These days, I’m not in a mood to be comforted in the theater by either toasting or roasting chestnuts.
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.
When you do this kind of thing it has to be done with bravura and wit — bad poets borrow, good poets steal.
Dumas’ Camille is nothing if not ambitious. Such complexity is seldom found on a summer stage.
This review, like the opening night of She Loves Me, is dedicated to the life and work of the late producer Harold Prince.
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>
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.
Written more than a decade ago, Mahida’s Extra Key to Heaven falls all too painfully closely in line with current events.
Sexy Laundry airs the linen of a twenty-five-year marriage from which the colors seem to have faded, and the whites yellowed.
George Bernard Shaw’s The Man of Destiny could be an evening of delight with a frisson of cerebral exercise.