows off his wide range and rich sound. 

Scenic designer Paige Hathaway’s Skid Row looms above the actors, constructed with dirty bricks and outfitted in rusted signs. She smartly uses a rolling platform for the flower shop, which emerges from and disappears into the set as the plant grows and the business becomes increasingly flush. Working in conjunction with lighting designer Max Doolittle, the stage only becomes more spooky as bright washes turn starkly toward rich red and green hues. Alejo Vietti’s costumes evoke the late 1950s, and her group outfits for the urchins grow increasingly flashy and fun. David Budries’ sound design proved troubling, however, as balance issues made it difficult to hear some of the performers over the band and those who could be heard came through muffled or tinny.

Any visit to Ford’s Theatre is sure to bring theatergoers face-to-face with visiting school groups. As both a historic museum and a performing arts venue, it stands to reason that there’s a tricky line between providing family-friendly entertainment and engaging in provocative artistry. But if that’s the case, why take on this show at all? What’s a Little Shop of Horrors without the bite?

Little Shop of Horrors, music by Alan Menken, book and lyrics by Howard Ashman, and directed by Kevin McAllister, plays at Ford’s Theatre through May 18. fords.org. $33–$95.

Forget The Big Short. And Margin Call. And Too Big to Fail, Inside Job, and (even as it prepares for its musicalized coronation in Boston this summer) The Queen of Versailles. Despite spending less than five minutes on the 2008 financial crisis, in which its titular firm was vanquished in a legendary collapse, The Lehman Trilogy assuredly claims its place as the definitive retrospective on the run-up to that particular financial meltdown. Playing in a first-rate production at Shakespeare Theatre Company through March 30, The Lehman Trilogy spans 150 years of American “progress” through the lens of one family. Given the breadth of its three-and-a-half-hour run time, one might be tempted to call this story an epic, saga, or rhapsody. But to do so would ignore what makes The Lehman Trilogy one of the most exquisite plays of the modern age. It isn’t merely an examination—it is an autopsy. And if the American Dream is the beating heart of the American experience, The Lehman Trilogy diagnoses greed as the lethal clog in its coronary artery. 

So how is a play that lays bare the hard truths of American financial gluttony so wholly seductive and compelling that it easily clips along like a play half its length? Simple: Henry (Edward Gero), Emanuel (René Thornton Jr.), and Mayer Lehman (Mark Nelson). Written by Italian playwright Stefano Massini and adapted by British writer Ben Power, The Lehman Trilogy makes quick work of developing the original Lehman brothers into a dream team of underdog immigrant success. Emigrating to Birmingham, Alabama, from their native Rimpar, Bavaria, the three Jewish brothers arrive in America seduced by a drive for familial success. Obsessively cataloging their income potential, profit margins, and commercial scalability through lean years in Alabama, they set the course for their progeny to expand their empire from a humble fabric shop into one of the largest financial services firms in the world: Lehman Brothers.

The young Henry (Hayum, originally), Emanuel (born Mendel in Rimpar), and Mayer (nicknamed “Spud,” not so lovingly) probably could never have dreamed of the glass towers, priceless art, thoroughbred racehorses, and cash that their descendants would come to accumulate. But if the advancement of their family was at the core of their journey, Massini and Power argue that the steep price of such success was assimilation and, with it, the loss of identity and tradition. Observant Jews, two of the brothers close their store and sit shiva for a full week when the third passes. One generation later, when Philip Lehman dies, the firm closes for a mere three minutes to avoid disrupting the momentum of their trading success.

If content dictates form, then, fittingly, for The Lehman Trilogy, momentum is certainly the name of the game. It permeates every aspect of the story and the staging, which barrels along like the machines combing out the Alabama cotton on which the family made their initial fortune, or the railroads that catapulted the second generation into its place as titans of industry, or the third generation’s round-the-clock trading of risky, speculative stocks that eventually brought down the firm. To lose momentum on the stage would be calamitous, as evidenced in the scant, but nonetheless heart-stopping moments when the actors fumble a line or elongate a pause. Maintaining the breakneck pace of the show is an incredible feat, and the trio of performers tasked with stewarding the work prove that they are, thankfully, up to the task.

Gero, Thornton, and Nelson breeze through the story like a well-traveled vaudeville troupe, bounding between seemingly dozens of characters that range from silly to devastating. With credit to director Arin Arbus, as well as casting directors Danica Rodriguez and Jason Styres, the three actors combine their respective strengths to form one exceptionally united ensemble. Well known to D.C. audiences, Gero shines as Henry and others, wandering onto the stage like a lost-to-history third vagabond from an early draft of Waiting for Godot. He then draws the audience into the Lehmans’ blossoming new world with a welcoming familiarity akin to the Stage Manager in Our Town, but soon transitions into a gruffness reminiscent of his Roy Cohn in last season’s Angels in America at Arena Stage.

Thornton is a charismatic chameleon, as captivating as the brooding middle-aged Emanuel as his is the glad-handing New Deal governor Herbert Lehman. And as Mayer and many others, Nelson is refreshingly hokey and a little devious, cutting through the gravitas to inject much-needed humor. Arbus makes near-constant use of the entire playing area, allowing the actors to slip in and out of focus through intricate choreography (with assistance from physical movement coordinator Lorenzo Pisoni). By her hand, it is always clear where the focus should be and the performers serve her well; in their dance, they leave little opportunity for the eye, let alone the mind, to wander. 

And that they are able to do so on Marsha Ginsberg’s towering, hollow set without getting swallowed by the space is thrilling. In her concrete box, which contains a mound of shredded paper and simple set pieces to evoke the respective eras of the play, Ginsberg provides a canvas for Hannah Wasileski’s ravishing projections that range from blazing Antebellum cotton fields to the shifting digits of a stock ticker. Yi Zhao’s overhead grid of long fluorescent bulbs executes a wonderful coup redolent of The Phantom of the Opera’s iconic chandelier. Sound designer Michael Costagliola skillfully employs illustrative sound effects and his original scoring seamlessly fades in and out. And costume designer Anita Yavich, too, successfully evokes the respective time periods through her straightforward contributions. Arbus’ production is cohesive and original, elevating the sterling text still further into an electrifying night at the theater.

Even so, the play is not immune to questionable choices. Without a doubt, the Lehmans initially built their fortune on the backs of slaves, peddling southern cotton to northern industrialists as middlemen. Though the presence of slavery is palpable in the subtext, in proportion to the rest of the script Power and Massini largely gloss over the human toll of American slavery, save for one exchange with a local doctor, who reflects, “Everything that was built here was built on a crime … the ground beneath our feet is poisoned.” 

Or, as the Wall Street Crash of 1929 plays out on stage, so, too, do several fictionalized suicides that perpetuate now-debunked rumors of distraught traders taking their lives as their portfolios crumbled. And, conveniently, a tightrope walker named Solomon Paprinskij, who allegedly spent decades performing his daily feat without falling, finally stumbles for the first time just as the market begins to crash. One can’t help but wonder if such striking historical omissions and fictional inclusions are the byproduct of non-American playwrights handling uniquely American circumstances, or simply functions of the writers prioritizing the lore and the legend.

And that raises the biggest question: Should we even be mythologizing these men? After all, the full financial impact of Lehman Brothers’ collapse is unconscionable. How many lost jobs? How many lost homes? How many lost everything? Sixteen years on, we still live with the legacy of the Lehman Brothers, triumphs and tribulations. Even as the sharp edges of the 2008 collapse smooth with time, the material illustrations of the Lehmans’ legendary wealth endure untouched, like the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s 2,600-piece Robert Lehman Collection.

Smartly, in such mythologizing, The Lehman Trilogy reliably draws on its stylistic ancestors, from Antigone to King Lear, to illustrate the unmistakably corrupting nature of power and greed. In slotting this uniquely American tale into a classic tragic structure, Massini and Power deliver an exceptional odyssey that neither fully lionizes nor glorifies. Even through rose-colored glasses, hindsight is 20-20. And in looking back so comprehensively on this American tragedy, The Lehman Trilogy practically implores us to stare forward. Regrettably, the very greed that rots in the heart of this play remains as abundant in our economic system as bad stock tips. Still, if every investment paid off as well as The Lehman Trilogy does, we’d all be wealthy.

The Lehman Trilogy, written by Stefano Massini, adapted by Ben Power, and directed by  Arin Arbus, was originally scheduled to close on March 24 but has been extended through March 30 at Shakespeare Theatre Company. shakespearetheatre.org. $35–$129.

Just three stops from the Pentagon on the 7A Metrobus, a new soldier has arrived in Arlington. Written and directed by Marshall Pailet, Private Jones is a musical enjoying its world premiere at Signature Theatre through March 10. But while military types might be a common sight in Shirlington and the surrounding environs, Private Jones offers a fresh riff on well-worn war stories, narrowing its focus to the experiences of a deaf soldier at the peak of World War I.

Loosely inspired by the true story of its namesake, Private Jones follows Welsh teen Gomer Jones (Johnny Link) as his attempts to join the British Army at the onset of the First World War are thwarted because he’s deaf. Discouraged by watching so many of his friends and neighbors join the fight, he eventually befriends a nurse, Gwenolyn (Leanne Antonio), who teaches him British Sign Language and introduces him to a community of deaf and hard-of-hearing patriots who support the war effort by operating a munitions factory. With Gwenolyn’s assistance, Gomer eventually is able to enlist, joining a second-string battalion and leveraging the sharpshooting skills he learned as a boy to become a prolific sniper in the trenches. But as he transitions from a sensitive boy to a hardened killing machine, Gomer is forced to confront his hunger for vengeance and indifference to the value of life. 

If that sounds like a lot of grounds to cover, it is. And at two and a half hours, Private Jones dutifully employs many of the themes and conventions that are hallmarks of both war-genre media and traditional musical comedy, occasionally to its detriment. For instance, the inclusion of a nice but unnecessary romantic plotline involving Gomer, Gwenolyn, and arrogant soldier Edmund (Vincent Michael) is responsible for at least one major ballad, but not much else. 

Additionally, Private Jones struggles to establish a consistent, reliable tone. Initially signaling that its audience is in for the kind of sepia-stained storytelling akin to War Horse or Band of Brothers, the tone rapidly shifts to irreverence and, often, vulgarity when Gomer struggles to enlist in the army and find his place in the world. While the whiplash is confusing, the resulting songs and sequences are, thankfully, charming enough to overcome such a shift.

Once it’s fully transitioned to a gritty battlefield romp, however, Private Jones is able to settle into its stride, thanks in large part to an excellent cadre of endearing supporting characters. And when the frontlines suddenly become deadly and the horrors of war become inevitably apparent, another sudden departure from such underdog feistiness is awfully effective. But even in this dramatic homestretch, when Pailet has the potential to deliver his compassionate message most clearly, a few lengthy musical numbers slow the action to a crawl, even while showcasing the talents of their strong performers.

Regardless, this world premiere is a very encouraging foray from Pailet. Given the challenges, though, one wonders if the musical would further benefit from the eye of a different director to help tighten the story to its most essential components. If Private Jones packs a punch now (and it does), it surely holds the potential for a much bigger wallop. 

Still, Pailet’s directorial aptitude is on full display with the support of a top-notch creative team. The confluence of staging, choreography (by Misha Shields, lovely), and incorporation of both British and American Sign Language (by Alexandria Wailes, exceptional) makes for a deeply moving, engaging theatergoing experience. The creative use of props to perform foley sound effects (Eric Norris), with umbrellas standing in for birds and a winch to signal the loading of Gomer’s rifle, add exciting visualizations to enhance the soundscape. Scenic designers Christopher and Justin Swader’s flexible set allows the action to move seamlessly between locales, and an overhead canopy of vintage propaganda posters are at once the dense forest of Gomer’s native shire and the looming threat of impending battlefire. Phương Nguyễn’s straightforward, respectable costume design successfully evokes the period and never allows the occasional gender swapping to look silly. 

Alongside Wailes, video designer Patrick W. Lord and lighting designer Jen Schriever stand out in their contributions. Through the use of open captioning on the sides of the stage and direct projection onto the set, Lord is able to underscore pivotal moments in Gomer’s story. Schriever uses stark, rhythmic flashes of light to illustrate Gomer’s sniping method. Her use of muted blues conjures the haziness of lowlight trenches, making the flashes of bright whites all the more striking when they pierce the darkness. 

And just as Pailet calls on his designers to pull off the very strong technical aspects of the production, he has enlisted a tight cast of performers to tell this story, be it with their voices or their hands. Link, Antonio, and Michael all give admirable performances. As the Storyteller, Amelia Hensley is unwaveringly captivating, whether she is expertly signing or maneuvering a puppet of a wounded dog (designed by Nicholas Mahon) with heartbreaking tenderness. And as King, a bombastic young soldier whose service as Gomer’s spotter is far more successful than his supposed sexual conquests, Erin Weaver is an unconquerable force. While she exudes toxic masculinity in her hilarious portrayal of the randy young soldier, her performance never becomes caricature; rather, just behind every crude remark lies the palpable fear of a deeply insecure young man.

It’s awfully hard to imagine that this world premiere performance will be the last action Private Jones sees. Clearly a labor of Pailet’s love for Gomer’s story, the musical certainly holds the potential to advance farther in the ranks with additional fine-tuning. Still, where the musical marches off to next remains to be seen. But with a strong showing, it seems likely that Private Jones will see more theaters (of war?). They just probably won’t be so close to the Pentagon.

Private Jones, written and directed by Marshall Pailet, was originally scheduled to close on March 10, but it has been extended through March 17 at Signature Theatre. sigtheatre.org. $58–$99.

Open and closed captions are available at every performance. Closed captions available via the free GalaPro app. A number of ASL interpreted performances are scheduled throughout the run.