As I ascended Madison Street early Saturday afternoon, my daughter’s hand in mine, Samuel Insull’s Civic Opera House rose up before us, throne-like, a sight that once greeted me daily in our old world with its bustling downtown and delights we took for granted. But our excitement — not just to visit the Joffrey Ballet’s new home, but to visit theater, arts, entertainment, anything — was matched by the excitement of every single theatergoer who’d dressed up and come downtown for the return of the Joffrey’s Nutcracker, a tradition I hope none of us will take for granted again.

The last time I attended the Joffrey, the company was still in the grand old Auditorium Theatre, one of my favorite buildings (and theaters) not just in Chicago, but anywhere. But this weekend, as I set foot in a theater for the first time since early March 2020, I was also for the first time visiting the Joffrey’s new home at the Lyric Opera. And what a return it was.

Just seeing the bustling, eager crowd in the lobby — their faces masked and their vaccination cards visible, but their holiday finery just as prominently on display as in years past — marked a return. Maybe not to normal. But maybe, I hope, to something as good… or better. A normal we appreciate.

Because I know, after seeing the Joffrey’s Nutcracker for the first time in two years, I will never not appreciate this annual tradition for the treasure it is.

The Joffrey’s take on Tchaikovsky’s holiday chestnut has become a treasured tradition itself — in its sixth year now, minus 2020 — its story by beloved children’s author Brian Selznick set amid the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893.

And the return of the winter wonderland of the World’s Fair proved as magical as I’d hoped, a spark in the audience and a spring in every company member’s step, as we’re transported not just back to pre-2020 Chicago, but a Windy City circa Christmas 1892. Yumi Kanazawa’s young Marie navigates the rat-infested streets beneath the grand Ferris Wheel and towering White City. Dylan Gutierrez’s Great Impresario — the Fair’s fictional architect — makes an appearance before arriving at the hovel Marie shares with her mother and brother in the shadow of the White City.

There, the spectacle begins with a holiday celebration, the Impresario delivering gifts (including the titular Nutcracker), children and the cast dancing, and members of the Lyric Opera Orchestra appearing onstage with violin, clarinet, and accordion as an in-house chamber trio. We’re treated to the comforts of this traditional holiday tale — a broken toy, a young girl’s dream, soldiers and mice battling, and finally a gondola to carry us to Act II.

During intermission, I was able to take in the refurbished building itself. My daughter noted that “it looks old, but new, too.” And, perhaps for the first time ever, I marveled at the lines for the bathroom and the bar, just soaking in the wonder of being part of a day at the theater.

After intermission, Act II brings a new wonderland, a new world — the White City of 1893 Chicago. Set to the Tchaikovsky’s festive second act score, the exotic sights and sounds of the World’s Fair enchant, as they did in previous versions, or as they did more than a century ago. Yoshihisa Arai’s hilarious Mother Nutcracker oversees the children’s ensemble playing hilarious cracking walnuts; Fernando Duarte’s Chinese Dancer parades along with paper dragons; Edson Barbosa’s rootin’, tootin’ Buffalo Bill Cody and his showgirls bring the fireworks. And, as in previous years, the highlight of the Fair’s attractions are the Arabian Dancers, here played by Victoria Jaiani and Temur Suluashvili. The only dancers almost as enchanting are Gutierrez’s Impresario and Jeraldine Mendoza, as the Queen of the Fair, who close out the show.

This presentation of the Joffrey Ballet’s Nutcracker has the same grace and beauty, the same spectacle, as one would have expected in previous years. But while the audience was treated to the same attention to perfection as audiences of the past enjoyed, a new home for the Joffrey and a new sense of appreciation for its continued excellence make this year’s Nutcracker a must-see.

Kids these days…

I went into opening night of Gift Theatre’s production of Martin McDonagh’s The Pillowman only knowing that my 16-year-old daughter was excited to be my date. “It’s dark, Dad,” she warned me. Boy, was she right. “But it’s amazing, Dad,” she also assured me. And boy, was she even righter on that count.

So, dark and amazing. The Pillowman is both of these. But what is it?

A buddy cop piece. A murder mystery. The touching tale of two brothers, each all the other has in the world. A warning from some dystopian dictatorship. A volume of grim, gruesome fairy tales. The Pillowman is all of these things, and more. Much more.

I haven’t enjoyed a play this much since Goodman’s Jeff-winning 2018 production of The Wolves. And that’s because — along with McDonagh’s masterful book, Laura Alcala Baker’s visionary direction, and Lauren Nichols and Courtney Winkelman’s dark, stark scenery, of course — the four actors who tell The Pillowman’s story (and its stories within the story) give what’s a pretty soulless premise a whole lot of soul. The four-person cast is The Pillowman’s beating, battered, bleeding, bloody heart.

A word of warning. This play is dark. And shocking. And violent. It’s about child murders. And even worse, childhood trauma. But even more shocking is, coming from the mouths of a couple of the characters, a word I’d figured was too taboo to have to hear in today’s world. The R Word. Of course, its use speaks volumes about the characters who use it. Even as it’s used to describe Jay Worthington’s Michal, a developmentally disabled fellow. Worthington, to his credit, plays Michal with incredible restraint and empathy, never using the character’s condition and lot in life for laughs. Whether climbing the walls or crawling the floor, whether admitting to the unthinkable or revealing unthinkable trauma, Worthington’s Michal draws the eye whenever he’s onstage — an incredible character, but just as incredible a performance.

Michal’s brother Katurian, the play’s main character, is a storyteller and tells this story to us, the audience. Tucked away in some future police interrogation room for the duration of the play, Katurian begins the show with a bag over his head, as in the dark as his audience — us — is. Martel Mannin’s face and expressions do the same heavy lifting that Michal’s physicality do, manufacturing suspense, shock, and sorrow — a lifetime of sorrow. And, along with inventive ways of illustrating Katurian’s twisted children’s tales, Mannin’s face and voice keep the audience enraptured as he tells one story after another, each designed again to suspend belief, to shock sensibilities, and to create a world of sorrow.

In Katurian’s world, his cement holding cell, we also meet the two cops investigating a series of incidents seemingly copied straight from the pages of the fictional storyteller’s fictional stories. Gregory Fenner’s Ariel comes off at first as the prototype “bad cop” (I think one of the two even identifies him as such), threatening (and carrying out) acts of brutality, puffing on a vape, and stalking the concrete cube that is the play’s entire world. But look closer and it’s Fenner’s eyes that tell deeper stories that come to the fore as the play progresses. In Ariel’s eyes, ferocity morphs into fear.

But in a cast where each member could lay claim to being the MVP, my award goes to Cyd Blakewell. Her role, Detective Tupolski — it seems both from the play’s unchanged dialogue and a bit of internet perusing I did after the house lights came on — was written for a man. (Jeff Goldblum played the role in New York.) This is a physical (and violent) play, and Blakewell’s easy and subtle physicality looms throughout, even as others are applying electrodes and murdering children and climbing and crawling and crying and creating dark imaginary worlds, as she just pretends at being the “good cop.” (Full disclosure: when Blakewell first started her bit, my daughter turned to me and said, “It’s mom!” at the same time I turned to her and said “It’s your mom!” so maybe her performance hit close to home.) And it’s the story that Blakewell’s Tupolski tells near the end, using just a blackboard and a piece of white chalk, that was for me the best scene in a play full of contenders.

So if you’re up for a very dark evening of entertainment, you’ll be entertained. And if you can get past some pretty unsettling content in order to admire acting and storytelling at its finest, The Gift Theatre’s The Pillowman is for you, now through March 29.

So, I went into Once on This Island, currently playing at the Cadillac Palace Theatre, knowing nothing of the show at all. Nothing. The above title, I took that from one of the songs that’s still stuck in my head — “Some Girls,” sung beautifully in this production by Tyler Hardwick’s Daniel.

But it’s the sentiment of that song, that some girls (or some things, like Broadway musicals, perhaps) are extraordinary, special, better than the status quo. As this production began, I wouldn’t have guess that it would take its place in the really good shows I’ve seen, or the really good ones I’ve had the privilege to review. But you know what? By the end of the show, it had.

You see (and my 16-year-old daughter, a theater geek in her own right, agreed with me as soon as the houselights went on), this show’s a grower. Before it began, the set held promise — audience members seated on either side of the stage itself, various sand and detritus hinting at the Caribbean island setting to come, what seemed to be cast members milling about.

But, just as 2018’s Auditorium Theatre touring production of The Color Purple found a stripped-down production overwhelmed by a cavernous locale, this production at first seemed to be swallowed up by the size of the Cadillac. The set was spread out over the stage, sure, but the sound was muddled and devoured by the site. This problem seemed to get better as the show went on — I’m not sure if my ears just adjusted or if the cast did the adjusting.

Or maybe it’s that, as I said, the show’s a grower. Because the cast and the songs they sang seemed to get better as it went on. A show that had my daughter’s head nodding to stay awake at first later found it nodding along to the story and the tunes. This being a one-act performance, the lack of an intermission worked wonders, not allowing the booze-and-bathroom break to kill the slow-building momentum. And build it did.

The story’s your standard girl-meets-boy-but-stuff-gets-in-the-way sort of plot that Disney’s mined for decades. And this story would totally fit into the Disney Princess pantheon if Disney’s ever looking to head to the Caribbean for anything other than Johnny Depp in a pirate getup. Told as the story (to a young cast member and the audience members seated on the stage’s edges) of an orphaned and impoverished island girl (Ti Moune played by Courtnee Carter) who falls in love with a rich boy (the afore-mentioned Daniel, played by the talented Hardwick), the best parts go to the supernatural characters who populate the fairy tale.

Kyle Ramar Freeman lords over the stage whenever he’s on it as Asaka, Mother of the Earth. Jahmaul Bakare isn’t far behind with his water god. Just as the land of Oz’s Glinda is overshadowed by the cool costumes and witchcraft of her more wicked counterparts, Cassondra James’ love goddess Erzulie isn’t as much fun as the other deities, though James’ voice and presence make up for what her character lacks. But throughout the show, I was enchanted by the fourth god, Papa Ge, the demon of death. The actress who played Papa Ge was done up all ratty and punk-rock, but her physicality and beauty and presence were evident, not to mention her musical chops. Only afterward did I look in the playbill and learn that this Papa Ge’s played by Tamyra Gray, my all-time favorite television singing competition entrant (she was on the very first season of American Idol, back when Kelly Clarkson won, back before my teenage date for this show was even born). Needless to say, even if she’s playing a hellish harvester of souls, Tamyra’s still got my heart!

And, it seemed, by the end of the show, the cast and the story they told and the songs that they sang had won over the hearts of the audience, too. The songs had gotten better, the sound had settled down, and the actors and singers had warmed up and settled in, giving the Cadillac Palace’s audience a good time, which I’m sure they’ll keep on doing in this production Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty’s Once on This Island, playing now through February 2.

While I’m familiar with Studs Terkel’s oral of history of workers, titled of course ‘Working’, I came into opening night of Theo Ubique’s production of Stephen Schwartz’s musical adaptation completely ignorant of its content, its music, any of it. I didn’t know Schwartz had originally written and staged it in the late 70s. I didn’t know it featured music by a 70s icon, James Taylor. And I didn’t know it had been refreshed in the past decade with tunes by a more modern musical icon, Lin Manuel Miranda. Sometimes it’s nice to come into a show blissfully ignorant; doing so gives you those rare moments of surprise that come in adulthood.

So, I was surprised by much of it. I was surprised by the musical numbers. And I was surprised by the unevenness of this Broadway giant’s work here. But I was not at all surprised by the enthusiasm and talent on display by the cast assembled at this great little treasure of a theater where Chicago and Evanston meet near the Howard station (its name proudly part of the tasteful set).

The musical numbers were a lot of fun — 70s Broadway stuff since, as I now know, this is 70s Broadway stuff. Musical director and keyboardist Jeremy Ramey (who killed it earlier this year in the same roles for Theo Ubique’s killer Hedwig) has maybe the best time of anyone in the house, channeling his love of music and love of this music through his fingers and his constant movement. His band, featuring Hedwig’s Perry Cowdery on guitar and Carlos Mendoza on drums, as well as Rafe Bradford on bass, are in lockstep the whole way, complementing both the cast and the score.

A couple members of said cast really show off their musical talent here, too. Stephen Blu Allen, who I’d yet to see perform, impressed with his overall talent. Maybe the youngest member of the cast, he moved like a veteran and sang like one, too, possessing a smooth voice that worked as well as a lead instrument as it did when hitting just the right harmonies when accompanying his castmates. The presence of Cynthia F. Carter, who’s quickly become one of my favorite local actors and singers (having seen her shine in the Black Ensemble Theater’s tributes to Mahalia Jackson and Chuck Berry), assured me upon seeing her name in the playbill that I was in good hands. And wouldn’t you know it — I was in the steady and experienced hands of both her stewardess and her streetwalker, and blown away by her cleaning woman’s closing number, “If I Could Have Been.”

And that number’s where I’ll list my gripe — only one gripe, really — a gripe not with the players, but with the piece itself. The show could’ve ended right there, with Carter’s number as the closer. But it kept going and kept preaching. When Schwartz lets the characters and their lives do the talking, ‘Working’ works. But when he tries to sum up what the workers have said, wrapping it up all tidy-like and preaching to the audience, it gets, well, a bit preachy. Any audience deserves the playwright’s respect, especially an audience there to see an adaptation of a book by Studs Terkel. They don’t — we don’t — need to be told what to think. We just need a work that’ll make us think, whatever that thinking might be and wherever that thinking might lead.

In ‘Working’’s first half, there’s more of that preaching going on. A schoolteacher played by Loretta Rezos preaches at us with all the stereotyped gripes about kids these days (especially those in neighborhoods where schoolteachers might be especially harried) — knives and drugs and Ritalin, but no respect and no grasp of the English language (except as a second language). Michael Kingston’s moneymaking and money-worshiping businessman is more of the same — a stereotype of money and business without anything new to say about it. But in the second half, both Rezos and Kingston get characters with more to do and thus more to say. Rezos’ restaurant worker gets perhaps my favorite number, turning the work of waiting tables into an art. And Kingston’s “Joe” brings the feels without the heavy-handed attempts to get them as his elderly titular character monologues about watching housefires and long-ago waltzes and old Sunday drunks with cash hidden in their socks.

I can’t forget the last two members of this talented cast, all of whom play multiple characters. Jared David Michael Grant is the show’s heart, as a long-haul trucker, as a laid-off worker, and especially as the fireman at one of those housefires Joe spends his retirement chasing. The firefighter’s soliloquy, not just about the work of first responders but about the world they respond to, was every bit as meaningful as it must’ve been when Terkel and Schwartz encountered it over forty years ago. And Kiersten Frumkin is sort of the cast’s utility worker — in a play about such folks — nimbly playing a millworker, a lot lizard, a housewife, and more. It’s her last worker, a woman proudly watching the child she’s raising grow, that’s her best, and features a beautiful duet with Allen’s nursing home worker.

So, while the play itself is far from perfect, it gets better after intermission. And while the play itself is far from perfect, its cast perfectly plays the many roles they’re asked to play. And, isn’t an imperfect what workers and their worlds are? As Allen’s southside community organizer says late in ‘Working’, “history is made up of a lot of little people,” and ‘Working’ gives all of those little people a voice and a stage to tell their messy, imperfect, and real stories of ‘Working’ and of life, now through January 26 at what’s become one of my favorite spots, Theo Ubique on Howard in Evanston.

The first time I ever saw Oliver!, it was the 1960s movie version. I saw it at one of those old-timey theaters where an “old” guy (this was the 1980s and I was a wee lad, so the organist very well could’ve been a pimply teen keyboard prodigy and I’d have still pegged him as a geezer) played the pipe organ and they showed “old” movies (I remember seeing Laurel and Hardy there, too) and it was supposed to make you feel like it was the good-old days. Well, I know I didn’t recall much of the plot, but that Oliver!’s characters and musical numbers sure made a big impression — a big enough impression that my reintroduction to them, all these years later, by the Marriott Theatre’s current production, made it feel like being reacquainted with shabby old Cockney chums on the Victorian London streets in which they make their questionable livings.

When my date for the night, my six-year-old daughter who’s already a Broadway kinda gal, asked me what Oliver! was about, I told her it was “Annie with boys.” That explanation appeased her beforehand, and it made even more sense as we watched the show, because in Oliver!, it’s the kids who do the heavy lifting. From the opening number, “Food, Glorious Food,” the urchins whose lives are spent in either the poorhouse or on the London streets are the focus whenever they’re onstage. And the boys (and yes, unlike Annie’s female orphans, these kids are all male), despite their coal-smudged cheeks and their ratty rags and hand-me-down threads, light up the stage whenever they take it, especially in big numbers like the afore-mentioned “Food, Glorious Food,” as well as “Consider Yourself” and “You’ve Got to Pick a Pocket or Two.”

The two young stars of the play do as much shining as any of their peers. In the performance I saw, Kayden Koshelev played the eponymous orphan (he’ll be alternating performances with Kai Edgar). Koshelev is a little guy, tiny in comparison even to the other kids. But that makes him stand out, actually, and makes the audience care for him even more. Patrick Scott McDermott’s Artful Dodger steals each scene he’s in, his Cockney accent on point, his top hat held high, his eyes twinkling through the gloom and doom of his homeless, criminal existence.

And the adults who force this existence on their youthful stage mates are every bit their younger peers’ equals. In the movie version, I remember being terrified of Fagin. But in this production, William Brown brings the heart he recently brought to Into the Woods — sure he’s a crook and takes advantage of the boys who are his wards, but he’s a vulnerable villain. The same cannot be said for Dan Waller’s Bill Sikes; I wish Waller had a bigger part, because while he wasn’t the imposing figure, size-wise, I remember the film Sikes being, Waller’s demeanor and attire sure made a dark impression. Matthew R. Jones’ Mr. Bumble was also a daunting adult for the poor kids to deal with, although he was allowed some humor thanks to Bethany Thomas’ Mrs. Corney (Thomas, too, displays her range, this time as a character actress after carrying the recent Into the Woods).

But it was yet another star from Into the Woods who shined brightest in Oliver! — Lucy Godinez’s Nancy. Godinez starred, of course, as Little Red Riding Hood, and helped make that production. But, if it’s possible, she’s even better here, showing just as much warmth as Brown’s Fagin for the ragamuffins, and providing the highlight of the show with her take on “As Long as He Needs Me” — her performance of that song alone will have me looking for any future productions she’s in.

So, just like the film version’s plot made little impression on a little me, while its cast and music did, I can say the same for the Marriott Theatre’s current production of Oliver! — come for the charming Cockney characters and the tunes, glorious tunes. You won’t leave with an empty belly.

At Marriott Theatre through December 29th. For more information visit https://www.marriotttheatre.com/.  

Let’s begin with a children’s story. A children’s story about children’s stories, really.

Long, long ago, there lived a boy who could not decide what he would be when he grew up. He might have grown up to sing songs or tally bills, to right wrongs or treat ills, but he just could not decide. Then one day, the boy met a wonderful enchantress — a creator and a raconteur who herself had vowed never to grow up, and who lived her life telling stories for children. She told the boy that he, too, needn’t ever grow up, for he had been placed in this world for the same purpose as her — to tell tales that enchant children, young and old. And so, the boy did just that for many years until one day, as boys sometimes do, he grew up and went on to smaller, lesser things. And while that ageless enchantress still tells stories to children while the tired, graying boy does not, somewhere deep inside him lurks a longing for that storybook world he left behind, a longing let out now and again when he reads or hears or sees a story told truly and lovingly, told for and to those who have yet to grow up.

I begin with that story because Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale “The Steadfast Tin Soldier” was always the gold standard when that boy considered what a true and lovely children’s story is. Lookingglass Theatre’s The Steadfast Tin Soldier, written and directed by Mary Zimmerman, is the rare adaptation of a true classic that’s not only worthy and respectful of its source material, but takes it to new and wondrous places.

Show, don’t tell. That’s perhaps the first rule of good storytelling, and Zimmerman’s production adheres to that maxim. From the curious pre-show goings-on that evoke an advent countdown to both Christmastime and the curtain’s rise, to the inspired puppets and streamers and set pieces that create worlds within worlds on the Lookingglass stage, to the powdered wigs (“That’s Mozart!” my six-year-old cried when she spotted music director and arranger Leandro Lopez Varady take his seat at the piano) and classical instruments that arm the four-piece orchestra tasked with playing Andre Pluess and Amanda Dehnert’s exceptional score, a time and a place and a mood have been created before the story even begins.

Show, don’t tell. For the length of the play, not a word is spoken. I imagine that Ms. Zimmerman drew inspiration from silent movies, as her cast tells the story with what they show the audience — with their actions, with their bodies, with their faces, with their eyes.

John Gregorio and Joe Dempsey are the play’s active, madcap jacks of all trades, filling pointed elven shoes as puppeteers, scene-makers and set-movers, and various roles throughout. Dempsey’s Nursemaid is positively Pythonian in her prissy, proper pomp and posture. And Gregorio’s Rat, one of many parts he plays, adds a sense of gnawing doom and gloom.

As the ballerina, tucked away inside a doll’s house into which the audience is soon invited, Kasey Foster enchants both said audience and the titular tin soldier with her grace and her beauty. But she’s equally charming later on as a rambunctious rapscallion wreaking havoc in the Danish streets.

Anthony Irons’ costumes and props — as a wine-buzzed master of the house, as a masked fairyland creature of questionable species, and as a jack-in-the-box goblin who sets the story’s plot in motion — often capture the eye, but it’s his facial gestures I noticed most. From grins to glares to grimaces, Irons harkens character actors like Don Knotts with his oversized expressions that translate from the stage every bit as clearly as his castmates’ bodily movements.

But it’s Alex Stein’s Steadfast Tin Soldier who’s, quite literally by the end of it, the play’s heart. While the others frolic about, Stein’s one-legged plaything is destined to remain static, so it’s his eyes that show us all we need to know. Above, I wondered if Mary Zimmerman was inspired by the silent movies of yesteryear, and I think it’s Stein’s Buster Keaton-esque ability to tell it all with just one look that got me thinking that way, every bit as much as the entire wordless production did. When Stein’s eyes gleamed, brimming with tears, so did mine.

Perhaps he’s as old fashioned as those silent films of yore, but that boy who’s all grown up now is not a crier. Then this holiday play for kids of any age went and brought him to tears, the same as Hans Christian Andersen’s original children’s story always did. And maybe, just maybe, this children’s story told truly and lovingly will also remind that boy that he hasn’t yet grown up all the way and that there are still children’s stories of his own to tell — stories that delight and inspire, that entertain and touch — just like Lookingglass Theatre’s The Steadfast Tin Soldier is doing from now through January 26.

It seems to me the Joffrey Ballet’s been picking literary shows as of late based on books I either never finished or don’t remember. Last season, they presented Anna Karenina, which I admit I never read all the way through, but which delighted me in its transformation to the Auditorium Theatre’s stage. And now, the Joffrey’s 2019-2020 season opens with another 19th century classic, Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre. Now, I know I finished the novel, as every moment in the ballet was recognizable to me, but I can’t for the life of me recall when I read it, whether it was high school or college. Shows that perhaps the book didn’t make that big of an impression. But I’ve got to admit, the ballet did make an impression. Seems to me that a much younger me could have used Joffrey productions of required English class reading as a mix of Cliff’s Notes and nights on the town. Alas, a younger me never had that opportunity, but the older me sure is lucky for the chance.

Just as she played the lead role in the Joffrey’s magnificent Nutcracker last winter, Amanda Assucena takes on the eponymous role of Jane for this production. And boy, does she deliver. But every bit as important to the main character’s story is Yumi Kanazawa, who plays a young Jane through the first couple scenes. Kanazawa matches Assucena in passion and performance, and seamlessly portrays the woman as a girl, handing the part off upon her arrival at adulthood.

Now, the two ballets I’ve mentioned above — The Nutcracker and Anna Karenina — are spectacles, the former by tradition and the Joffrey’s Chicago-centric twist on the tale, the latter because of the source material’s length and depth. Jane Eyre, on the other hand, lacks the marvel and magnitude of those two, instead centering on the experience and personhood of the title character. And, while still delivering some of the sights and sounds of the other productions, this production allows the Joffrey’s performers to shine, just as the characters in Brontë’s book are the reader’s focus, with Jane as both the book and the ballet’s focal point.

When Jane’s classmate Helen, played by Brooke Linford, dies from tuberculosis or cholera or whatever old-timey predicament Brontë killed her off with, we feel Jane’s pain at the loss. When Greig Matthews’ pompous Rochester at last succumbs to Jane’s charm, so do we. While the visual beauty of the set is still there, from the sad-sack orphans Lowood School to the fire that endangers Rochester at his Thornfield estate, of  it is the visual beauty of the dancers that is the star of this show, just as the characters — or the character, of Jane, really, is the star of Brontë’s novel.

So join the Joffrey Ballet at the Auditorium Theatre through October 27, as all its world-class company of talent once again digs deep into a literary classic to turn words into images, memories into reality, and a 19th century novel into a 21st century evening of entertainment.

So, remember a while back, when I took my kindergarten daughter with me to review the American Girl Doll Musical? No? Well, I wish I didn’t remember it, either. But I do. And I learned two lessons from it in the time since.

First, before the show started, my daughter was just as delighted to take her doll Violet, who is the Target-brand version of an American Girl doll, to see the American Girl Doll Store across the way. While there, I heard a girl in the store point out that Violet wasn’t a real American Girl doll, to which my daughter just shrugged and gave Violet a hug and told her she loved her. And right then I realized I love my little girl for being that kind of person who loves something unconditionally, warts and all. Maybe I’ve done something right.

And the second thing I learned that night was, as soon as I walked into that theater, I realized I’d done something very, very wrong. I wasn’t the target audience. But my daughter and all the other little girls in the seats were the target audience, and they were thrilled and delighted and entertained by what this old man thought was a bunch of snake-oil-salesmanship.

I was reminded of that second lesson this past Friday evening at the opening of the Factory Theater’s Oh Sh#t! It’s Haunted! I wasn’t the target audience. Nope. The target audience is indeed an old man, but an actual old man (I just play one here on the internet and after 8pm on weeknights). And he’s an old man from Chicago, which I’m not. And he’s an old Chicagoan who’s Polish and likes jokes about Polish stuff and likes Peter Cetera and likes jokes about Peter Cetera. That guy is the Oh Sh#t! It’s Haunted! target audience, I thought as I sat there, unsmiling, wondering when the Scooby-Doo spoof I’d been expecting was going to yank the mask off and reveal itself.

But then I looked around at everyone else there — the Factory’s cozy stage and cozier seating makes for the audience being as intimate with one another as they are the actors who I worried would trip over the feet of the folks in the front row — and I noticed that a good portion of them — all ages, all backgrounds — were cracking up and having a blast.

A big reason for that was that the cast seemed to be having a blast, especially Timothy C. Amos, who played Pa Aldrichzewski, the very kind of dad-joke-telling, kielbasa-chomping, Peter-Cetera-namedropping Chicago old guy who I pictured as the target audience. Christy Arington played Pa’s wife, Ma, and the two of them would be perfect for some kind of 1970s Polish Good Times or All in the Family or something. They looked their parts, too, thanks to Rachel Sypniewski’s costuming (she also nailed 50s sweetheart looks for Jose Cervantes and Raven Nichole, and a ghostly Jimi Hendrix played by Michael Jones). This was a total night for character actors, with Eric Frederickson’s looming Peter Jasonczevik landing somewhere between a spook and an Eastern European villain you’d see being dispatched on the big screen by James Bond or Liam Neeson or Keanu Reeves, and Stacie Barra’s needle-nosed, preening, scoffing real estate villainess stealing any scene she strutted into.

So, yeah, I get that the enthusiastic and eager cast earned both the audience’s attention and admiration, but I guess it was the play itself I just didn’t get. There were some Scooby-riffic music cues, and a haunted house and a ghost story and a gang, I guess, in there somewhere, too. But I guess I just wasn’t the target audience for what the Factory’s ensemble was trying to do with Scott OKen’s play. Apparently, most of the rest of the crowd was, leaving me remembering the first lesson I learned way back on my American Girl evening — maybe they’re all the understanding, accepting, loving little girls who can love something warts and all, while I’m the prissy little sourpuss pointing out those warts. In that case, if you enjoy humor that leans toward Chicago (the land and Peter Cetera’s band) and the Polish, then you just might enjoy Factory Theater’s Oh Sh#t! It’s Haunted!, running through November 9. If not, then maybe join me and the rest of the party poopers while we watch some old Scooby-Doo reruns, so long as it’s before 8pm.

I’ve said it before and I’ll surely say it again: We Chicagoland theatergoers find ourselves wandering through — lost in, even — a fairyland of shows and venues and world-class talent. And never was that more evident than when I experienced the Writers Theatre’s current production of Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods, directed by Gary Griffin.

The show, of course, is part of the Broadway canon, beloved by so many and sure to please. And the theater, with its in-the-round set transformed by Scott Davis into something both sensational and sinister, promised the same as soon as I ventured into its woods found my seat therein.

But, as I’ve said before and will surely say again, it was the cast that performed the most magic, that inhabited the characters who are Sondheim’s wondrous woods’ inhabitants and explorers and tragic tales. As strong as any cast I’ve ever seen, here or elsewhere, this was an all-star ensemble of Chicago’s artists and actors.

Set by Writers Theatre artistic director Michael Halberstam (as narrator) and conductor/pianist Charlotte Rivard-Hoster’s three-piece orchestra, the stage becomes a world that reveals one fantastic character after another — characters fantastic since their creations centuries before, but made even more so by those now portraying them.

Lucy Godínez’s Little Red Riding Hood is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but winkingly so, letting the children of all ages watching her that this fairytale land isn’t what we remember it to be. Michael Mahler (who I last admired for his Jeff-winning musical direction of 2018’s The Buddy Holly Story) grounds us as the longsuffering but steadfast Baker. And Ximone Rose’s Cinderella is equally spellbinding whether grubby from soot or gowned for the ball. Each of the stars is a force to be reckoned with.

The force those characters all must reckon with, however, is Bethany Thomas’ Witch. From beginning to end, whether hunched over in rags or wowing with her presence and her voice, Thomas is the star of the show. Even when surrounded by sights and sounds that would catch eyes and ears and turn heads in any other setting, Thomas is the focus whenever she’s onstage. Sure, that comes with the role. But Thomas’ talent magnifies the inherent star power the Witch possesses. She’s imposing, enthralling, enchanting.

But so, too, is the ensemble that populates the Witch’s world. Brianna Borger grounds the woods in the real, human world as the Baker’s Wife. William Brown brings gravity (and a bit of gaiety) whenever his Mysterious Man appears. Mary Poole’s a hoot (or a moo?!) as Milky White. Ryan McBride and Alex Benoit bring the princely racket with both renditions of “Agony.” And just as riotous are Cinderella’s kin, played by Kelli Harrington, Nicole Armold, and Molly Hernandez (like Mr. Mahler, also part of Buddy’s Jeff-winning ensemble).

So, be assured that this production is one that not only that does right by Sondheim, but gives his classic a stunning and unique interpretation. And, as I’ve said before and I’ll surely say again, the fact that this unique interpretation is available to us Chicago theater lovers — and performed by the unique gathering of talent we are so blessed with — is magical, indeed.

At Writers Theatre through September 22nd.

As the Chicago premiere of Dave Malloy’s Ghost Quartet was set to start, a cast member walked across the stage, stopping to thank us for attending before adding, “See you on the other side,” in the spookiest voice and with the spookiest face, setting the stage for more than an hour of spooky musical and musicality to come.

I was not too familiar with the content of Malloy’s “song cycle” before the show, only aware that he’d also penned the renowned Tony winner, Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812. I’d also given a preliminary listen to some of Ghost Quartet’s soundtrack during morning train rides, finding a favorite here or there among the play’s songs, but leaving myself in the dark as to its story.

Having seen the show now, I’m still not sure the story is any clearer, but I’m pretty sure that’s purposeful (and why it’s referred to as a “song cycle”). And I’m pretty sure that titling it a “Quartet” is a perfect label. Because over the course of an hour-and-a-half (with no intermission), the story (or stories, as Poe and Scheherazade and Thelonious Monk and a telescope and a bear and a subway and, I think, Little Red Riding Hood, are all mashed up together) became secondary to everything else the audience was offered. And because over the course of said production (directed by Ed Rutherford), the four-piece cast acts much as a classical or vocal quartet does — playing with and off one another to deliver a delightful and disparate musical program.

The feel of a musical program (as opposed to a musical musical) is highlighted with the introduction of each of the 20 tunes — each “track” presented as part of an album or a mixtape. Some of the songs are part of a greater whole (perhaps this could be described as a “concept album”?), but many stand alone on their own musical merits. The ethereal “Starchild” is equal parts Bowie and ballade. “Any Kind of Dead Person” rollicks and frolics into Klezmer territory. “Fathers and Sons” is a duet, both vocally and via cooperative percussion. And “Four Friends” is one of the better drinking songs I’ve heard in quite some time (seriously, I wish I’d known that chorus back in my whiskey-drinking days!).

But each of those songs, and the other 16 that make up the show, are only as powerful or playful or seductive or stunning as the four extraordinary talents who give them life. And what extraordinary talents each of the four cast members possesses.

Possessed of extraordinary talent both vocally and physically, Amanda Raquel Martinez (the one whose spooky salutation greeted us) brings the chills throughout. At times displaying an operatic soprano, at others displaying the ability to contort her face into a possession that’d make Linda Blair’s head spin, Martinez had my focus through the show, and my musician’s admiration, as well, as she played ukulele, guitar, accordion, and percussion throughout.

Martinez’s counterpart Rachel Guth earned my equal admiration, come to think of it. Going from vixenish to virtuous, from gangly and girlish to sultry and seductive, Guth displayed an acting range only bolstered by her timeless look and her ability to sing anything from heartbreaking ballad to boozy barroom belter.

But if it seemed I couldn’t peel my gaze from Martinez or Guth, I think the cast member I watched with the most awe was Alex Ellsworth. Ellsworth played the cello for the entire show, grounding the quartet in its stringed roots. And while he played various roles (and some percussion), it was Ellsworth’s ability to make the cello just about anything but a cello that kept drawing my eyes and ears to his corner of the stage (decorated eerily and beautifully by Jeremy Hollis, I should add). At times it was a violin, at others a fiddle. When needed it provided ethereal sound effect. And at one point it was held on Ellsworth’s lap like a giant banjo and strummed with a pick. About the only thing Ellsworth’s cello didn’t do was harmonize with the other three actors — thankfully its owner’s got an enviable knack for vocal harmonies that turned a trio into a foursome.

And the fourth of the foursome, T.J. Anderson, I’d liken to that oft-forgotten stepchild of the string quartet, the viola, if you don’t mind me keeping on with that analogy. While his castmates might have gotten the juiciest parts to play (remember, this story’s made up of many stories, so each actor fills quite a few roles) and the choicest songs to sing, Anderson holds the whole thing together. He does so on the piano, which he plays for most of the show (accompanied here and there by man-behind-the-curtain musical director Nick Sula). He does so while pounding a tom-tom or while donning a black leather jacket. He does so by making each of the other three better and the sum of their parts greater.

So, if you’re looking to see four of our city’s talented actor/singer/musician types who I hope we all come to know better tackle a “song cycle” that you’ll leave knowing better, catch Black Button Eyes’ Ghost Quartet at Stage 773 from now until August 17.