Amid the United States’ ever-deepening oligarchical crisis, talk of rolling out guillotines has become so routine that it’s almost cliche. GIFs of a dropping blade are pervasive across social media. In a post-Luigi world, gallows humor around America’s rich and powerful is frighteningly, if understandably, commonplace. 

Still, that shifting cultural tide had not prepared me for a Broadway musical that concludes its wealthy protagonist is deserving of nothing less than unceremonious execution. 

To be fair, “off with Jackie Siegel’s head” may not be the intended takeaway of The Queen of Versailles, the fascinatingly misguided new musical opening tonight at the St. James Theatre. Led by Tony Award-winner Kristin Chenoweth as the infamous socialite, this mostly dull work traces Siegel’s journey from rags to riches; riches that Siegel funnels into the construction of Versailles, a massive private home modeled on French monarch Louis XIV’s palace. 

Saddled with an unmemorable score by Stephen Schwartz (Wicked, Pippin) and a confused book by Lindsey Ferrentino (Amy and the Orphans), Versailles glides by as bland bio-musical for much of its excessive runtime, the show’s perspective on Siegel meandering between misplaced sympathy and perverse fascination. 

That is until both the text and director Michael Arden’s staging (crisp up to this point, if sleepy) jolt suddenly to life in the story’s final section, as the overall tone shifts abruptly into bitter rage. Flashbacks to the real Versailles, until now quite useless, take on power as we see Marie Antoinette and her royal cronies being carted off to death. Then a startling transition to our present day seems to all but yell: “If only, huh?”

Now, that intriguing late turn hardly redeems the plodding narrative that has preceded it. And the takeaway remains muddy—are we to view Jackie as an avatar for the worst excesses of American capitalism, or a victim of the same predatory systems that daily bear down on us all? Yet the potent finale at least displays something Versailles has otherwise so totally lacked: a point of view. 

Certainly that final Antoinette tableau explains why Arden and co. kept the show’s period framing device, an otherwise fatal error. The show opens on Louis XIV in Versailles singing cheerfully about his grand excesses, and monarchist intrusions continue throughout the narrative. But most of these scenes feel like window dressing, and serve only to slow the narrative’s momentum. 

Not that Ferrentino seems to be in any hurry. The show’s first act traces Siegel’s upbringing in great detail, covering her early career, an abusive first husband, and Siegel’s eventual marriage to timeshare magnate David Siegel (F. Murray Abraham), who funds Versailles. The crash of 2008, which brought construction to a halt, does not even arrive until just before intermission. 

Chenoweth herself is excellent throughout, finding pathos in Siegel’s journey without ever sentimentalizing. But no-one else has much to work with. Abraham is mostly brusque; Jackie’s niece Jonquil (Tatum Grace Hopkins) enters late and feels narratively needless; her neglected daughter Victoria fares better but is underdeveloped, despite the best efforts of an excellent Nina White. 

White’s moving solo “Pretty Wins” is one of the few standouts of Schwartz’s sadly forgettable score. The man can’t exactly write a bad tune, of course. His lyrics are solid, and Chenoweth sells every solo—particularly that finale, “This Time Next Year”—with an appropriate air of desperation. But while Schwartz’s work can sometimes have a satirical edge, his writing has never been pointed in that regard. When Versailles does find some angry power in its final moments, it does so in spite of Schwartz’s jaunty score, not because of it.  

As the cost of Siegel’s selfishness and greed finally comes due, that surprising rage sneaks its way into the proceedings. It’s too little and too late, but suggests an intriguing road not taken. What might a truly, dedicatedly vicious version of Queen of Versailles have looked like? It’s what our times call for. Sometimes, a sharp blade has to fall.

The Queen of Versailles is now in performance at the St. James Theatre in New York City. For tickets and more information, visit here.

Discover your identity. Find your person. Or, if all else fails, get a dog. 

Off-Broadway is positively littered with solo shows right now—such are the industry’s financial straits. For each of these lonely performers, salvation arrives in a very different form. The answer might be a loving pet, or a devoted partner, or profound self-acceptance….or just some really good sex. If, indeed, any answers arrive at all. No surprise that the strongest works of this bunch decline, ultimately, to provide any easy catharsis. 

For Ari’el Stachel, author and performer of Other (at Greenwich House Theater through December 6), the core struggle is identity. A deserved 2018 Tony Award winner for The Band’s Visit, the performer works through an exhaustive array of challenges in just 90 minutes, all framed around Statchel’s own struggle of selfhood: his confused adolescence as an Arab Jew, discrimination against Arab-Americans after 9/11, panic attacks on Broadway and, finally, the ongoing fallout of the Gaza war.

To give it all shape, Stachel tends to break his own life into distinct sections, packaging the personal and political with a tidiness that doesn’t always ring true. A less diffuse structure might have allowed some room for Stachel to, where needed, dig a little deeper. His performance work is also overly broad, particularly when it comes to the friends and peers that float through Stachel’s life. All but the performer’s family feel like types, not fully formed humans—gay best friend, annoying NYU student, nagging Jewish elder, etc. In experiencing Other, I was reminded of the incredible precision that solo work demands, and how easy it can be to slide into caricature. 

Still, Statchel’s openness around grappling with anxiety is refreshing. He is also remarkably honest about his own failings, particularly the years spent keeping his Yemenite Israeli father at arm’s length. Comfort with his own identity is what allows Stachel to extend a full, unburdened love to others. At least for this anxiety sufferer, that rings true. 

Extending full, unburdened love to others is also the focus of Brandon Kyle Goodman’s Heaux Church—albeit in a slightly different sense. This joyous piece, at Ars Nova through November 21, is a celebration of unadulterated sexual pleasure. Goodman warmly leads us through a judgement-free sex talk, pushing past any nervousness or shame the topic brings up with skillful ease. Specific and even hands-on, Heaux Church is a happy relief from theater as feelgood sloganery. “Love thy neighbor” is a nice sentiment, sure—but Goodman will actually show you how. (Demonstrating on a Krispy Kreme donut, no less.) 

Sharply directed by Lisa Owaki Bierman, Heaux Church is not technically a solo piece—it should be noted that Goodman receives essential support from DJ Ari Grooves and Greg Corbino, who operates some very talkative puppets resembling a butthole, penis and vulva. It works only because Goodman is so totally at ease with themselves, a comfort that extends into the audience. That self-love is, we will come to learn, hard-won after a long journey (much like Stachel’s). But Goodman eases through the toughest part of that story, sandwiching the pain between joy on either side.

By contrast, Zoë Kim’s Did You Eat? (밥 먹었니?) ambushes its audience with a shocking, unsettling account of parental abuse and family trauma. Perhaps “ambushes” is an unfair word. But the structure of this Ma-Yi Theater Company production (at The Public Theater through November 16) feels a tad cruel to the viewer. As shaped by Kim and director Chris Yejin, the piece’s early sections do not really prepare us for what’s to come. So harsh is the tonal shift that it’s difficult for Kim to rein it back when her journey does, thankfully, take a turn for the better. 

It’s a bit obscene, I know, to complain that a person’s story—their life, the experiences they lived—is more than you can take. But tales of trauma can easily wind up numbing.

When Kim does ultimately pull us out of that abyss, she does it with a dog. His name is Spaceman. He is, as the stage directions aptly state, “the cutest dog in the world.” Now, of course, a cute dog is always a winner. But more importantly, the arrival of Spaceman (along with Kim’s eventual partner, her person) eases Eat into a space where love and pain can co-exist. Still, with some distance from Kim’s show, I can more easily admire her refusal to counterbalance the pain at her story’s center.

An adorable dog also proves central to David Cale’s Blue Cowboy, a far gentler piece now at The Bushwick Starr through November 15. Cale’s extraordinary monologue traces his brief love affair with a mysterious ranch hand while visiting Ketchum, Idaho to research a film script. Cale is an expert storyteller, and veteran director Les Waters guides this deeply moving piece with a typically light touch. Aiding the storytelling is an elegant set by Colleen Murray, and subtly evocative lighting design by Mextly Couzin.

As with Goodman’s piece, Cale’s text has a refreshing sexual frankness. Like Stachel, he is admirably honest about his own emotional failings, and moments of immaturity. And like Kim, Cale refuses to allow too easy of an emotional catharsis.

The dog does arrive a bit earlier, though. And that’s nice. It’s always nice to have a dog.

Queens, Martyna Majok’s revision of her 2018 play of the same name, opened tonight in a mesmerizing new production with an embarrassment of character-actress riches: Brooke Bloom, Anna Chlumsky, Sharlene Cruz, Marin Ireland, Julia Lester, Nadine Malouf, Andrea Syglowski and Nicole Villamil.

Majok’s expansive work lives up to their talents, and allows each of them to shine, capturing two moments (2001 and 2017) at an overcrowded basement apartment in the titular New York borough. The women making do with their exploitative-but-what-can-you-do situation are all from Ukraine, Honduras, Afghanistan and Poland, either striving towards financial independence or temporarily in the country to send money (or wayward relatives) back home. The particulars of their situations are both immaterial to critical analysis and completely the point; a compendium of the world’s ails that drive people to migrate, and which drive the disenfranchised to build strong communities – well, almost always.

The boldness of Majok’s proposition here is to challenge the ways the powerless can sell each other out. America, as it sometimes likes to remind itself, is a nation of immigrants, but they haven’t only been good to, or for, each other. Queens is blistering in exploding that campaign trail truism. This is no reactionist screed, though; Majok’s righteous politics are evident both in the play’s ethos and in the care she invests into all of these women and their backstories. But – and maybe I’m projecting – the ardor of its searing insight stems from an exhaustion with immigrant double-consciousness, further aggravated when your people, ostensibly seeking progress, court regressive actions. That the onus of moral rot in the play is relegated to some of its Polish characters (Majok’s native country) feels like a pointed missive: it’s no longer just Americans’ bootstraps, but immigrants’ ladders, that are being pulled up behind them.

The production has a slight metaphysical bent, mainly during scene transitions or to tie the women together beyond their literal shared space, that feels slightly put-on, but the rest of Trip Cullman’s staging for Manhattan Theatre Club is dually attentive to his many characters’ interiorities as well as to an audience which spends nearly three hours in a single, not particularly attractive, set. (That’s no diss on Marsha Ginsberg’s scenic design which, aided by Ben Stanton’s haunting lighting, closes out the first of the play’s two acts on a striking note.)

Amid an ensemble of sterling work, Chlumsky’s brief first appearance stands out for its sheer fire. She speaks a language most in the audience won’t understand, but her meaning is clear. Ditto the reaction she engenders from Ireland, who achieves something like a silent scream: unthinkable, impenetrable, universal.

Queens is in performance through November 30, 2025 at New York City Center Stage I on West 55th Street in New York City. For tickets and more information, visit here.