Author: H Hsu

REVIEW: Extraordinary Women

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Rating: 3 out of 5.

“Its framing of queer women ultimately begs the question: Who gets to tell what stories?”

Extraordinary Women, originally a novel written by Compton Mackenzie in the 1920s, is a story set on the fictional island of Sirene and follows a group of queer women’s love affairs. As one of the earliest mainstream English novels to center lesbian relationships, it was banned in the UK for obscenity due to its unapologetic portrayal of lesbianism.

The musical Extraordinary Women, currently performing at Jermyn Street Theatre, is an adaptation of this novel of the same name, featuring a brilliant ensemble with a majority-female cast. Sophie Louise Dann is utterly impeccable in all of her roles – fully believable, well-rounded, and hilariously funny. She gives a masterclass in characterization and comedy. Monique Young is also a force on stage, with a presence that is full of energy. The other ensemble members also deliver brilliant work in portraying multiple roles, giving the audience a peek into the different personalities of this group of queer women in the 1920s.

Extraordinary Women is, as defined by the characters themselves, a musical comedy. There are many punchy and witty lines that earn big laughs, and the show as a whole creates great comedic moments. However, it is questionable whether this story is the right choice for contemporary audiences. At the time of its publication, the novel was groundbreaking in its depiction of lesbian relationships. Yet, from a modern perspective, the story itself, as well as the satirical lens it casts on these queer women, could be seen as highly problematic.

The story centers around a playboy-esque woman who charms all the other women on the island, causing chaos. The depiction of the central figure, Rosalba (portrayed by Amy Ellen Richardson), feels like a gender-swapped male character rather than a fully realized woman. Under the direction, the character’s costumes – she is the only one wearing blazers and jumpsuits throughout the show, while all other female characters wear dresses – along with her demeanor (constantly leaning on the wall, hands always in her pockets) – and even the character’s construction (a “womanizer” who pursues multiple love interests and cheats on her partner) – align closely with a classic playboy archetype. Although the character was based on real historical figures, it’s doubtful whether this depiction humanizes them or simply reinforces a male archetype.

The story also fails to add depth to its characters. The storytelling is fragmented – scenes are composed of small pieces of dialogue and underdeveloped character realizations. Hardly any character undergoes an arc. Given these flaws, the title “Extraordinary Women” – repeatedly mentioned in the show – feels less like a genuine descriptor and more like a satirical commentary on these women. The story was, admittedly, written by a man. But in the 21st century, do we really need more stories about women written through a male gaze?

While the musical delivers sharp comedy and standout performances, its framing of queer women ultimately begs the question: Who gets to tell what stories?

Extraordinary Women runs at Jermyn Street Theatre until 10th August. Tickets are available here.

REVIEW: Clive

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

 Clive offers us a window into a deeply relatable human condition, yet despite its stellar creative team, the story remains at arm’s length from its own potential.

Premiering at Arcola’s Studio 2, Clive gathers a team of stellar creatives and cast, including Olivier and BAFTA award-winning playwright Michael Wynne, acclaimed director Lucy Baily, and Two-time Olivier Award nominee Paul Keating. The story of Clive follows Thomas, a work-from-home man who keeps everything around him absolutely spotless. There are no other living beings in his space, apart from one—a cactus he calls “Clive,” whom he constantly talks to and seeks social connection from. As the story unfolds, the seemingly in-control environment around Thomas starts to break down, and how he responds to these situations becomes the central question of the play’s latter half.

The set and lighting design are black box theatre at its best. Thomas’ apartment is clearly an externalization of his personality and inner world. White floor, white cabinet, white table, white chairs—all mopped so thoroughly that the surfaces shine. The use of cabinets instead of plain walls functions perfectly for the practical needs of the production while suiting the character well. The lighting is brilliantly used, swiftly marking the passage of time while also mirrors the psychological state of the character over time.

The opening moment very clearly brings out what kind of a character Thoas is. He walks around his apartment and greets the audience (or Clive, to be more specific) in mopping shoes, disinfecting the floor — an action immediately revealing his need for control, his fragile edge, his clean-freak nature, and his hunger for connection. Yet, although Thomas’s character is sharply constructed, at times I wonder if it’s made too explicit. He often explains his choices and backstory directly to the audience. Yes, everything connects, but it also risks being too on-the-nose. All this exposition risks making him feel flat rather than complex.

The first thirty minutes don’t advance the plot that much but pave the way for the later buildup. Wynne’s writing was funny and deeply engaging. Thomas’s quarantine-like existence echoes many aspects of our own life—the longing for connection, leading him to peer at neighbors’ windows; the boredom that drives him to invent pointless tasks; the insecurity of isolation, overanalyzing every message, action, and attitude for hidden meaning.

While the first half works as a solid buildup, the latter half feels rather artificial. The climax seems forced—Thomas’s breakdown, though connected to earlier events, doesn’t feel earned. Most crucially, while many aspects of Thomas’ life echo our daily experiences (especially quarantine life), the story itself remains unrelatable to me. The problems and challenges he faces, though dramatized for the circumstances, still feel trivial. Despite the acting, lighting, and text working in sync to build toward the climax, the dramatic peak ultimately lands as artificially inserted and pushed. 

Clive offers us a window into a deeply relatable human condition, yet despite its stellar creative team, the story remains at arm’s length from its own potential.

REVIEW: Must I Cry

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

An emotionally packed narrative exploring the loss of loved ones and the fear of such loss.

The Hong Kong author Xi Xi is recognized for her exploration of Hong Kong’s identity, urban life, and personal memory in her works. Her writing weaves together sentiments of loss, nostalgia, and resilience. Inspired by Xi Xi’s work, Must I Cry is a piece combining poetry, live music, and projections, created by Theatre du Pif. Similar to Xi Xi’s writing, it explores the loss of loved ones and the fear of such loss—not just losing the people around us, but also the city we grew up in, and even the cultural identity.

The narrative shifts between the main character’s childhood memories and present reflections, between what remains and what is lost. As she traces her memories with her recently deceased father, the character realizes the foreignness of the place she once called home. A personal journey and cultural reminiscence are woven into one narrative, packed into a visually compelling metaphor—her childhood self ripping her father’s photo into pieces and scattering them around the city, fusing the bodies of her father and the city itself. Yet after his death, she discovers she can no longer find those photo fragments—the city that raised her has become utterly transformed.

The show integrates beautiful moments of cultural specificity: the smells of Hong Kong markets, the food, the familiar faces, and scenes from her childhood. The small, shrine-like installation on stage echoes this specificity—a place that exists in memory but is no longer accessible in reality. The animation, with its child-TV aesthetic, intensifies this feeling as well.

Yet, rather than 65 minutes of immersive storytelling, the piece feels like an extended moment of nostalgia. The language is poetic, full of beautiful imagery and rhythm. While this poetic style suits the story’s mood, it sometimes creates obstacles for narrative clarity. As a work about personal loss, it emphasizes the protagonist’s emotional state rather than creating an immersive experience for the audience to share her childhood memories, the city itself, and ultimately her emotional journey.

Musically, the show features sound design by Lau Chi-bun, who composed the score using primarily bells and an accordion. While effective for emotional impact, this instrumental choice doesn’t enhance the story’s sense of realism. Similarly, though Bonnie Chan delivers a brilliant performance, the show’s format as a one-woman piece—with the story narrated rather than reenacted through scenes—results in distancing the audience. Rather than experiencing these memories and losses alongside the character, we observe her private grief from a distance.

While its emotional resonance lingers, the production ultimately keeps us at arm’s length from the very intimacy it seeks to mourn.

REVIEW: Sing Street

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Rating: 5 out of 5.

Theatre at its most alive. Unmissable. 

In an era when West End productions increasingly rely on film and TV stars to guarantee ticket sales, Sing Street—a beloved film adaptation and Broadway transfer—sounds like another safe bet. Yet, the Lyric Hammersmith’s production crackles with such vitality that it doesn’t just entertain; it ignites. This is theatre at its most alive.

I have never finished the film (oops). Yet within minutes of the stage production, I was utterly swept into its world. No prior knowledge is required—the story’s emotional core lands with the force of a gut punch. From the moment the lights dim, the immersive video design and dynamic choreography pull you into 1980s Dublin, a world both nostalgic and vividly immediate.

What radiates from this ensemble cast is an unfiltered, youthful energy—the kind where every performer pours their entire being into the work. Many are fresh out of drama school or still training, yet their commitment is staggering. Sheridan Townsley embodies Conor with such authenticity – tender and occasionally awkward as a boy, yet transforms into a magnetic rock star when he sings. In the theatre production the unfolding relationship between Conor and  Barry (played by Jack James Ryan) also carries a poignant queer subtext that adds layers to the story. All ensemble characters – from the members of the band to everyone in Conor’s family – feel fully realized, their arcs textured and believable. In a story about the layers of a teenager’s reality, every ensemble member breathes life into these layers, making the struggles and triumphs achingly real. Credit must go to casting directors Stuart Burt CDG and Peter Noden for selecting performers who embody these characters with remarkable authenticity, rather than relying on the easy draw of screen stars.

The standout performance is undeniably Adam Hunter’s portrayal of Brendan. Introduced through a haunting movement sequence, he’s a man drowning in disillusionment, numbing himself with TV and weed. Hunter (making his theatre debut with Sing Street) portrays Brendan with breathtaking truthfulness. His two solos are seismic. The first, as he steps tentatively into the Dublin streets, unfolds against fractured projections of the city—his fractured psyche made visceral. The second is a roar of defiance and hope. Hunter’s raw, truthful performance fundamentally reshapes the entire production’s emotional landscape.

Luck Halls’ video Design is another marvel. Live cameras, archival footage, and surreal imagery collide. The opening projection instantly anchors us in time and place, while the live feed turns teenage daydreams into stadium-sized fantasies, blurring the line between reality and aspiration. At the end, TV static melts into ocean waves, echoing the characters’ emotional thaw. 

Rebecca Taichman’s masterful staging stitches together physical storytelling, concert adrenaline, and cinematic montage. All elements – choreography, costume design, set, and obviously, music and sound design – construct a stunning whole. With Enda Walsh’s stage adaptation, Rebecca ensures the film story lands in a theatrical space—not as nostalgia, but as something immediate and vital.

By the final number, the entire audience is on their feet, not out of obligation, but because Sing Street earns it. Unmissable.

REVIEW: The Boy With Wings

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

 “A story that makes kids (and, adults too) feel seen, heard, and ready to spread their wings.” 

“I wanna be one of them!” That’s the thought bouncing around my brain at intermission. Sitting in the audience, I wonder if I’m even qualified to review a children’s show—but hey, if a grown adult can have this much fun, that’s got to count for something, right?

The Boy with Wings, adapted from Lenny Henry’s beloved children’s book, soars onto the stage with heart, humor, and a whole lot of magic. We follow 12-year-old Tunde (a brilliant Adiel Boboye), a kid weighed down by nightmares, schoolyard bullies, and the mysterious absence of his father. But through his journey, we meet the people who shape his world: his fiercely protective mom, his ride-or-die friends Kylie (Millie Elkins-Green) and Dev (Samir Mahat), and a mysterious, rhyme-spouting cat (yes, really). It’s a story about a kid finding himself—his identity, his courage, his people, with the help of friends, family, and even people who he doesn’t know. 

Under Daniel Bailey’s direction, the storytelling is crisp, engaging, and yet deeply relevant. One highlight includes the electric dynamic between Tunde and his mom, Ruth (Mia Jerome). Mia doesn’t just play a worried parent—she brings humor, warmth, and a touch of delightful chaos to the role, making Ruth feel real, relatable, and utterly captivating. Then there’s Jessica Murrain as Juba the cat, a performance so physically precise and poetically charged. She delivers every line with crackling energy and lyrical flair, breathing such vivid life into the character that you can’t help but be mesmerized. She’s not just an actor, but a storyteller who commands the stage. And there’s also the trio of young friends—Tunde, Kylie, and Dev—whose chemistry crackles with authenticity, making their bond as believable as it is moving.

But the magic isn’t just in the performances. The production pulses with life—thanks to Gillian Tan’s transformative lighting and video design, which turn the stage into a playground of imagination. Khalil Madovi’s soundscape and music tie it all together, wrapping the audience in a world that’s vibrant, immersive, and downright cool. What truly makes this production sing is how it roots Tunde’s story in the rich soil of Black British culture. The lines pulses with grime-inflected beats and playful rap verses, while the children’s graffiti-tagged playground transforms the stage into a living community space of those down-to-earth characters. It’s an invitation for the audience to understand a childhood that might be different from the mainstream white culture. The production walks that delicate line beautifully – specific enough to feel authentic, universal enough to resonate with anyone who’s ever felt like an outsider finding their tribe.

This show is a celebration—a mostly POC cast and crew owning their excellence in an industry that still has miles to go. It’s a story that makes kids (and, adults too) feel seen, heard, and ready to spread their wings.

Photos by Steve Franck Photography

REVIEW: Talking People (25th June)

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Rating: 4.5 out of 5.

Raw, unflinching, and revelatory—Talking People redefines improvisational theatre with its piercing examination of human life.

On stage is a couple deeply in love. They seem to have it all—fulfilling careers, a stable relationship, even dreams of starting a family. What challenges could they possibly face? The answer lies in a bag of random possibilities—and each night, the actors take flight alongside the audience, exploring the unpredictable terrain of human conditions.

Improvisation. Famous actors. I walked into Bush Theatre’s studio space thinking I knew exactly what to expect. Yet what unfolded was something entirely unexpected—raw, intuitive, and razor-sharp in the best possible way.

Since its debut just a year ago, Talking People has achieved extraordinary success, with sold-out runs and glowing acclaim. Now, this summer at Bush Theatre, they’re bringing back their celebrated series of improvisational nights, where renowned actors are thrown into fresh, uncharted scenarios. Guided by director Richard Vincent and the audience’s probing questions, they map out their characters’ relationships layer by layer, culminating into living, breathing scenes of unscripted moments.

The night I attended featured Isabelle Bonfrer and Max Rinehart, both seasoned stage and screen performers. Their only starting premise is a couple deeply in love but struggling to conceive. From there, they built their characters’ lives—with the director and audience shaping their story piece by piece. Through probing questions, their history came into focus: Anna owns a bike shop, while Ben is a touring musician. They adore each other yet dance around the instability of their finances. Anna receives financial support from her stepfather, while Ben remains oblivious to the cost of a settled life. Now, they’re considering parenthood—Anna hoping Ben will give up his nomadic career, Ben only truly alive when talking about music. One longs for roots; the other drifts without direction.

The first half maps out the couple’s dynamic, while the second half takes flight in full improvisation. The actors perform pivotal scenes—first, returning home from a fertility consultation, then jumping forward a year as their lives unravel, and finally, another six months later, as one prepares to leave their shared apartment—and their relationship—behind.

Both actors excel at grounding their characters in this specific circumstance. Max portrays a man buckling under reality’s weight—money, responsibility, the pressure of preparing for a child—while Isabelle’s Anna, disillusioned by stagnation, seeks escape in an affair. As Ben’s questions grow increasingly desperate, Anna’s silence speaks volumes.

Of course, improvisation is imperfect—it lives and breathes in the moment. There are stumbles, hesitations, fleeting uncertainties. Yet therein lies its beauty. While scripted plays thrive on momentum, improvisation’s magic lies in watching actors wrestle with choices before making the choice, and maybe at moments, failing their choices.

What sets Talking People apart from other improvisational performances is its unflinching rawness and honestly. There are no rehearsed witticisms, no polished resolutions—only the hesitations before a decision, the clumsy stumble through life’s difficult moments, and then, the necessary act of moving forward. It is a mirror held up to the way we live: how every choice, every silence, every reckless or cautious step carves the path of a life.

REVIEW: Romeo and Juliet

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

In an era of safe revivals, that daring alone makes this Romeo and
Juliet a rare and thrilling spectacle.

A haze of smoke, steel scaffolding, and actors adorned in striking makeup, bathed in eerie blue light, all happening in a space where the arches and walls are etched with history. You are stepping into a different world – this is Flabbergast Theatre’s new production of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, a bold reimagining of the classics with fearless audacity.

Set to the strains of Petrarch’s love poetry, this rendition of Shakespeare’s timeless tragedy is anything but traditional. Campy, gripping, and wildly inventive, it defies expectations at every turn. The visual design alone is stunning—an unfinished construction structure looms over the stage, its raw, fragmented aesthetic mirroring the play’s themes of love and destruction. The costumes are a deliberate clash of eras: 19th-century hoop skirts mingle with crochet tank tops and Urban Outfitters-esque crossbody bags. Yet somehow, these disparate elements coalesce into a cohesive, electrifying aesthetic.

Equally striking is the blocking—the deliberate arrangement of bodies onstage, enhanced by dynamic lighting. Many scenes resemble living Renaissance paintings, meticulously composed yet pulsating with modern energy. Neon lights pierce through the classical framing, creating a visual tension that feels both fresh and exhilarating.

The production’s most fascinating tension, however, lies in its interplay between Shakespeare’s text and devised movement. In traditional stagings, the language carries the narrative, but here, physicality shares the spotlight. At its best—such as in the balcony scene—movement and dialogue amplify each other, injecting new vitality into familiar moments and deepening the chemistry between the lovers. Shakespeare’s language suddenly springs to life with electrifying vitality on stage. Yet at moments, the choreography distracts the audience from the text, muddling the storytelling or rendering certain speeches ungenuine.

The highlight of the ensemble surely features Lennie Longworth’s Juliet —radiant yet tender, she crafts a portrayal that feels achingly real and utterly mesmerizing. The supporting cast, too, delivers memorable and unique performances, though not uniformly; some actors lack focus, their physicality unmoored in pursuit of an ill-defined “naturalism,” weakening the narrative’s clarity and the character’s credibility.

Yet for all its bold reinvention, the production’s jarring near-absence of performers of color (just one in the cast) exposes the limits of its progressivism. This lack of diversity undermines the ensemble’s collective strength, rendering its blind-casting claims more aspirational than realized.

Overall, even when the execution falters, the production never loses its campy verve or its willingness to dismantle conventions. In an era of safe revivals, that daring alone makes this Romeo and Juliet a rare and thrilling spectacle.

REVIEW: Candy

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

A potent and devastating story of love and addiction that is yet to find its emotional landing.

Set in 1980s Australia, Candy follows the tragic journey of a young, passionate couple whose lives and relationship deteriorates due to heroin addiction, exploring themes of substance abuse, turbulent love, and personal tragedy. At its heart, it’s a touching story of two people deeply in love yet ultimately torn apart, not just by external hardships, but by their own self-destructive battles. This story is brought into life by director Kate Elliott, showing at the White Bear theatre until June 14th.

The show’s greatest highlight lies in the outstanding performances of its two actors, Freya James (as Candy) and Ed McVey (as Dan). Through multi-roling, breaking the fourth wall, and physical storytelling, the duo demonstrates remarkable versatility with emotional depth. Freya James delivers brilliant moments as Candy, while her portrayal of the mother is equally memorable. Ed McVey transitions seamlessly between characters, fully embodying each one—his performance as Dan is electrifying and, ultimately, heartbreaking. The chemistry between the two actors is undeniable. 

Laure Bachelot and Alexandria McCauley’s movement direction is another highlight. The choreography not only advances the narrative but also clearly captures the couple’s emotional turmoil. The movements depicting heroin use are particularly powerful—expressed with both precision and poeticism. 

However, these strengths are undermined by the fragmented storytelling and sparse technical elements. The story, adapted from Candy: A Novel of Love and Addiction, unfolds through a mix of movement, dialogue, and narration.  While the movement and dialogue offer compelling glimpses into the couple’s life, the narration often feels like a mere plot device. Though breaking the fourth wall could have deepened the audience’s connection to the characters’ inner worlds, the narration instead disrupts the flow, merely filling narrative gaps rather than enriching the storytelling.

The decision to have only two actors multi-role also weakens immersion. While James and McVey skillfully embody multiple characters, the frequent shifts create a barrier for the audience. Instead of deepening engagement, the multi-roling often pulls focus from the central relationship, leaving the audience to piece together fragmented dialogues rather than becoming fully invested in the couple’s journey. As a result, key turning points feel unearned, and high-stakes moments lose their grippingness.

The minimalist set—comprising two rehearsal boxes, sheer curtains, and a neon light—offers flexibility yet leaves the storytelling on stage unsupported. Without stronger visual or technical support, the burden of world-building falls heavily on the audience’s imagination. The lighting, while effective in shaping the atmosphere and delivering scene changes, does little to reflect the characters’ psychological states. Similarly, the sparse sound design leaves the production feeling bare, leaving the actors to carry the entire emotional weight of the story.

Candy is a production of raw talent and haunting themes, though occasionally undermined by fragmented storytelling. Yet at its core lies a devastating portrait of love and addiction—one that lingers as a poignant, if imperfect, cry from the heart.

REVIEW: The Watch

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Rating: 4.5 out of 5.

A tender, witty triumph, it reimagines time through the lens of queer intimacy

It’s been a long time since I last walked out of a show feeling like I’d just spent a wonderful, heartwarming hour. The Watch made that happen.

Co-produced by Bomb Factory Theatre and Chris Edge and directed by Merle Wheldon, The Watch, a new piece by Isabella Waldron, is currently premiering at The Glitch in South London. The show is built on a simple premise: Hannah (played by Ciana Howlin), troubled by her inability to fall asleep, meets a watchmaker, Zoe (Kate Crisp). The encounter between them explores healing, genuine connection, and the mending of our bodies’ broken internal rhythms in a modern world. Though the concept is straightforward, the writing makes the story deeply endearing through brilliant dialogue and world-building, all while keeping the emotional core at its heart.

The writing is fun, honest, and quirky in the best way. The story is narrated by Hannah, whose character feels so authentically crafted—quirky, messy, yet deeply relatable—that you’re utterly charmed from her very first words. Ciana’s performance as Hannah is absolutely enthralling. She grabs the audience’s attention from the very beginning and never lets go. Through her narration, we fully immerse ourselves in her life and start to experience the world through her quirky yet deeply genuine point of view. The dialogue between Hannah and Zoe also sparkles with humor and chemistry. The dynamic between the two feels so compelling that you can’t help but lean into their conversations, laughing and frowning along with every line and twist.

Merle Wheldon masterfully brings together set, lighting, and sound design to create an intimate yet cohesive world. The downstairs theater at The Glitch provides the perfect space for this heartwarming piece. The set design is simple yet effective, symbolizing the two distinct worlds of the characters before they merge. Meanwhile, the lighting crafts a fantastical yet immersive atmosphere, enhancing each scene’s emotional beats. The sound design subtly supports the world-building for most of the play but shines in particularly striking moments, immersing the audience into Hannah’s world.The Watch explores how we navigate connections in today’s fragmented, chaotic world. It reinvents the telling of queer stories in its own way – so simple, yet so deeply captivating and affecting – and redefines how we share time: no longer counting the ticking of the clocks, here we experience time in shared breath and warmth from the loved ones, in the tracing of wrinkles, in the quiet moments where time dissolves altogether.

Runs at the Glitch until 9th June. Tickets here.

REVIEW: Harmony

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

A dazzling debut that pits AI against human connection in a world on the brink – Can an algorithm save love – or just disrupt it?

Harmony is the debut play by Grub Street Theatre Company, a brand-new production company committed to bold new storytelling. Set against an apocalyptic climate crisis, Harmony explores AI intervention in human romantic relationships and the human connection under extraordinary circumstances. Can the AI Harmony forster harmony to personal romances, human-climate relations, and human-technology dynamics? The play grapples with pressing questions for today’s society.

The writing is effortlessly elegant. Simon (played by Sam Thorpe-Spinks) is an English tutor who often succumbs to insecurity, turning to AI for guidance. Sam imbues the character with a lovable vulnerability—charming awkwardness and authenticity in the first half that later twists into something more complex and even harmful. His love interest, Elsa, a woman seeking genuine connection, is brought to life by Isla Lee with groundedness and moments of glittering humanity.

Alongside the two humans, the AI Harmony—voiced by Ross Carswell’s bewitching performance—plays a pivotal role in driving the story. The choice to give Harmony a human form is deeply intriguing. Constantly onstage, this AI exerts far more agency and complexity than traditional depictions, displaying a semblance of humanity. Though seemingly neutral, Harmony’s true motives remain ambiguous, which critically shapes the protagonists’ relationship. The decision to personify Harmony is undeniably clever—introducing a third presence transforms the theatrical dynamic, injecting energy and shifting power balances. Harmony’s constant gaze, scrutinizing and voyeuristically observing the couple, also raises vital questions about privacy, the fragility of human connection, and the ethics of artificial intelligence—all deeply relevant to contemporary society.

Noah Marullo’s direction elegantly weaves different elements on stage into efficient, clear storytelling and the transitions—snappy early on, deliberate later—feel organic to the narrative. With Ben Sharp’s lighting, he turns the limited square stage into distinct, believable realities. It’s surprising that Harmony is Noah’s directorial debut, as his work demonstrates remarkable talent for transforming a confined space into vivid storytelling. 

Harmony tackles weighty themes—AI ethics, human connection, and climate change—yet not all are fully realized. While some ideas blend seamlessly into dialogue and action, the play occasionally struggles to balance their competing intensities. The apocalyptic setting, though evocative, lacks visceral urgency, leaving character dynamics and high-stakes scenarios subdued. Additionally, as the story progresses, the weight of various external themes seem to intervene with the story’s exploration of human connection, fragmenting its core message.

Yet overall, Harmony remains a bold and skillful imagining of future human life. As Grub Street Theatre Company’s debut production, its ambitious interrogation of contemporary issues and deft storytelling promise exciting future projects worth anticipating.