Sophie-Visccher-Lubinizki

The spoken-word poets in the back of The Hungarian Pastry Shop are organizing a Marxist revolution. On the other hand, the elite members of the Saint Anthony Hall fraternity are reminiscing about their golden days that were once filled with champagne and cocaine. Meanwhile, AJ, an ambitious economics major, is stuck in the middle of their hilariously pretentious feud.

Beatrice and Benedick dance from the shoulders up in their separate Zoom squares. Oedipus and Jocasta deal with their crumbling marriage, while Tiresias and Creon gossip in a breakout room. The Globe Theatre and the Theatre of Dionysus are the same Zoom stage.

Imagine a gothic thriller written with microscopic attention to detail. In the world of that story, fear is measured in millimeters of pupil dilation, and you can hear the forest hum. This is the world of “Radio Island.”

She imagines her mind like a hallway. Boxes line the floor, filled with all of the poetry and artwork she has ever studied. James Baldwin and W.B. Yeats are there, talking to her in David Hammons' blue light.

“My cries are wings: they pierce the cage.”

Over the course of one night, several brave and probably caffeinated students wrote, rehearsed, and recorded songs for their own nostalgic and hilarious parody of an iconic childhood film. The following evening was opening—and closing—night.

At 15 years old, Phanésia Pharel, BC ’21, marched into the lighting booth of her high school’s black box theater and locked the door behind her. By the time she stood up and walked out, she had written her first play. The following year, she was a published playwright.

The Ronettes’ “Be My Baby” lyrics light up the bottom of the screen. Shadow puppets pack a suitcase. Johann Strauss takes over for Vera Lynn in a Doctor Strangelove-inspired closing montage. Sprawled across YouTube, Facebook, and Zoom, this is interdisciplinary theater at its most inventive.

Modelling agencies scatter overcrowded and overpriced “model apartments” around the world for the so-called “convenience” of clients working abroad. One such apartment in New Jersey featured 10 bunk beds and one bathroom at $1,800 per month—with the luxury amenities of theft and a constant influx of strangers.