Recommended by Jarred Corona

I had to do some quick Googling at the start - I know little about Shakespeare's Merchant, and I'm not about to read it. It shed light on some things. Yet, as far as I can see, Ian Thal's story and characterization is so rich I hadn't needed to. Honestly, given that and the rise in antisemitism over the past decade, (as well as my own distaste for Shakes), I'd much prefer theatres produce Thal. It's well written, has no high barrier of entry, and clearly showcases how some "good Christians," not just Nazis, have/continue to harm Jewish people.

It's quite fitting that most of the scenes in this are rather short. They push forward. They change location. War comes. Fascism comes. War comes. Rita has to keep moving. She refuses to stand still. She refuses to lie under the boots that march in her way. She wars against it all. She keeps moving. In that way, the short scenes remind me of the sintesi of Italian futurism. Futurists pushed for war. Many of its practitioners celebrated the coming of fascism. It serves them right to have their methods adopted to tell the story of a strong Jewish woman.

I myself feel quite lost most days. In elementary school, they taught us to read maps. They didn't make much sense to me. I mix up left and right. I forget where I am in time, too. I am the driver and the siren. "Get out of your own way." I nod at that, but I'll probably stay here. Frustrating, isn't it? I can imagine this as part of a long piece. A parent or town loner monologuing as some horrid thing happens in their seaport town. One monologue, and I'm invested in that imaginary show. Well done.

I was a quiet child. The sort that sat in a room with my family and give my parents a fright when they saw me. I cried easy, and I was a bit quick to anger. I didn't think about crushes until middle school, but some bullies caught on. Or maybe they saw a short, shy boy who liked dance. I didn't know what "gay" was, but I knew people meant it as something bad. If I saw this, or knew of theatre and was in it, I'd have known, and felt less alone. Funny, sweet, and honest. Great collection.

The darkness comes. The darkness sets. Then it comes again. It stalks in the eyes around the tiny little corners we can barely see out of. It whispers about that one movie we saw when we step into the shower at a new place. That's what good horror can do. So what if the people who save us from drowning are the ones who threw us in the deep end and watched our flailing turn to floating? What do you do with that terror?

This is a folk story. Or is it a ghost story? In the tales people tell of us, do we become myth or ghost? What's the difference if we haunt ourselves before our time? The world has always been lonely and cruel. As capitalism rolls its ugly head through our lives, are we really to blame for the few ways we can find to cope? People make mistakes all the time. Tragedy happens every day. And it hurts. Oh, it hurts.

But this isn't a ghost story. Because it dances. The system and world is cruel. But still, there's dancing.

Who is The Captive Audience? Is it John Daniel, confined over and over, forced to watch the world point and jeer at him? Is it the audience of the show, stuck beyond the edge of the stage, incapable of helping the hurting child in front of them? It's both, of course. The title, I imagine, and the helplessness, as well as the clear theatricality, will force spectators to think of continued harsh treatment of animals. To step out and say, "I am no longer a captive," and perhaps effect change. No one wants to be forgotten. Poor boy.

Ah!! I live in Savannah, and I've been on one of these ghost tours before I moved. I've seen plenty of groups go on them (there are several companies), heard the tales, talked to a few of the tour guides. It's a mainstay of this grand, beautiful city with its horrid, disgusting past. I had a blast reading and imagining what the music might be like. Quite honestly, it's wild that Savannah doesn't have a dedicated, specific local Halloween theatre piece. I think this would be a hit here. It should be. I want it to open here. Soon, hopefully

I've consumed a lot of AIDS media, but it never slapped me in the face until I watched "Tick, Tick... Boom!" I don't know why it flipped a switch. I was born in the late 90s. I've only read about it. But I look at my experiences growing up gay, and I look at these medias, and it hits me: My mentors died before I was born. A virus took them. An uncaring world took them. Reagan killed them.

This piece tugs out that sadness. It shows us five likeable men and how their hope died. Please, read this.

The little things we're told when we're children have a habit of sticking to us, especially when repeated. A few off comments become a tattoo we're sure everyone else can see. How do we heal our inner child? I'm not entirely sure. Therapy helps. Love helps. Friendship helps. Jokes help. Laugh through the grief when you can. But mostly, it's time. If we're lucky, we get enough of it to move on, to start to heal, to find new ways to be happy with ourselves and others. This play is at times quite amusing and at times painful. Well done.