Jim Kates
Carolyn Michel’s Rose is the sociable stranger on the bus who tempts you to miss your stop so you can hear her out to the end.
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When you do this kind of thing it has to be done with bravura and wit — bad poets borrow, good poets steal.
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Dumas’ Camille is nothing if not ambitious. Such complexity is seldom found on a summer stage.
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This review, like the opening night of She Loves Me, is dedicated to the life and work of the late producer Harold Prince.
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This production of Morning’s at Seven is a celebration of Peterborough’s theatrical family as much as it is the depiction of a fictional one.,/em>
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In two short acts, playwright Win Wells depicts not so much a relationship as a fusion, a merging of identities into one single, complex personality.
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Written more than a decade ago, Mahida’s Extra Key to Heaven falls all too painfully closely in line with current events.
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Sexy Laundry airs the linen of a twenty-five-year marriage from which the colors seem to have faded, and the whites yellowed.
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George Bernard Shaw’s The Man of Destiny could be an evening of delight with a frisson of cerebral exercise.
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An Inspector Calls speaks with ease to our own times, bedeviled with “alternate facts” and ethical doubts.
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