Displaying items by tag: Rebecca Spence

Dark comedies built around relationship dynamics have always drawn me in because they reveal conflict with a kind of honesty that feels both familiar and unpredictable. When couples clash, the humor isn’t just situational; it’s rooted in history, habit, and the tiny emotional landmines only long-term partners know how to trigger. Fault fits squarely into that tradition, taking the everyday rhythms of a long marriage and pushing them just far enough to expose the raw, funny, and uncomfortable truths beneath the surface. That blend of recognition and surprise is exactly what makes this kind of comedy so compelling, and why Fault lands with such a specific charge.

That sense of intimate volatility is exactly what Jason Alexander explores in his return to Chicago Shakespeare Theater. With Fault, he brings the sharp directorial instinct he showed in his earlier CST production Judgment Day and applies it to a far more contained emotional landscape. In this world premiere written by Scooter Pietsch, he shapes the play’s tightening grid of tension and moral uncertainty with a touch that feels both precise and unexpectedly humane. The result is a tightly focused piece driven by tension that sparks almost instantly - less an explosive outburst than a controlled shift in the room - with the personal fractures between the characters steering the story toward its breaking point.

Pictured are Enrico Colantoni (Jerry), Playwright Scooter Pietsch, Rebecca Spence (Lucy), Nick Marini (Shaun), and Director Jason Alexander. April 18– May 24, 2026, in The Yard at Chicago Shakespeare. Photo by Justin Barbin.

In Fault, the night detonates the moment Jerry Green walks in expecting to celebrate a career defining merger and instead finds his wife, Lucy, in an intimate moment with a young man she has just met, Shaun. What could have ended in a single, stunned confrontation instead becomes the spark for a long, spiraling night in which no one is allowed to leave, and nothing stays contained. The shock of the discovery quickly gives way to a volatile mix of accusations, shifting alliances, and long suppressed grievances, turning their home into a closed-door standoff where every truth feels like a trap and every explanation opens a deeper wound. Jerry and Lucy have long operated as a high functioning power couple, relying on professional unity to keep their marriage steady; once that balance collapses, the cracks at home widen just as quickly. It is interesting that Pietsch also underscores the irony that Jerry’s career‑defining merger has just made the couple newly minted billionaires after a long string of failures, and yet - proving that all the money in the world can’t change some people - they still behave like high‑achieving narcissists, turning their blame and abuse on each other and on the young stranger they’ve invited into their lavish home.

As the hours stretch on, the situation tilts from chaotic to revealing, exposing the fractures that have been quietly shaping this marriage for decades. Jerry’s need for control, Lucy’s hunger for something unspoken, and Shaun’s unexpected presence collide in ways that force each of them to confront what they’ve been avoiding. What begins as a moment of betrayal becomes a full-scale excavation of loyalty, resentment, and the stories couples tell themselves to stay intact. The play’s dark humor emerges from this escalating tension - how quickly a single mistake can unravel a life, and how a marriage can be tested most brutally not by the act itself, but by everything it brings to the surface. And just to remind you, this is a comedy - and a hilarious one at that.

Jerry even admits at one point that arguments never really have winners, a truth he delivers with the weary certainty of someone who has spent years circling the same conversational battlegrounds. Yet the play understands something deeper and more uncomfortable: that couples can become strangely addicted to the very banter that exhausts them. The back‑and‑forth may bruise, but it also affirms a shared language, a familiar rhythm, a way of feeling alive inside a relationship that has otherwise gone quiet. In Fault, that warped need becomes both a source of comedy and a mirror held up to the audience, revealing how easily love and combat can blur when two people know each other too well.

For all its blistering comedy, Fault is threaded with the quieter, more unsettling realizations that come with aging - what it means to feel your desirability slipping, to lose track of the person you married, or to crave the parts of yourself you fear have vanished. The betrayals at the center of the play aren’t just about infidelity; they’re about the desperate need to feel seen, wanted, and alive again. Beneath the chaos and sharp-edged humor runs a steady pulse of vulnerability, as each character confronts the version of themselves they’ve been avoiding. And just when the night seems like it can’t twist any further, the play barrels into a smash bang ending that lands with real force - the kind that sends audiences out buzzing, debating, and replaying the final moments long after the curtain comes down.

Presenting the world premiere dark comedy Fault, by Scooter Pietsch and directed by Jason Alexander. Featuring Enrico Colantoni (Jerry) and Nick Marini (Shaun). Photo by Justin Barbin.

The cast of Fault features three principal performers, each driving a different charge in the play’s volatile, rapidly escalating night. Enrico Colantoni gives Jerry Green a grounded, lived in presence, letting decades of pent up frustration surface through tightly controlled physical choices and a dry comic timing that makes his smallest shifts register. Opposite him, Chicago favorite Rebecca Spence shapes Lucy Green with a blend of wit, restraint, and emotional clarity; her sharp physical beats and instinctive timing keep each exchange taut while still allowing the humor to flicker through. Shaun, whose chance encounter with Lucy at the bar leads him into the Green household, played by Nick Marini, adds a destabilizing charge to the night, using quick, reactive movement and an agile sense of timing to tilt the dynamic just enough to expose the deeper fractures beneath the couple’s carefully maintained surface.

Their combined work is strengthened by the breadth of experience each actor brings to the stage. Colantoni’s long career in film and television, including standout turns in Veronica Mars and Galaxy Quest, gives his performance a steady, lived in weight. Spence, a Chicago mainstay with a Jeff Award and recent visibility in The Madison, brings sharp focus and emotional clarity to Lucy. Marini adds a younger charge to the trio, drawing on credits like Cobra Kai and Dropout TV to shape a presence that subtly disrupts the relationship dynamic.

The action unfolds inside a tastefully appointed luxury home crafted by scenic designer Sotirios Livaditis, who gives the Greens a space that gleams with success without ever feeling sterile. A streamlined bar sits at the rear of the room, and the warm finishes, refined furnishings, and subtle touches make the environment inviting rather than ostentatious - a polished retreat that still feels lived in. It’s the kind of setting that should radiate comfort and control, yet under Alexander’s direction it gradually sharpens, its clean lines and curated surfaces taking on a quiet tension as the night begins to unravel.

Alexander’s own trajectory mirrors that same level of craft, extending far beyond the stage. Although Jason Alexander is widely known for his television work on Seinfeld and film roles ranging from Pretty Woman to Shallow Hal, he brings none of that celebrity shorthand to Fault. Instead, his decades in front of the camera seem to refine his instincts behind the table. His sense of timing, character shaping, and emotional pacing reflect the precision of someone who has lived inside stories of every scale. It’s a résumé that could easily overshadow a production, yet here it deepens his approach, grounding the play’s volatility in choices that feel thoughtful rather than showy.

Running just ninety minutes without an intermission, Fault maintains a tight, steady pulse that matches the tightening chamber of its late-night unraveling. Chicago Shakespeare Theater presents the world premiere through May 26, offering audiences a sharply observed look at a marriage pushed past its breaking point. What stays with you isn’t only the tension or the humor, but the clarity of the production itself, which recognizes how a single, seismic domestic shift can rattle everything a couple has built, sending shockwaves through a foundation that once seemed unshakeable.

Highly recommended.

For tickets and/or more show information, click here.

There is something almost perversely apt about staging Miss Julie inside a birdcage.

Under the direction of Gabrielle Randle-Bent, August Strindberg’s most celebrated chamber play, Miss Julie—an autopsy of class warfare disguised as seduction—arrives at Court Theatre in a production as conceptually bold as it is frustratingly self-defeating. Scenic designer John Culbert places the entire action within a giant birdcage veiled in scrim. The metaphor is unmistakable: these three characters are trapped—by class, by gender, by desire, by the invisible architecture of hierarchy. Within this enclosure they circle one another warily, predator and prey trading positions until collision becomes combustion.

And yet, the scrim that literalizes Strindberg’s thesis also undermines the very essence of chamber drama.

Chamber plays depend on proximity. They require that we see the flicker of doubt before it becomes cruelty, the calculation before it becomes command. The scrim, however gauzy, creates a barrier. We are not fully privy to the faces or the minute mental machinations of the actors. Instead of sitting in the kitchen with them, breathing the same charged air, we observe as though through glass. The concept imprisons not only the characters but the audience.

Still, the performances press fiercely against those confines.

Mi Kang’s Miss Julie is volatile and wounded, her aristocratic arrogance masking a desperate hunger for annihilation. She plays Julie not as a naïve romantic but as a woman testing the edges of her own destruction. Kelvin Roston Jr.’s Jean is taut with ambition. His Jean calculates even while seducing; every flirtation carries the weight of social ascent. The push and pull between Kang and Roston Jr. has genuine danger, their exchanges tightening like wire.

Rebecca Spence’s Kristine, meanwhile, anchors the production with moral steadiness. Kristine is the quiet witness to the carnage—a woman whose survival depends on understanding the rules rather than challenging them.

Kelvin Roston Jr. and Mi Kang in Miss Julie at Court Theatre.

The uncredited score becomes an unexpected fourth character. It begins with what sounds like a restrained string quartet—orderly, almost classical—before devolving into ear-piercing, disconnected, harsh chords. The progression feels deliberate: a descent into madness mirroring Julie’s psychological unraveling. It is invasive, unsettling, and impossible to ignore.

Raquel Adorno’s costumes subtly delineate class distinctions without ostentation. Fabric and silhouette do the quiet work of social architecture. No detail feels accidental.

This may well be Strindberg’s season in Chicago. Across town, Steppenwolf Theatre Company is mounting The Dance of Death, another of the playwright’s bruising dissections of intimacy and entrapment. That two major companies are wrestling simultaneously with Strindberg’s merciless worldview suggests a cultural appetite for dramas in which love is war and escape is illusion.

Court Theatre’s Miss Julie, guided by Gabrielle Randle-Bent’s disciplined direction, understands that these characters are caged long before the lights rise. The tragedy is that the scrim—meant to emphasize their confinement—keeps us from fully experiencing the suffocating intimacy that makes the play detonate. Strindberg wrote this as chamber music for three instruments. When we cannot quite see the musicians’ fingers on the strings, some of the music is inevitably lost.

Even so, the production lingers. Like the final discordant notes of its score, it vibrates with unease long after the cage goes dark.

RECOMMENDED

When: through March 8th

Where: Court Theatre, 5535 S. Ellis Ave.

Running time: 90 minutes no intermission

Tickets: $60 - $90.00 Student, Group and military discounts available

773-753-4472

www.courttheatre.org

This review is proudly shared with our friends at www.TheatreInChicago.com. 

It’s Christmas 1183, and King Henry II has gathered his family together at his court in Chinon, France, with hopes of settling once and for all the future legacy of the House of Plantagenets by naming one of his sons as successor to the throne.

So, Henry’s three sons, who are all vying to be named king, Richard Lionheart, his eldest surviving son, Geoffrey, his middle son, John, his youngest son (and Henry’s favorite), along with Henry’s mistress, Alais, who is also betrothed to his son Richard, and his estranged wife, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, who has been released from prison for the occasion, gather together for a family reunion of sorts. Add in an appearance from the King of France, Philip, whose sister just happens to be the king’s aforementioned mistress, and you have the makings for a truly volatile get-together.

As Eleanor quipped, “Are we hanging the holly, or hanging each other?” And you thought your family holiday gatherings were fraught with tension!

It is against this backdrop of family intrigue, scheming, and naked hostility that “The Lion in Winter,” a fictionalized account of these historic events, is set. The play, written by Highland Park’s own James Goldman, debuted on Broadway in 1966, earning Rosemary Harris a Tony Award for her depiction of Eleanor, and later inspired the Oscar-winning film, starring Peter O’Toole as Henry, and Katherine Hepburn as Eleanor.

I came expecting a serious melodrama centered on the complex interpersonal relationships of Henry’s tattered family, and so was pleasantly surprised to find myself laughing along with the rest of the audience at the sarcastic jabs, verbal taunting, and what in the skilled hands of Director and Resident Artist Ron OJ Parson, was the almost comically inept plotting by the three sons. Despite a play whose main source of action is based on dialogue, I found the performance fast paced and was completely drawn into what was happening on the stage. You didn’t want to miss a word of the verbal potshots being landed right and left between those on stage.

It was the opening night for the Court Theatre’s 2023-2024 season, which now in its 69^th season, has built a firm foundation on reimagining the classics for a modern audience. It was my first time visiting the Tony-award winning theatre, and I will return. What struck my husband and I was the sense of community and camaraderie among the theatergoers. Clearly, the audience was filled with many of the cast’s family members and well-wishers, but the buzz of anticipation among the audience before the curtain came up reminded me of attending my daughter’s high school musical performances, where everyone knew each other. That certainly seemed to be the case here, as greetings were exchanged between rows and sections. We were even greeted warmly by our row-mates, something I have not experienced at other theatres, and it made for a family-like atmosphere in this intimate setting.

From start to finish, the performance was captivating; each aspect working in harmony toward the end goal. The set design, under the direction of Linda Buchanan, was sparse, but effective. The play moved seamlessly from banquet hall to bedroom to dungeon with the mere addition of a chair, a table, a bed. There was little to distract us from the main focus of the drama – the verbal fireworks and emotional interplay between Henry and Eleanor.

Both actors bring a clear understanding of their characters to the performance. John Hoogenakker, a veteran of the Court Theatre, brings Henry’s very personal struggle to remain relevant and stay in control of his kingdom to life through his understated, yet powerful performance. At one point, we witness Henry’s rage and absolute desire to win at all costs against his wife, Eleanor, yet we also are privy to the tender moments as he swears his love and allegiance to Alais, his mistress. There’s also a beautiful scene between Henry and Eleanor toward the end of the second act, where they recall their first meeting and the strong bond of love that once existed between them that was truly moving in its tenderness and depth of emotions.

Rebecca Spence, in her debut performance at the Court, plays Eleanor as a strong, confidant woman, with an intelligent and acerbic wit, who is as determined as Henry to win the day and anoint her own favorite, Richard, to the throne. Yet, Spence also allows us to see Eleanor’s true inner desire, which is to be loved -- by her son, Richard, by Alais, who she had helped raise in the English court, but most of all, by Henry, for whom she has never stopped loving. It’s a masterful performance by Spence, and while her Eleanor made me squirm at her decidedly unmotherly moments, I also felt empathy for her as the spurned, older woman whose time has passed by and who no longer can command Henry’s love.

The three sons are skillfully played as well with Shane Kenyon as the warrior, Richard Lionheart, Brandon Miller as Geoffrey, the quintessential middle child, who continually asks, “And what about Geoffrey?”  and Kenneth La’Ron Hamilton, as the dim-witted inept younger son, John, whose has only one card to play – his father’s affection. The three scheme and change alliances so quickly that it’s hard to keep track of the changing teams. At one point, in a hilarious scene, all three end up hiding in Philip’s bedroom, listening as the King of France betrays them all – including Richard’s love for him.

The ensemble is rounded out with a solid performance from Netta Walker as Henry’s mistress, Alais, who brings to the role a tenderness and devotion to Henry that serves to counterbalance the relentless infighting and backbiting among her lover’s family.  I admit I was puzzled at first by the portrayal of Philip, King of France, by Anthony Baldasare, because his character seemed weak and inconsequential against the stronger more dominant characters onstage, but the scene in which he outmaneuvers Henry’s three sons and Henry himself displayed a strength of character and that Philip is as accomplished a schemer as the others.  

 The play ends much as it began, with no resolution at hand. Eleanor must return to prison, and the three sons continue to bicker and fight over who will ascend to the throne.  Yet, in the closing moments, as Henry and Eleanor climb the stairs, arm-in-arm, we sense that they will live to fight for another day, motivated as much by their hate, as by their love.

The family intrigue and infighting charged by greed and ambition that underscores the storyline of “The Lion in Winter” may not be for everyone this holiday season, but its honest, sometimes tender, sometimes humorous, portrayal of life is a performance worth seeing.

“The Lion in Winter” plays at the Court Theatre from Nov. 11 through Dec. 3.

When you arrive at Windy City Playhouse South for Every Brilliant Thing, you will be ushered into an elevator and emerge at the third floor loft theater entrance.

There a young woman greets you at a display case. Somehow, she seems to be in character already. In fact you will soon learn that this is not the house staff, but an actor, Rebecca Spence, and she is indeed already performing her role as Narrator. But Spence does much more than play this demanding role, one that stretches the definition of scripted performance.

Watching Spence (and unfamiliar with the play) I left completely convinced she had authored Every Brilliant Thing as a performance piece based on her own life. In fact, Every Brilliant Thing, written in 1984 by British playwright Duncan Macmillan, had a successful Broadway run, and was filmed for HBO.

It tells the story of a young adult (it has been played by men and women) whose mother veered into deep depressive episodes, eventually taking her own life. To contend with this, Narrator – who relates tales from elementary school, high school, college and adulthood – sought to create uplifting lists of “every brilliant thing” (puppies, rainbows, songs by Sarah Vaughan, etc.).

As a schoolgirl Narrator offered her first list of 300 items to boost her mother's spirits. As Narrator ages, the list grows from hundreds to thousands, and includes age-appropriate items. Eventually we realize she is keeping the list as her own coping mechanism to fend off adversity, as when her mother meets her end, or when Narrator's husband leaves her.

In keeping with Windy City Playhouse's immersive theatrics, Every Brilliant Thing has the Narrator involve the audience, choosing for each a “brilliant thing” from a collection in the display case that she deems is suitable to them. Seated in black leather club chairs, the each person is called on to read a word, phrase or long descriptor when Narrator calls out an associated number attached to the object they hold.

But Narrator goes even further – designating audience members to play key roles in the show, sometimes they follow her lead by reciting lines she dictates. Spence showed great insight in her selections of audience performers to play characters that Narrator met along her life’s path: a veterinarian, her father, a high school counselor, a girlfriend, a young man whom she marries and separates from.

That last one, a good looking dark haired man, gamely played through flirtatious library encounters, betrothal, wedding, and separation. The audience performer who played the high school counselor who good naturedly removed his shoe to turn his sock to a hand puppet - which he named "Trouble" to the delight of Spence and the audience.

Despite the dynamically constructed script, Every Brilliant Thing manages to have a dramatic arc, and a poignant storyline with touching moments, and a bottom line. "It occurred to me how much the list changed how I see the world along the way," says the Narrator.

With director Jessica Fisch, and the properties designer Eric Backus, Spence must be given great credit for managing the audience member performances. Given the ups and downs of attendance, it's hard to predict exactly what your experience of Every Brilliant Thing will be like - but with Spence in this role, I bet it will be good. Every Brilliant Thing runs through December 15 at Windy City Playhouse South in the Automobile Row District, 2229 S. Michigan Avenue in Chicago.

Having been close with many people with disabilities over the course of my life, I’m often hesitant when it comes to media about such individuals. Too often, books or films or plays dealing with disabilities end up being either demeaning to the folks who have them or cloying and saccharine to the audience. Earlier in this young millennium, I was thrilled to find and read Mark Haddon’s novel, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, a rare tale that falls into neither of these traps. Haddon’s novel became a favorite of mine, its important-sounding title (taken from a line in a Sherlock Holmes story) hinting at the very big steps taken by its protagonist and narrator, a British teen afflicted with autism. And now I can say that the Steppenwolf Theatre’s current stage production based on the novel has become one of the best shows I’ve seen — this year or any other, in Chicago or elsewhere.

In the role of Christopher, said protagonist, is Terry Bell in his first Steppenwolf production. The key to Bell inhabiting the role of Christopher isn’t that he makes the boy’s Britishness real any more than that he realistically portrays autism. No, Bell’s performance is stunning in that he makes Christopher human. While tics and traits are given to the lad, it’s the vulnerability, intellect, and emotion that Bell gives Christopher that made him so real, so human. This was an actual person I saw up there, not a type or a trope or a character. Whether Christopher is doing math, navigating London, fighting with his father, or reading long-lost letters, he is a real boy, not just someone up on a stage.

The rest of the Steppenwolf cast take their duty of realism just as seriously. Cedric Mays plays Christopher’s father as a loving but over-extended parent doing his best to raise his boy. Rebecca Spence, as Christopher’s mother, is heartbreaking as the broken woman who finally felt she couldn’t.

One of my biggest concerns coming into the play was how the first-person narration of the novel would translate to the stage. Would the audience be submitted to one character’s constant exposition? How would Christopher’s story work? Well, thanks to the shining performance of Caroline Neff as Siobhan, Christopher’s schoolteacher, I needn’t have worried. Neff acts as narrator for much of the play, while also acting the part of a nurturing and knowledgeable caregiver for Christopher. If only all children, regardless of their disabilities or lack thereof, could have as loving and caring a teacher as the one Neff has created.

And, as the production has been tailored not just to standard audiences, but to those who share Christopher’s disabilities (and abilities!), with information on the novel and play’s background provided, with discussions led by the cast, and even with accommodating and accessible performances for anyone to enjoy, I can tell you that not only is this a caring play onstage, but beyond the stage, as well.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time is being performed at Steppenwolf Theatre through October 27th. For more information, please visit www.steppenwolf.org.