Recommended by Scott Sickles

We can’t stop aging but “getting old”… that’s an entirely other matter.

As a longtime advocate of immaturity, I heartily endorse Edna’s decision to be 25! Feeny-Williams deftly bridges a number of generational gaps with specificity, humor, and zeal! It's almost as if Edna's youth is contagious and joyously so!

The paradox of this piece is that it's a beautifully structured monologue of unstructured thought, as though Frandsen turned the synaptic sparks of an obsessive overthinker into a fireworks display of ideas. It's filled with beauty and sorrow mitigated ever so slightly by intimate intellectualizations. Eventually the heart wins out, but it's hardly what one might call a victory. The piece is as exquisite as it is honest. [Actors, you want this one for your self-tape.]

Even out of a larger context, without a backstory or the source material (which I believe is Frandsen's SMOKE AND MIRRORS), this monologue resonates. It's largely comprised of general observations of its titular themes, observations you've heard before and will hear again. BUT... even without specifics, the emotions in the white space on your page or screen buoy the sentiments, eschewing sentimentality, allowing the speaker to fill that white space with their own heart. It's a symbiosis between character and actor, script and spirit. A beautiful prism.

When reading this aloud, the resentment inherent in the character seeped off the script and into my right foot. My right foot was a-tap-tap-tapping and if you read it, you'll probably guess where. There's a palpable frustration in this piece and it's very personal, highly relatable, bone-deep.

For a character who specializes in listening, who wants to listen and for others to do likewise, she talks a lot... and that's all part of a beautiful design - a verbal jujitsu. Sometimes words are the enemy and Becca (and Frandsen) weaponize those words in the name of understanding. Listen.

There's a fascinating opacity to this piece. Kevin imparts wisdom similar to Naomi's in Frandsen's LIFE, LOVE, DEATH, yet he doesn't let us see much of him... and that act of hiding behind philosophy can mean a whole bunch of things. As a stand-alone piece there are so many directions to take this monologue, even more than the number of actors who do it. It invites experimentation: what are we hiding when we're speaking in the second person about how they should live? What is this mask of words concealing? It's like a treasure map waiting to be followed.

A great challenge for actors who love to dive into the vernacular, this monologue is gorgeously specific in language, tone, circumstance, and the details of the life of its protagonist and the lives he's loved and lost. It's a heartbreaker. You get to know this man very well in an extremely short period of time. He's a classist tragedy borne from intimate misfortune. Exquisite work that will be tremendous in performance.

Sugar and spice and everything needed to hide the POISON!!!

Floyd-Priskorn creates a mini-cadre of bad girls ready to wreak playground vengeance on their most mortal of enemies... a boy!

There's a caste system in play here that may not be as stable as they think. Treachery abounds! This one will leave you with a wicked little smile for these wicked little lasses!

Just delightful! We've seen humans befuddled by talking animals before but this feels refreshingly unique. Richter avoids the "how is this possible??? I must be going out of my mind!" cliches, sets the terms of the world he's built, and the characters proceed without questioning them. They have more important things to ponder like how to express love, foster healthy relationships, and perform basic maintenance. It's dry and wry, yet utterly fertile. I'm glad I spent time on this here farm!

There's a good deal of craftsmanship that goes into a Chesterfield sofa. They must be elegant yet comfortable, durable and timeless. They must wear the wear-and-tear well. They must prevail over decades of love and affection, much of which is given without thought.

There's a good deal of craftsmanship that goes into a monologue. The speaker must have a reason to speak. When the speaker is an anthropomorphized inanimate object, circumstances must be pretty dire for them to give voice.

CHESTER is beautifully crafted. Epic and immediate. Elegant in speech and stagecraft. Loveworn yet worthy of more. Bravo.

Beware of gingerbread houses.

This group home is like an inverted gingerbread house: perfect inside but getting out requires an honesty both unflinching and unfair. Especially to discarded children who’ve been through enough.

Bravely uncompromising, the play avoids being twee by showing its children at their most delightful and most taxing. We enjoy them AND get why their parents couldn’t hack it. Their caretaker Larry loves them as they are but his emotional paralysis - an agonized generosity and infinite despair – is heartbreaking.

This play enchants, soars, and devastates, in turns and ultimately all at once.