Heartbeat Opera’s Vanessa is a treat for opera lovers as well as opera newbies.
Adapted by company artistic director and conductor Jacob Ashworth with arrangements by music director Dan Schlosberg, the 1958 Pulitzer Prize winner by composer Samuel Barber and librettist Gian Carlo Menotti has been distilled down into its essence, a chilling one-hundred-minute Gothic romance with flashes of Douglas Sirk melodrama, film noir, and German expressionism. Sung in English, it is a taut tale of love both requited and unrequited, with a stark loneliness boiling at its center.
Vanessa (soprano Inna Dukach) has been pining away in her country mansion for twenty years, believing that her lost love will return to her. She lives with her niece, Erika (mezzo-soprano Kelsey Lauritano), who has sacrificed her youth to tend to her aunt, as well as her mother, the aging Baroness (mezzo-soprano Mary Phillips).
“Oh, I shall die if anything happens to him! / My heart, my heart, I can wait no longer,” Vanessa opines. Erika offers to calm her down by reading to her, choosing a rather relevant section from Sophocles’s Oedipus Rex, in which the protagonist declares, “Woe, woe is me, / Sorrowful, sorrowful that I am! / Where am I? Where am I going? / Where am I cast away?”
When someone approaches on a dark, stormy night, Vanessa is sure that it must be Anatol coming back to her, but it is actually his son, also named Anatol (tenor Freddie Ballentine), who shows affection for both Vanessa and Erika as the Baroness watches closely, suspicious of his intentions. Anatol explains, “All through my youth / I heard that name, ‘Vanessa.’ / Like a burning flame / it used to scorch my mother’s lips / and light my father’s eyes with longing. / Now that I am alone / I have been driven here / to meet at last the woman / who haunted so my house: Vanessa.”
When the Doctor (baritone Joshua Jeremiah) calls on Vanessa, he is at first overjoyed that she seems happy. “Ah, how good it is to see this house alive again!” the Doctor, who has loved Vanessa from afar, proclaims, but he is dumbfounded by the sudden appearance of Anatol and consumed by a jealousy that he does not know how to express. Meanwhile, both Vanessa and Erika have fallen for Anatol, but only the latter can face the reality of the situation. “It is a long winter here. Must the winter come so soon?” she wonders.
Vanessa (Inna Dukach) believes she has finally found love with Anatol (Freddie Ballentine) in Samuel Barber and Gian Carlo Menotti’s Pulitzer Prize winner (photo by Russ Rowland)
Vanessa unfolds on a spare, narrow, horizontal stage backed by a large white, angled screen onto which menacing shadows are cast by the performers, who are all dressed in black. Monochrome as the costumes are, the production’s one nod to excess, other than the emotional pitch, are the fabulous, diva-worthy retro ensembles. (The set is by Jiaying Zhang, with costumes by Terese Wadden and lighting by Yuki Nakase Link.) On one side is the seven-piece band, consisting of Sunny Sheu on violin, Thapelo Masita on cello, Louis Arques on clarinet and saxophone, Grace O’Connell on trumpet, Sam George on trombone, Deanna Cirielli on harp, and Eliot Goldmund on piano, playing the often ominous score.
Directed by R. B. Schlather (In the Penal Colony,The Mother of Us All), the opera drags a bit as it reaches its conclusion but is otherwise poignant and exciting, with superb performances by the ensemble amid striking visuals; the only props are chairs that are occasionally brought on and off, allowing the focus to be on the intense narrative.
It’s a heart-wrenching story that soars at the intimate Baruch Performing Arts Center, best encapsulated by the words of the Baroness, who says to Erika, “My poor child, love never bears / the image that we dream of; / when it seems to, / beware of the disguise!”
[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer; you can follow him on Substack here.]
Kip Williams’s adaptation of Jean Genet’s The Maids skewers contemporary society (photo by Julieta Cervantes)
THE MAIDS
St. Ann’s Warehouse
45 Water St.
Tuesday – Sunday through June 14, $49-$149 stannswarehouse.org
“None of it is real,” two characters say in Kip Williams’s scathing adaptation of Jean Genet’s 1947 play The Maids, running through June 14 at St. Ann’s Warehouse.
In his lengthy introduction to the published edition of the play (paired with Deathwatch), Jean-Paul Sartre wrote, “It is the element of fake, of sham, of artificiality that attracts Genet in the theatre. He has turned dramatist because the falsehood of the stage is the most manifest and fascinating of all. Perhaps nowhere has he lied more brazenly than in The Maids.”
Williams has reimagined the work for today’s social-media-obsessed culture, with potent results that, despite the “lies,” ring only too true.
Sisters Solange (Phia Saban) and Claire (Lydia Wilson) are live-in maids toiling for Madame (Yerin Ha), a wealthy, famous influencer whose father is a billionaire. The siblings both hate and love Madame, wanting to be her while also dreaming of killing her. They rummage through her closets of expensive couture and luxuriate in her bedroom, which is filled with colorful flowers and floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
For the first part of the play, Rosanna Vize’s plush, elegant set is surrounded by a thin translucent curtain, as if the characters are trapped inside, but when it opens it merges the “falsehood of the stage” with a kind of realism that only enhances the fantasy world Genet and Williams have created and the three characters bask in.
Solange and Claire have deviously plotted to frame Madame’s boyfriend, who has been arrested for embezzlement, another example of fakery. “I needed it to be real,” Claire says when detailing how they pulled it off.
When Madame finally shows up, she is aghast at everything and everyone, from the flowers Kim Kardashian has sent her to the selfie a fan had asked for. “You can tell her assistant directly from me that he should either consider a career change or do some fucking research cos even fucking ChatGPT could tell you that nobody is doing pink fucking hydrangeas anymore. Fuck. Why is it so hard to get good help these days?” she complains to Solange. “Ok!? I feel like I’m going to die, but there’s like a massive difference between my metaphoric death and sending me this fucking disgusting death parade of flowers. Like I am in mourning for my literal life, but like not for actual real, ok?”
As insults fly and the tension mounts, the proceedings are projected on the mirrored closets as if being broadcast live on Instagram or TikTok, complete with filters that make the characters look like garish versions of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, name-dropping such brands as Gianvito Rossi, Balenciaga, and Gucci by Ancora while Madame worries that her boyfriend will be sent to Guantanamo and that she’ll have to move to her father’s villa in France to get away from all the tumult. “It’s going to be really hard,” Madame says. “I will make such a fuss over you both. You’ll be like my little country dolls.”
But through it all, the three women make sure to capture nearly every minute online, which is the only thing that truly matters.
“I’m over. I’m dead. I’ve been cancelled, babes!” Madame opines. “Solange, film this. Film this. This is perfect. This is how it ends. This is perfection!”
Madame (Yerin Ha) chooses just the right dress as sisters Solange (Phia Saban) and Claire (Lydia Wilson) stand back to back (photo by Julieta Cervantes)
Genet grew up in foster care and was arrested numerous times, including for vagrancy, theft, and using false identity papers. Identity is key to The Maids, as the characters occasionally take one another’s place and create fake identities online. Loosely inspired by the true story of sisters Christine and Léa Papin, two maids who killed their mistress and her daughter in France in 1933, Williams’s version is an unsparing satire about twenty-first-century Western culture mired in the desperate need of individuals to put their lives online, acquire likes, and expand their influence amid classism and capitalism run amok.
The Maids is tailor made for actors to hold nothing back and has boasted major trios in the past: Vivien Merchant, Glenda Jackson, and Susannah York in 1973, Cate Blanchett, Isabelle Huppert, and Elizabeth Debicki in 2013, and Uzo Aduba, Zawe Ashton, and Laura Carmichael in 2016. Saban (House of the Dragon,Oedipus) and Olivier nominee Wilson (King Charles III,Pains of Youth) appropriately devour the scenery as the virtually interchangeable sisters, while Ha (Bridgerton,Lord of the Flies) gets her fill as well, leading to a finale that reaches a devastating crescendo.
Williams, who also used live video in his Tony-nominated The Picture of Dorian Gray,Dracula, and Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, keeps the artifice front and center throughout. Zakk Hein’s projections are huge and grotesque, getting in the audience’s face, both enhancing and overwhelming the action unfolding onstage; should we be looking at the actors themselves or their giant images? Are we actually seeing ourselves and our desire for a fancy home, expensive clothing and accessories (the fanciful, and absurd, costumes are by Marg Horwell), and online fame assisted by botox and Ozempic? And how far are we willing to go to achieve any of that?
The stellar production also features sound by Dan Balfour, lighting by Jon Clark, and original music by DJ Walde that add to the “artificiality” of Genet’s vision. It’s often hard to watch, but you can’t turn away; as fantastical and outrageous as it all seems, it’s also all too real.
“Everything must be so false that it sets our teeth on edge,” Sartre adds in his introduction.
My teeth are still chattering.
[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer; you can follow him on Substack here.]
Who: Abdel R. Salaam, Ndere Troupe, Asase Yaa African American Dance Theater, the Billie’s Youth Arts Academy Dance Ensemble, DanceAfrica Spirit Walkers, DJ YB, more What:DanceAfrica Festival 2026 Where:BAM Howard Gilman Opera House, BAM Rose Cinemas, 30 Lafayette Ave. When: May 22-28, many events free, Gilman dances $21-$86, film screenings $17 Why: The coming of the summer season means the arrival of one of the best festivals of every year, BAM’s DanceAfrica. The forty-ninth annual iteration focuses on Uganda, with four companies performing “Umoja/Mirembe/Obulungi (Unity/Peace/Beauty)!” in BAM’s Howard Gilman Opera House: DanceAfrica Spirit Walkers, Asase Yaa African American Dance Theater, the Billie’s Youth Arts Academy Dance Ensemble, and Ndere Troupe, highlighting movement and music from the Pearl of Africa. Curated by artistic director Abdel R. Salaam, the festival also includes the DanceAfrica Bazaar with more than 150 vendors, dance workshops and master classes at the Mark Morris Dance Center, Sanaa Gateja’s “Voices of Peace” art installation, the Council of Elders Roundtable: Legacy & Preservation moderated by Dyane Harvey-Salaam, the Memorial Room, which offers a place to honor festival ancestors, and a late night dance party with DJ YB.
This year’s FilmAfrica screenings and cinema conversations, held in conjunction with the New York African Film Festival, are highlighted by Mohamed Ahmed’s A Tribe Called Love (2025), Maia Lekow and Chris King’s How to Build a Library (2025), Ossie Davis’s Black Girl (1972), Olive Nwosu’s Lady (2026), and Awam Amkpa’s The Man Died (2024) all followed by Q&As with the directors and/or others.
“Thousands of years of African cultural development were interrupted by centuries of colonialism, which gave rise to a sociopolitical movement that led to Uganda’s independence on October 9, 1962, and its formal nationhood in 1963. In the decades since, a powerful artistic movement has emerged to reclaim and celebrate Ugandan identity and intelligence through cultural expression, a force that continues to this day,” Salaam said in his mission statement. “Today, ancient Uganda is considered a cradle of human evolution and early civilization in the East African region of Lake Nalu Baale, the traditional name of what became Lake Victoria. In Luganda, a Bantu language, ‘Nalu Baale,’ translates to ‘Mother of the Ancestral/ Guardian Spirits.’ I am honored to share more of these ancient dances and songs, mixed with shades of contemporary visions of East Africa.”
[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can follow him on Substack here.]
Mayhem ensues when a surprise being appears on board a corporate research vessel in Axis Theatre’s Specimen (photo by Regina Betancourt)
SPECIMEN
Axis Theatre Company
One Sheridan Sq. between West Fourth & Washington Sts.
Wednesday – Saturday through June 6, $10-$40, 7:00 www.axiscompany.org
Randall Sharp’s Specimen is not a cautionary tale of where America is heading; instead, it’s a frenetic sci-fi satire warning us that it’s already too late to save the ship and its crew.
“We are dead in the water. We’re just floating. Communication is out,” Overholser (Britt Genelin), an engineer aboard the US VitaNavis Nomad, says early on in the seventy-five-minute play. “All we need is a little push to get to the earth-pull zone for home. I hope we don’t just smash into it! Plus I could use a decent med clinic. And a haircut. I feel sick. I feel tired.”
The corporate research vessel Nomad, named after people who move around from place to place — for example, undocumented immigrants and refugees — is on a mission to collect valuable living specimens more for their potential financial value rather than their scientific worth. The crew is a ragtag “bunch of morons,” as Lt. Commander Gordon (Julian Rozzell Jr.) refers to them. Gordon has annoyed his team because he has fudged critical reports. The ambitious and energetic Overholser has been beaten up by the severely ill King (Spencer Aste, only seen on video). Dr. Gardener (Andrew Dawson), the chief medical officer, says, “I know what I’m doing” without any evidence to support that. Medical assistant Longshore (Jon McCormick) asks a lot of questions but provides no answers. Louden’s (Jim Sterling) primary responsibility is to greet newcomers, but he can’t get anything to work. And Capt. Gonickeau (Lynn Mancinelli) is hiding in sick bay, not wanting to confront any kind of problem at all.
An endless stream of glitches plagues the Nomad: Ironic, familiar pop songs come and go on the speaker system. The monitors flash on and off with reckless abandon, broadcasting a bright, sunny commercial with the VitaNavis president (Robert Ierardi) that quickly goes bad, as well as private video diaries that are not meant to be seen by others, a melding of the captain’s log and social media posts. The food supply, from saltines to what they call “SUP,” is running dangerously low. And various odd smells are wafting about. Patience is wearing thin even with Earth so close.
The Nomad’s archnemesis, the stellar Jericho, is nearby, rumored to have a pair of prize specimens that are likely to make them win the battle once again. (In the lobby case is a previous trophy the Jericho won, along with a roster of its crew, featuring one member who becomes central to the plot.) It seems like the Jericho, whose name in Arabic means “fragrant” and the Bible calls “the City of Palms,” can do no wrong, the polar opposite of the Nomad, as if one is the dream of America, the other the current reality, one an oasis, the other a boiling inferno.
But when a mysterious being (Brian Barnhart) suddenly arrives in a pod, all hell breaks loose as the crew fights over whether the creature is a fabulous Andro-Primatus specimen worth millions or jokester Jay Marlin, a doctor from the Jericho who is in need of medical help. The doctor’s last name could be a sly reference to the large fish Santiago catches and struggles to bring back in Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, believing it will turn his luck around. “It is good that we do not have to try to kill the sun or the moon or the stars. It is enough to live on the sea and kill our true brothers,” Santiago says to himself.
The ramshackle set, by Sharp, McCormick, and Mancinelli, is like a bizarro-world merging of the starship Enterprise, the Discovery from 2001, and the Nostromo from Alien, with a nod to Tom Sachs’s DIY NASA installations. The white uniforms, designed by Karl Ruckdeschel, have fun touches, such as the character’s job stenciled on the back in big letters. David Zeffren’s lighting and Paul Carbonara’s sound and original music, along with Nicholas Guldner’s video design, maintain the low-tech atmosphere of impending doom.
The exemplary ensemble, consisting of Axis company members and returnees, somehow manages to keep straight faces despite all the absurdist mayhem taking place, led by Rozzell Jr. (Our Planet,Father Comes Home from the Wars) as the determined lieutenant and Genelin (Twelfth Night,Washington Square) as a kind of bruised and battered ingénue in an ill-fitting spacesuit. Each actor also sports fantabulous hair, riffing on the obvious wigs worn by the cast of the original Star Trek movies.
Sharp, who has previously adapted such classics as High Noon and Dead End and written and directed such new works as Worlds Fair Inn and Last Man Club, orchestrates a clever balance between farce and fright as the proceedings continue and the crew has to figure out who or what the specimen is and what to do with it.
It’s a subtle but ripe parody of a bumbling administration that prefers money over science, with little interest in aiding immigrants, giving their employees proper training or affordable health care, or fixing a spacecraft that is falling apart.
When the pod first pulls into the port, there is no sign of anyone there. “Hello!! Maybe . . . maybe it’s not American?” Dr. Gardener asks. Gordon replies, “Of course it’s American. What else would it be.”
Oh, this is America all right.
Over and out.
[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer; you can follow him on Substack here.]
The Challenger disaster offers new insight into Jared Mezzocchi’s relationship with his mother in 73 Seconds (photo by Maria Baranova)
73 SECONDS
Lower Eastside Girls Club
402 East Eighth St. at Ave. D
Thursday – Monday through May 18, $70-$140 www.engardearts.org/73seconds
“You remember where you were when it happened,” Jared Mezzocchi says in his multimedia solo show 73 Seconds. “What do you do when there is no explosion?”
I remember exactly where I was when it happened — Mezzocchi is referring to the Challenger disaster, when the space shuttle carrying a crew of seven, including the first teacher in space, Christa McAuliffe, broke apart seventy-three seconds into its flight on January 28, 1986. I was picking up my sister from high school, sitting in the car, listening to the radio when the news hit.
We went straight home, and I watched for hours as Dan Rather talked and talked about solid rocket boosters and McAuliffe and CBS showed the explosion over and over again.
“The thing about explosions is that it’s something you can point at,” Obie-winning director, actor, playwright, associate professor, and designer Mezzocchi adds. “There’s before the explosion, the explosion, and then after the explosion. It happens quickly.”
In 73 Seconds — which takes place in an actual working planetarium at the Lower Eastside Girls Club — Mezzocchi turns his attention to his mother, Rosemary, a popular teacher who, at a restaurant celebrating his high school graduation, casually mentions that she once worked for NASA. The revelation blows the space-obsessed Mezzocchi’s mind, and it gets even more complicated when she describes her connection to the Challenger.
It is such a shock to his system that he wonders if it’s actually true, especially as his mother contracts Alzheimer’s. “What am I doing, memorializing someone who’s still alive?” he asks.
It’s territory he’s explored before: In his deeply personal 2021 virtual On the Beauty of Loss, Mezzocchi related the deaths of his father and grandfather.
Jared Mezzocchi integrates old technology into his new solo show (photo by Maria Baranova)
Mezzocchi shares his mother’s story — which can often get too intimate and explanatory, as if he’s speaking with his therapist instead of a theater audience — using a mix of technology, much based on what was available in the 1980s, including an overhead projector, cassette tapes, poorly composed family photographs, and scratchy audio. He occasionally projects the universe onto the planetarium dome, but not quite enough. The sound is by Ryan Gamblin, with lighting and video by Jeanette Oi-Suk Yew and production design by Calvin Anderson.
Directed and co-created by the always inventive Aya Ogawa (The Nosebleed,Meat Suit, or the shitshow of motherhood), the narrative hits some bumpy snags — it’s by no means a smooth ride, but it does echo what appears to be going on inside Mezzocchi’s head as he deals with this surprising new family information, from small explosions to bigger ones — but it cleverly explores the never-ending, complex relationships between parents and children. It also answers some questions that Mezzocchi (The Wind and the Rain,Vietgone) raised in On the Beauty of Loss, when he races to the hospital after being told his father has been admitted there.
Ultimately, 73 Seconds is a touching experience, one that will have you thinking about your own relationship with your parents. It’s about how we grieve, the secrets we keep, and the connections we need to move forward.
And it’s another unique piece from En Grade Arts, which specializes in presenting work in unusual spaces, from a Brooklyn bar and New York City apartments to Brookfield Place and Hudson River Park — and now a surprise planetarium in an unexpected location.
[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer; you can follow him on Substack here.]
Ophelia (Francesca Mills) and Hamlet (Hiran Abeysekera) try to hold on to their love in National Theatre production at BAM (photo by Julieta Cervantes)
HAMLET
Brooklyn Academy of Music
BAM Strong Harvey
651 Fulton St.
Through May 17, $46-$226 www.bam.org/hamlet
One of the myriad great things about Shakespeare’s plays is their adaptability; they can be done as straightforwardly as possible or be transplanted into an endless number of settings, changing the time and place while staying true to the Bard’s words. Nevertheless, some productions get so caught up in their tinkering that they lose sight of the play itself.
Two current shows in New York City take different approaches to a pair of Shakespeare’s most popular tragedies, but each is a celebration of the language. I found myself discovering details in the National Theatre’s Hamlet at BAM and Bedlam’s Othello at the West End Theatre that made each work feel fresh and new across their nearly three hours.
BAM has a long history with Hamlet; it was their inaugural theatrical presentation, in 1861. It was also the National’s first play in London, in 1963. Continuing at the Harvey through May 17, director Robert Hastie (Operation Mincemeat) reimagines the dour Dane for the modern era in a dark and funny version with numerous delicate touches.
Hiran Abeysekera portrays Hamlet as a kind of nepo baby trying to find his way in a world that has suddenly shifted for him following the death of his father, the king (a terrific Ryan Ellsworth, also the Player King and the gravedigger), followed by his mother’s (Ayesha Dharker) almost immediate marriage to the king’s brother, Claudius (a splendid Alistair Petrie), who now wears the crown. It gets even more complicated when his father’s ghost appears and reveals that uncle Claudius poisoned him in order to ascend to the throne.
With vengeance on his mind, Hamlet doesn’t have enough room in his life for Ophelia (a sprightly Francesca Mills, donning angel wings), who loves him deeply. Her father, Polonius (Matthew Cottle), is Claudius’s chief counselor, and her brother, Laertes (Tom Glenister), is determined to defend her honor at any cost.
Hamlet finds comfort in his closest friend, Horatio (a delightful Tessa Wong), but is suspicious when two of his best buds from childhood, Rosencrantz (Hari Mackinnon) and Guildenstern (Joe Bolland), suddenly arrive; it’s not long before he gets them to admit that they were brought to Denmark by Gertrude to spy on him because of his recent odd behavior.
When a traveling theater troupe arrives to put on a play, Hamlet convinces the First Player (Maureen Beattie) to stage The Mousetrap with a bonus passage by Hamlet, telling the story of a man who kills his brother, the king, exactly how Claudius murdered his sibling, in order to wed his widow and become king himself. “The play’s the thing / Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King,” Hamlet says.
As Hamlet descends into madness, Fortinbras (Kiren Kebaili-Dwyer), the crown prince of Norway, prepares his troops to invade Denmark and bodies start piling up.
Hamlet begins in an elegant ballroom with realistic forest wallpaper and transforms into a theater for the fabulous play-within-a-play and a graveyard; the sets are by Ben Stones, who also designed the modern costumes, which for Hamlet includes a Blockbuster Video sweatshirt, a nod to Michael Almereyda’s 2000 film version in which Ethan Hawke delivers the “To Be or Not to Be” monologue while walking through a Blockbuster store, and a “Tobacco and Boys” T-shirt that references the unconfirmed Christopher Marlowe quote “All they that love not Tobacco and Boys are fools”; the phrase was also used by Shakespearean actor Stephen Fry in the title of his 1979 play, Latin! or Tobacco and Boys.
Hastie makes small tweaks to the script that practically leap off the page. Polonius tells Laertes, “To thine own selves be true,” altering “self” to “selves”; Ophelia loudly joins in when Polonius advises his son, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be”; and the “To Be or Not to Be” soliloquy is moved to later in the play, at a crucial point. The language is so front and center that the nearly endless stream of familiar phrases that became names of books, plays, and movies jumps out, from Infinite Jest and What Dreams May Come to The Undiscovered Country and Sleep No More.
As adorable as he is melancholic, Abeysekera (Life of Pi) grabs the audience’s attention from the beginning and never lets go, regularly making faces and gesturing at the crowd. When another character delivers a monologue directly to the audience, Abeysekera looks at them, and us, as if wondering what is going on, believing that only he can see and talk to us. And when he does speak to us, he has us in the palm of his hands, even with his millennial flourishes as he delivers some of Shakespeare’s most unforgettable soliloquies in his own style. He may not be Olivier, Burton, Branagh, Bernhardt, or Gielgud, but he doesn’t have to be; he just has to be Abeysekera, putting his own stamp on the part.
Through it all, the words stand tall, even conquering a few scenes that linger too long or go a bit off-kilter.
Of course, the play’s the thing.
Susannah Millonzi, Susannah Hoffman, Ryan Quinn, and Eric Tucker play all the roles in Bedlam’s stripped-down Othello (photo by Ashley Garrett)
OTHELLO
West End Theatre at St. Paul & St. Andrew United Methodist Church
263 West Eighty-Sixth St. between Broadway & West End Ave.
Tuesday – Sunday through May 30, $24-$86 bedlam.org/w-o/othello
In the National Theatre’s Hamlet, eighteen actors take on twenty-six roles on multiple sets. In Bedlam’s Othello, a cast of four performs more than a dozen parts in a bare white space, with only a handful of small props: Susannah Hoffman is Desdemona and Cassio, Susannah Millonzi is Roderigo and Emilia, Ryan Quinn is Othello and Bianca, and director Eric Tucker is Iago. As with Hamlet, Shakespeare’s words take center stage, for nearly three captivating hours.
Angry that Othello named Cassio his first lieutenant instead of him, Iago is intent on bringing Othello down, through trickery and deceit. He conspires with the Venetian gentleman Roderigo to convince everyone that the Moorish general Othello used evil witchcraft to force Senator Brabantio’s daughter, Desdemona, into a secret marriage. “Your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs,” Iago tells the powerful politician, using race as a sword.
When Othello and Desdemona publicly declare their love for each other, Iago concocts a diabolical plan to persuade Othello that his beloved is having an affair with Cassio, thus ruining the general and his lieutenant, lifting Iago’s station, and allowing Roderigo to pursue his own lust for Desdemona.
“O beware, my lord, of jealousy! / It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock / The meat it feeds on,” Iago says to Othello. “That cuckold lives in bliss / Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; / But O, what damnèd minutes tells he o’er, / Who dotes yet doubts, suspects yet soundly loves!”
To achieve his revenge, Iago must also pull the wool over the eyes of his wife, Emilia, who is Desdemona’s maidservant; Bianca, Cassio’s lover; the Duke of Venice; Gratiano, Brabantio’s brother; Lodovico, Desdemona’s cousin; and Montano, the governor of Cyprus.
That’s precisely what Iago seeks to destroy in anyone who gets in his way.
Othello (Ryan Quinn) and Desdemona (Susannah Hoffman) face doom and dread in Bedlam production (photo by Ashley Garrett)
The first act of Othello takes place with the actors performing on a dirty white floor in front of an unsteady white wall; initially, the only props are a bell and a black rope/noose, but a string of Christmas lights and a microphone are added for a karaoke scene. For the second act, the three rafters of seating are rearranged to form a circle closing in on the middle, where most of the action occurs, although the actors also stomp around behind the audience and up and down the aisles. Cheyenne Sykes’s lighting gets much darker, the characters at times using flashlights. The actors usually but not always make tiny adjustments to Sam Debell’s contemporary costumes to indicate when they are a different character, which can get a little awkward. The karaoke scene is awkward as well, straying from the simpler beauty of the rest of the show.
Hoffman and Millonzi excel in their multiple roles, and Quinn is an admirable, heart-wrenching Othello, but the key to the narrative lies in the hands of Iago, and Tucker, who also designed the tense sound, is a slyly devious master manipulator, his tongue often in his cheek as his plot unfolds; possessed of a rapier wit, he thinks quick on his feet, like an improv comic who’s not about to lose control of the upcoming punch line.
Bedlam’s first two productions, back in 2013, were four-actor versions of Bernard Shaw’s Saint Joan and Hamlet, so this Othello is a return to its roots following such other successful shows as Sense & Sensibility,Arcadia,The Good John Proctor, and Are the Bennet Girls OK? Because of the minimal staging, the words flow beautifully; you have to listen closely, resulting in picking up small elements you may have missed in bigger adaptations with major stars.
Through it all, the words stand tall, even conquering a few scenes that linger too long or go a bit off-kilter.
Of course, the play’s the thing.
[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer; you can follow him on Substack here.]
Who: Charlotte Aucella, Louise Heit, Will Pettigrew, Not a Dance Company, Josephine Brunner, Liiiam, Eleanor Crawford, Chisato Fujii What:Take Root: Digging In Group Artist Residency Where:Green Space, 37-24 24th St., Suite 211, Long Island City When: May 14-17, $22 in advance, $25-$27 at the door, 7:00/8:00 Why: Since October 2025, Green Space has been hosting “Digging In” mentored group artist residencies for eight dancer-choreographers. This week the public will be able to see what they’ve been up to as part of the “Take Root” series. On May 14 and 16, Charlotte Aucella, Louise Heit, Will Pettigrew, and Not a Dance Company will present their new works, while Josephine Brunner, Liiiam, Eleanor Crawford, and Chisato Fujii will share their pieces on May 15 and 17. The residency consists of eight work sessions, two personal and professional development workshops, and two full-production performances complete with marketing and publicity support, lighting, sound, a stipend, and a post-residency recap. Founded by Valerie Green of Dance Entropy in 2005, the venue is “a place for dancers, choreographers, teachers, and community members alike to gather and experience dance where it’s created.” Applications for the 2026–27 residency open in the fall.
[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can follow him on Substack here.]