Him (Jennifer Lim) coughs on the smoke of the incense she lights as she bows to a temporary altar in her kitchen in Carrollton, Texas. Ma (Wai Ching Ho) is propped up on a hospital bed, where she is unceremoniously dying. Sophea (Francesca Fernandez McKenzie) isn’t around, but is it her fate or her fault? 

In Lulu Wang’s 2019 film The Farewell, a family gathers under pretext of marriage to celebrate their beloved matriarch, who, unbeknownst to her, is terminally ill. Vichet Chum’s Bald Sisters, directed in its world premiere at Steppenwolf by Jesca Prudencio, envisions the opposite scenario: Ma is on her deathbed and has not yet informed her younger daughter Sophea of her indisposition. “Oops,” she shrugs to elder daughter Him, before promptly keeling over. Forget breaking up over text; this is transitioning to the afterlife over voicemail—and, while possibly the most tragic thing that could ever happen in Bald Sisters, it is also deeply, strangely hilarious.

Bald Sisters Through 1/15: Tue-Fri 7:30 PM, Sat 2:30 and 7:30 PM, Sun 2:30 PM; no shows 12/24-12/25 and 12/27; open caption Thu 12/22 and Sat 1/14 2:30 PM, audio description Thu 12/22 and Sat 1/14 2:30 PM, ASL interpretation Thu 12/22 and Sat 1/14 2:30 PM, Spanish captions Thu 12/22 and Sat 1/14 2:30 PM, relaxed sensory performances Thu 12/22 and Sat 1/14 2:30 PM; Steppenwolf Theatre, 1650 N. Halsted, 312-335-1650, steppenwolf.org, $40-$86

Now that Ma is dead, Him and Sophea must decide what to do with her remains and possessions. It has been approximately a lifetime since they have agreed on anything. Him is an uptight nurse and married to a pastor (Nate, played by Coburn Goss). Sophea is a free-spirited photographer and sleeping with her boss. And they are both, as the title implies, bald. For Him, it’s because of the toxic effects of chemotherapy for breast cancer, a condition previously undisclosed to her sister. Sophea has shaved her head in accordance with Buddhist mourning tradition. (“If anyone would’ve provided me enough dignity to let me know my mother was about to kick the bucket . . . they would’ve found out I actually know a thing or two about Cambos dying.”) So what will it be: a ritualistic parting of soul and body by fire, or a dignified Western burial at Hilltop Memorial Park? 

“The day I found you . . . I’m ashamed to say this, I probably should not say it, but I’m going to say it . . . I didn’t recognize you, gkoun,” admits Ma shortly before she passes, recalling the moment in late 1970s Cambodia when she and Him were reunited during the genocide that killed a quarter of the country’s population. Ma does not mention their separation, and Him can’t remember their moment of reunion, but before they can get sentimental or even acknowledge the facts of the matter, Ma interrupts: “Don’t cry like a bitch.” (Sophea was only sort of there for the moment—in utero, both “the only daughter I had left” and the daughter left out, born American, protected and excluded from the decisive and divisive history of destruction and survival.)

Death is no conclusion for a woman like Ma who haunts her daughters clad in varicolored ensembles for the Asian woman who’s 65 but looks 45 (yessss, green patent leather heels, patterned leggings, sheer sparkly coverup—on-point costume design by Izumi Inaba) and leaves behind gold lavalieres to string her teeth upon. Everyone has a memory of Ma. Ma meditated with Nate. Ma befriended Seth (Nima Rakhshanifar), the college student/Syrian refugee who mows the lawn and accompanies Him to chemo and becomes buddies with Sophea, even though, like his own American-born younger sister, “she sucks.” 

Bald Sisters operates on a pendulum swinging between comedy and tragedy, perpetually offering the moments of missed mutual recognition that are the minutes and minutiae that make up generational trauma, approaching and retreating from confrontations and conversations that comprise the true nature of reality. Against, in place of—and also expressing—this reality is art: art as compensation for lost history, culture, and connection, art as the only common language that can survive the ruptures humans wreak upon themselves. Unable to find solace in Cambodian or American funeral rites, Sophea becomes calm as a sitting Buddha listening to Seth (whose real name is Seif) chant a prayer in Arabic. Unable to speak directly to her daughters of pain, grief, or hope, Ma resorts to her favorite song, the Cascades’ “Rhythm of the Rain.” 

In a rapid 100 minutes ricochets a kaleidoscope of themes, including immigration, assimilation, loss, and community. Ho is endearingly fabulous as Ma. Lim is stoic and Fernandez McKenzie sassy as the sisters. Rakhshanifar is the neighbor everybody needs as Seth, and Goss affable in his flaws as Nate. Every detail and intention in this production is lovingly conveyed, every line of the play piercingly, poignantly true. 

“Ma used to say because the Khmer Rouge invaded on the new year . . . we’ve

learned to mourn and celebrate in the same breath,” says Sophea. Bald Sisters does both brilliantly.

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The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, first presented on Broadway in 1978 and memorably mounted as a film in 1982, is ironically one of the most prescient musicals for the 21st century. The story of the Chicken Ranch in fictional Gilbert, Texas, both portends contemporary cancel culture and brilliantly contrasts the ethics of prostitution, the media, and politics—and in the end posits that the world’s oldest profession is the most noble part of that triad.

So it was great to see Evanston’s Theo Ubique Cabaret Theatre (now known more simply as Theo) ambitiously mount Whorehouse, a sprawling show that sometimes leaves the theater bursting at the seams. The production has some kinks to iron out but, nevertheless, is a great showcase of Carol Hall’s beautiful songs and Larry L. King and Peter Masterson’s bittersweet and caustic book. 

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas Through 1/29: Thu-Sat 7:30 PM, Sun 6 PM; no shows 12/22-12/25 or 1/1; Howard Street Theatre, 721 Howard, Evanston, 773-939-4101, theo-u.com, $45-$55. Three-course prix fixe dinner from Cross-Rhodes Evanston available for $30 (drinks and gratuity not included); dinner packages must be ordered a week before the show.

Whorehouse is very much a product of its time. Director Landree Fleming had her work cut out for her here. While 70s and 80s culture depicted sex work as either a comedic or tragic venture, advocates in recent years have started to consider that sex work is indeed, well, work—and is usually the result of circumstance and conscientious choice. In her director’s note, Fleming sums it up: “We see a woman [Miss Mona] who contributes to her town, who provides a safe haven and an honest day’s work, be attacked by a self-righteous talking head.”

At the center of Theo Ubique’s production is Anne Sheridan Smith as the world-weary but kindhearted Miss Mona. Whorehouse is above all else a story of time’s relentless passage and being present for the end of an era; Smith brings all that to Miss Mona brilliantly. Her performance of “Bus From Amarillo” nicely brings out that song’s nuances as both an elegy for lost youth and a weary look ahead toward the future. 

Marc Prince’s Ed Earl Dodd probably should have been directed to be played as an older character. While the part is now closely associated with Burt Reynolds’s portrayal in the movie, Ed Earl works best as someone in their 60s or thereabouts. Ed Earl is at times imperceptive and obtuse, but, like Mona, he is hyperaware that he is getting old. He is a grumpy and vulgar man too, and the brashness the character needs to believably chase Melvin P. Thorpe’s (David Blakeman) camera crew out of town is missing in Theo’s show.  

The show sometimes struggles for a balanced tone too. Thorpe and the Texas governor (Teddy Gales, who also plays the show’s other political officials), while intended as caricatures, seem more cartoonish than the play dictates. Make no mistake, the audience loved Blakeman and Gales the night I viewed the play, but the two actors seem to be in a different show than Miss Mona and the Chicken Ranch girls, who are all generally playing the story straight.

The ensemble here really knows how to keep the energy going. It’s a small cast for a show with so many characters, so some of the Chicken Ranch girls double as members of the Aggies football team. Jenna Schoppe’s choreography is excellent, and this ensemble knows their stuff—one of the performers playing a Chicken Ranch girl was sidelined at the end of act one and was replaced by a standby performer, but nobody ever missed a beat. 

Speaking of brash, Cynthia F. Carter really nails Miss Jewel’s “Twenty-Four Hours of Lovin’.” On the other end of that emotional spectrum, Halle Bins captures Doatsey Mae’s loneliness and wanting in that character’s solo.

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I’ve now seen the North American tour of Dear Evan Hansen twice in Chicago, and both times I’ve come up short trying to feel the emotional connection that so many fans have with this show. My first viewing was before the pandemic, and I hoped it might hit differently in 2022. After all, the musical is about an isolated, socially anxious young man trying to find a sense of belonging. Don’t we all want that, especially now? Unfortunately, it left me dry-eyed once again.

When it premiered on Broadway in 2016, Dear Evan Hansen won six Tony Awards, and it has since transferred to London’s West End and been adapted into a film. The title character, originally played by Ben Platt, enters his senior year of high school with a broken arm, no friends, and an assignment from his therapist to write an encouraging letter to himself every day. When a troubled classmate, Connor Murphy, dies of suicide, an initial misunderstanding turns into an extended lie that has the whole school and Connor’s family believing that Evan was his best friend. 

Dear Evan HansenThrough 12/31: Tue 7:30 PM, Wed and Fri 2 and 7:30 PM, Thu 7:30 PM, Sat 2 and 8 PM, Sun 2 and 7:30 PM; Fri 12/16 7:30 PM only, Sat 12/24 2 PM only, no show Sun 12/25; James M. Nederlander Theatre, 24 W. Randolph, 800-775-2000, broadwayinchicago.com, $35-$116 (limited number of $25 tickets available through online lottery); recommended for 12+

Dear Evan Hansen has drawn criticism for the way it centers a white male protagonist who deceives and manipulates, gaining popularity and even the affection of his longtime crush through a fabricated relationship with a dead kid. When the truth finally emerges, Evan suffers few consequences. While I agree that this is problematic, it’s not my main issue with the show. Plenty of worthwhile art focuses on, and even creates sympathy for, characters who make terrible, hurtful choices.  

My first complaint is this: Although Benj Pasek and Justin Paul won a Tony Award for best original score, I find their pop-infused music and lyrics rather vapid, sounding as if they were engineered in a lab to pull on the heartstrings. Change a few lyrics, and the anthem “You Will Be Found” could be belted from any evangelical megachurch in America on a Sunday morning. Musically, I do not mean this as a compliment. 

Also, I find the story line about Evan’s anxiety unsatisfying; I would rather see a show that engages with the real work of developing better mental health. As his lies spiral out of control, Evan stops taking his anxiety medications, presumably stops seeing his therapist, and distances himself from his mother, the one who has been trying to get him help all along. Yet somehow, he emerges from the mess with improved self-confidence. This seems like a cheap shortcut to anyone who has experienced anxiety or other mental health struggles.

Now that I’ve aired these grievances, I must say that the current cast of the North American tour is quite good, beginning with Anthony Norman as Evan. Originally from Chicago, Norman displays both the vocal and emotional range required for the role, portraying the awkward teenager convincingly enough that your hands almost sweat along with his. Nikhil Saboo plays Connor—a complex part given that the character dies early on and reappears as a fictionalized version invented by Evan and his classmate and partner in email forgery, Jared Kleinman (Pablo David Laucerica). This trio shares some of the show’s funnier moments. 

Alaina Anderson makes her professional debut as Zoe Murphy, Connor’s sister and Evan’s love interest, in an understated performance that has the audience straining to hear her lines at times. Micaela Lamas plays an enthusiastic Alana Beck, the overachieving classmate who teams up with Evan and Jared to create “The Connor Project,” a mental health-themed blog and fundraising initiative. Rounding out the principal cast are John Hemphill and Lili Thomas as Connor and Zoe’s parents, along with Coleen Sexton as Evan’s mother, Heidi. The adult roles are developed in a half-hearted way, with Heidi being somewhat of an exception, but the performers do a fine job with the material.

For those who are already fans of Dear Evan Hansen, this tour is a great opportunity to see the show, especially since the Broadway production closed in September. Although it didn’t resonate with me, there were many in the audience on opening night who obviously felt differently—from the middle-aged dad who wore a striped, blue polo and toted a bag full of merchandise to the woman next to me who cried through the second act. For their sake, I am glad this musical is back in Chicago. 

Read More

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, first presented on Broadway in 1978 and memorably mounted as a film in 1982, is ironically one of the most prescient musicals for the 21st century. The story of the Chicken Ranch in fictional Gilbert, Texas, both portends contemporary cancel culture and brilliantly contrasts the ethics of prostitution, the media, and politics—and in the end posits that the world’s oldest profession is the most noble part of that triad.

So it was great to see Evanston’s Theo Ubique Cabaret Theatre (now known more simply as Theo) ambitiously mount Whorehouse, a sprawling show that sometimes leaves the theater bursting at the seams. The production has some kinks to iron out but, nevertheless, is a great showcase of Carol Hall’s beautiful songs and Larry L. King and Peter Masterson’s bittersweet and caustic book. 

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas Through 1/29: Thu-Sat 7:30 PM, Sun 6 PM; no shows 12/22-12/25 or 1/1; Howard Street Theatre, 721 Howard, Evanston, 773-939-4101, theo-u.com, $45-$55. Three-course prix fixe dinner from Cross-Rhodes Evanston available for $30 (drinks and gratuity not included); dinner packages must be ordered a week before the show.

Whorehouse is very much a product of its time. Director Landree Fleming had her work cut out for her here. While 70s and 80s culture depicted sex work as either a comedic or tragic venture, advocates in recent years have started to consider that sex work is indeed, well, work—and is usually the result of circumstance and conscientious choice. In her director’s note, Fleming sums it up: “We see a woman [Miss Mona] who contributes to her town, who provides a safe haven and an honest day’s work, be attacked by a self-righteous talking head.”

At the center of Theo Ubique’s production is Anne Sheridan Smith as the world-weary but kindhearted Miss Mona. Whorehouse is above all else a story of time’s relentless passage and being present for the end of an era; Smith brings all that to Miss Mona brilliantly. Her performance of “Bus From Amarillo” nicely brings out that song’s nuances as both an elegy for lost youth and a weary look ahead toward the future. 

Marc Prince’s Ed Earl Dodd probably should have been directed to be played as an older character. While the part is now closely associated with Burt Reynolds’s portrayal in the movie, Ed Earl works best as someone in their 60s or thereabouts. Ed Earl is at times imperceptive and obtuse, but, like Mona, he is hyperaware that he is getting old. He is a grumpy and vulgar man too, and the brashness the character needs to believably chase Melvin P. Thorpe’s (David Blakeman) camera crew out of town is missing in Theo’s show.  

The show sometimes struggles for a balanced tone too. Thorpe and the Texas governor (Teddy Gales, who also plays the show’s other political officials), while intended as caricatures, seem more cartoonish than the play dictates. Make no mistake, the audience loved Blakeman and Gales the night I viewed the play, but the two actors seem to be in a different show than Miss Mona and the Chicken Ranch girls, who are all generally playing the story straight.

The ensemble here really knows how to keep the energy going. It’s a small cast for a show with so many characters, so some of the Chicken Ranch girls double as members of the Aggies football team. Jenna Schoppe’s choreography is excellent, and this ensemble knows their stuff—one of the performers playing a Chicken Ranch girl was sidelined at the end of act one and was replaced by a standby performer, but nobody ever missed a beat. 

Speaking of brash, Cynthia F. Carter really nails Miss Jewel’s “Twenty-Four Hours of Lovin’.” On the other end of that emotional spectrum, Halle Bins captures Doatsey Mae’s loneliness and wanting in that character’s solo.

Read More

I’ve now seen the North American tour of Dear Evan Hansen twice in Chicago, and both times I’ve come up short trying to feel the emotional connection that so many fans have with this show. My first viewing was before the pandemic, and I hoped it might hit differently in 2022. After all, the musical is about an isolated, socially anxious young man trying to find a sense of belonging. Don’t we all want that, especially now? Unfortunately, it left me dry-eyed once again.

When it premiered on Broadway in 2016, Dear Evan Hansen won six Tony Awards, and it has since transferred to London’s West End and been adapted into a film. The title character, originally played by Ben Platt, enters his senior year of high school with a broken arm, no friends, and an assignment from his therapist to write an encouraging letter to himself every day. When a troubled classmate, Connor Murphy, dies of suicide, an initial misunderstanding turns into an extended lie that has the whole school and Connor’s family believing that Evan was his best friend. 

Dear Evan HansenThrough 12/31: Tue 7:30 PM, Wed and Fri 2 and 7:30 PM, Thu 7:30 PM, Sat 2 and 8 PM, Sun 2 and 7:30 PM; Fri 12/16 7:30 PM only, Sat 12/24 2 PM only, no show Sun 12/25; James M. Nederlander Theatre, 24 W. Randolph, 800-775-2000, broadwayinchicago.com, $35-$116 (limited number of $25 tickets available through online lottery); recommended for 12+

Dear Evan Hansen has drawn criticism for the way it centers a white male protagonist who deceives and manipulates, gaining popularity and even the affection of his longtime crush through a fabricated relationship with a dead kid. When the truth finally emerges, Evan suffers few consequences. While I agree that this is problematic, it’s not my main issue with the show. Plenty of worthwhile art focuses on, and even creates sympathy for, characters who make terrible, hurtful choices.  

My first complaint is this: Although Benj Pasek and Justin Paul won a Tony Award for best original score, I find their pop-infused music and lyrics rather vapid, sounding as if they were engineered in a lab to pull on the heartstrings. Change a few lyrics, and the anthem “You Will Be Found” could be belted from any evangelical megachurch in America on a Sunday morning. Musically, I do not mean this as a compliment. 

Also, I find the story line about Evan’s anxiety unsatisfying; I would rather see a show that engages with the real work of developing better mental health. As his lies spiral out of control, Evan stops taking his anxiety medications, presumably stops seeing his therapist, and distances himself from his mother, the one who has been trying to get him help all along. Yet somehow, he emerges from the mess with improved self-confidence. This seems like a cheap shortcut to anyone who has experienced anxiety or other mental health struggles.

Now that I’ve aired these grievances, I must say that the current cast of the North American tour is quite good, beginning with Anthony Norman as Evan. Originally from Chicago, Norman displays both the vocal and emotional range required for the role, portraying the awkward teenager convincingly enough that your hands almost sweat along with his. Nikhil Saboo plays Connor—a complex part given that the character dies early on and reappears as a fictionalized version invented by Evan and his classmate and partner in email forgery, Jared Kleinman (Pablo David Laucerica). This trio shares some of the show’s funnier moments. 

Alaina Anderson makes her professional debut as Zoe Murphy, Connor’s sister and Evan’s love interest, in an understated performance that has the audience straining to hear her lines at times. Micaela Lamas plays an enthusiastic Alana Beck, the overachieving classmate who teams up with Evan and Jared to create “The Connor Project,” a mental health-themed blog and fundraising initiative. Rounding out the principal cast are John Hemphill and Lili Thomas as Connor and Zoe’s parents, along with Coleen Sexton as Evan’s mother, Heidi. The adult roles are developed in a half-hearted way, with Heidi being somewhat of an exception, but the performers do a fine job with the material.

For those who are already fans of Dear Evan Hansen, this tour is a great opportunity to see the show, especially since the Broadway production closed in September. Although it didn’t resonate with me, there were many in the audience on opening night who obviously felt differently—from the middle-aged dad who wore a striped, blue polo and toted a bag full of merchandise to the woman next to me who cried through the second act. For their sake, I am glad this musical is back in Chicago. 

Read More