Dreads or tales...
PENNY DREADFULS: THE REMARKABLE ROOMING-HOUSE OF MADAME LE MONDE 
Review by Dorian Hatchett

Tennesee Williams never stopped writing.  His most popular pieces stunned Broadway audiences from the 1940s through the 1960s, but his body of work spans his entire life, as wildly diverse as it is prodigious. The three plays performed in Penny Dreadfuls: The Remarkable Rooming-House of Madame Le Monde are among his most esoteric, and for good reason.  

Williams’ work is entertainingly clever and complex, the characters deeply flawed in all the most (and least) relatable ways. There’s never just a story happening on the stage, though. Williams was a gay man who lived in some of the worst times to be gay in America.  He was a sickly child in a dysfunctional family. He had a schizophrenic sister and puritanical family. He saw first hand how humans treat the people who they consider “other” and it informs every word.  

His most popular work was a delicate balance of artful plot and social commentary. The escapism of theater was maintained, and one could enjoy the production and then dissect the deeper narrative at their leisure (or choose not to, and remain entertained by the characterizations alone). Later in his life, though, the critical acclaim was more sparse, and Williams sank his entire might into the power of the stage to deliver that societal critique.  

Instead of subtle, unspoken undercurrents, his stories became morality plays screaming from the rooftops of the pain and mistreatment of society's most maligned, most oppressed, most overlooked. These shows are meant to make the audience uncomfortable; to pour misery directly into your hands and make you sit with it, squirming in the reflection of stage lights and the smell of plywood.

The Tennessee Williams Theatre Company (about to start their 10th season) has a sterling reputation for their candor and sensitivity when interpreting this work. In their hands, these pieces are treated with respect bordering on veneration, the audience becoming their beneficiary.  

Truly appreciating this writing demands the correct application of dark humor, and the Penny Dreadfuls are apex gallows comedy. The audience writhes internally, and nervous laughter is the near constant over quiet contemplation or rapt attention, the small cast of actors radiating unhinged savagery from their pores. 

The laughter is genuine at first. The show’s master of ceremonies is none other than Jigsaw from the Saw horror movie franchise. The action on stage descends with furious speed, to the limits of what an audience can silently accept, and their discomfort is the most high praise a show like this can receive. 

Monica R. Harris (Madame Le Monde, Mrs. Yorke) commands the stage with her facial expressions, and the other actors' apparent distrust of her is so palpable it may be genuine. Adrienne Simmons (Lily, Jigsaw) is physical theater personified. Her shoulders offer entire soliloquies. Cody Keech (The man with the size 11D, the Boy) seduces more than Miss Simple with his promises of a life fully lived, with all its messy imperfections. 

Accolades must be given to the set design, and its brilliant geometry. Backdrops that fold into themselves is a masterful use of a tiny space, transforming in the blink of an eye. The interaction between stage and audience is effortless, as if the fourth wall simply does not exist. We are acutely aware that they, and their suffering, are part of the show as much as Mint’s mobility hooks, propping up the dialogue with reflected energy.  

I was not immune to the uncomfortable silence, the awkward shuffle of my feet, the nervous laughter, the awareness that I didn't know what to do with my hands. Like many audience members, I made uncouth jokes as I filed out of the auditorium. 

With a declaration that the characters in the rooming–house were none other than Clive Barker’s cenobites, if they were portrayed by tubercular victorian children, I unintentionally reasserted that horror as a genre is rooted in a human need to explore hell as a place we have manufactured, through our own faults. Sartre was right, and it is indeed other people.

PENNY DREADFULS: THE REMARKABLE ROOMING-HOUSE OF MADAME LE MONDE runs at The Lower Depths Theatre @ Loyola University through Sept 28th. Click here for more information and ticketing

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​Sand, Ash, Heat: Glass at The New Orleans Museum of Art 
Review by Jamie Chiarello

As a street artist who is used to sitting out in the quarter hawking my paintings, a museum is a very special and particular type of place to me. On one hand, it is easy to eschew most establishments, to question whether art should be sought in a museum anymore than learning in school or God in a church.

On the other hand, I will always remember one of my formative museum experiences where I entered with a big chip on my shoulder about the stupid masses who didn't care for anything I cared for and then looked around me and was dumbstruck by the symbolism of a museum in itself; a building where people who deeply care about art house it, and work tirelessly to preserve it for future generations. 

I didn't have any particular expectations upon entering the NOMA to see the show 'Sand, Ash, Heat: Glass at the New Orleans Museum of Art'. The main question I have been asking myself when experiencing art is: What is my initial direct visceral experience? How do I make sense of this? How is this affected by any subsequent explanation about the work before me?

The curation of this collection is extraordinary. Upon entering, we are immediately confronted by an enormous, pitch-black chandellier by Fred Wilson. Stepping closer, I was both in awe of the intiricacy and skill in handling such a delicate material, and mildy repulsed in a pleasurable way by the slick blackness of the material that reminded me of both oil and H.R. Giger.

Seeing the chandellier at eye level evoked a theme that reoccured over and over through out the show: Who made these works? For whom? Fred Wilson's piece both asks and answers this question, and it is worth going to see the show for this piece alone.

From there, we are shown glass works from antiquity, mostly from the Middle East and the Roman empire. You can't help but wonder, what lives did these objects live in their own times? Will our old junk bottles one day be in museums to be ogled over and speculated upon? It is impossible to study any art or material development divorced from the brutality of human history.

The beautiful shining crystal banana and sugar bowls only silently nod to the slave labor and the historical exploitation of local communities employed to obtain such luxuries. Looking at the work from the Venetian Island of Murano we are asked questions of labor, skill, beauty and alchemy. A room exploring glass bead work, and displaying a Black Masking Indian suit by Big Chief Down M. Edwards of the Timbuktu Warriors is a striking local feature.

Leading into the modern and contemporary realms, the intent seems to shift to become more about provocation. There is a show of 3D printing and vases, and I want to loop back around to the start of the show, though this is more so a reflection on my own tastes and interests. 

​At large, the show is incredibly engaging, and very well organized. Like glass, our perceptions of ourselves and historical markers have tendencies toward warping and are strangely fragile and enduring. Go to City Park, go to the museum: this is a worthwhile way to ponder and pass time in the Anthropocene. 

The Sand, Ash, Heat: Glass at the New Orleans Museum of Art runs at NOMA through February 10th, 2025. More information here. 

The Apostle
review by Jeff DeRouen

I miss video stores. Something about being able to look at titles I can pick up with my hands seems a more efficient way of curating my viewing instead of, you know, scrolling through Netflix for two hours before deciding to just go to bed.

The New Orleans Public Library is a fix for my nostalgia ache, as they get just about every new release on DVD or Blu-ray and have a large selection of older titles (including Criterion for those in the know). And so I enjoy the occasional perusing of the shelves and finding hidden gems I may have missed or would like to see again.

This week, my soul was led to a rewatch of Robert Duvall’s small and magnificent Louisiana-based film, The Apostle (dir. Robert Duvall, 1997). Shot in towns like St. Martinville and Des Allemands, Duvall hired locals (amateur actors and regular folks) to inject verisimilitude to the story of a disgraced evangelical preacher. He believes he’s on a divine mission to revitalize an old Louisiana church, after losing his own congregation and fleeing from the police in Texas.

Duvall gives us the world of Charismatic Christianity, where Jesus reigns supreme and even the worst sinner can be delivered unto salvation. It's also fun to see Billy Bob Thornton in one of those early redneck, racist roles that the guy does so well. He deals with the subject ironically and unflinchingly, delivering a more authentic faith-based story than any of the recent, stylized and melodramatic Angel Studio releases. And Louisiana, captured in all its sweaty, sunlit, mosquito-infested beauty, is the perfect backdrop for this moving and messy tale of redemption.

You can buy/rent The Apostle online (on YouTube only for some reason) or head to the public library and get that good ole standard definition DVD.

​Alien: Romulus

Remember ‘Alien’, and how it masterfully drip-fed suspense to create one of the most chillingly immersive horror films of all time? Remember ‘Aliens’, the contrasting, high-octane sequel which shifted gears into viscerally dynamic combat sequences? Well, preserve those memories in cryostasis, because in comparison, Romulus isn’t worthy enough to pry a crusty facehugger off their freshly-impacted space helmets. 

The ninth film of the Alien franchise (including Predator spin-offs) is an “interquel”, a word I really hope to see spat out of an airlock some day as I look on impassively. It feels like a concept from an IP on life support, klaxons blaring, the letters INTERQUEL illuminated in urgent, flashing red neon. 

Rain Carradine (Civil War’s Cailee Spaeny) and her adoptive android brother, Andy (Industry’s David Jonsson) are stuck on a grimey mining colony. Rain’s work-earned travel visa is denied by The Company, and so they hook up with an anarchic collective, and joyride a shuttle out of the atmosphere to steal a derelict, but still orbiting cargo ship. Seems like incredibly lax security considering all of the corporate authoritarianism on land, but hey, the movie has to happen. 

Rain is the responsible, adaptable, Sigourney Weaver insert. Andy is an easily-reprogrammed automaton with a dad joke subroutine that you wish was mutable. The rest are four or five (I honestly lost track) generic, Young Adult punk/hacker types, with cut and paste personalities and provincial accents. What follows feels like a regional youth theater production of the original film, adapted from memory with a week’s notice until opening night. 

Their mission is to hotwire the cargo ship and use its cryogenic pods so that they can head to Rain’s home planet for picnics and personal fulfillment. The only obstacles are the cargo ship’s residents: a robot science officer and an unknown quantity of, well, aliens, who have apparently been routinely using him as a chew toy. This gristle-legged humanoid is a digitally de-aged, waxwork version of the late Ian Holm (he's from the first movie!), his estate hopefully well compensated for this gruesome curtain call. 

The stakes include Rain and Andy’s familial bond, and a hinted-at-but-largely-undeveloped romantic interest with one of the less mouthy punks. Oh, and one of the hackers is pregnant. Don’t worry, you’ll be reminded of this A LOT. The dialogue consists mainly of sweatily-yelled explainers: “That will damage the baby!”, “The elevator won’t work without gravity!”, “They have acid for blood, remember!”...I’m paraphrasing but it’s exposition all the way down. 

Plot points are rammed down your throat with the subtlety (and spiritual enjoyability) of a facehugger’s facial impregnation probe. Speaking of which, I might be growing prudish in my old age but the visual lingering on the notably phallic/gynecological aesthetics of the aliens’ eggs and writhing tendrils felt creepily uncomfortable, especially given the youthfulness of the cast. 

The rest of the movie devolves into a scrappy, ragtag crew, just haphazardly Scooby Doo-ing it around a gooey industrial warehouse while the sound guy double clicks on a folder of wav files called ‘IRON FOUNDRY’. It’s hard to care about any of them, any character development left languishing in the vacuum of space somewhere. The actors are not the problem (I’ve really enjoyed Spaeny and Jonsson in other things) and do what they can with the script, but they’re all written as indistinguishable, aggressively cocky Zoomers. It’s an alien horror for the IG Reels demographic - a Gen-Zee-nomorph, if you will (though you probably won’t).

What we’re left with is an underwhelming meteor shower of half-hearted fan service. Outside of Holm’s infirm android, we tick off a chest-bursting scene (plus a bonus, gratuitous variation), and TWO alien-human face-to-face shots with the protruding teeth, just in case you didn’t get the first one. The kicker, though, is a dead-eyed re-delivery of an iconic line from Aliens that burns up in the atmosphere under the weight of its own cringe value, well before its landing gear can even be activated.

I know that this sounds like “Old Man Shouts At Gaseous Nebulae”, but as someone who saw the originals, Romulus is a Disneyfied mess that asks: what if a space horror was navigated by TikTok influencers? Rewatch the first two Alien movies and bask in the characterization and the near-unbearable tension, with pay-offs that earned their places in cinematic history. By the time the inevitable Alien: Remus comes around in 2026, this absolute casserole of a movie will surely have been forgotten. Don’t call Romulus, we’ll call Romulu. (PO)

​Sometimes it's hard to be a Roman: Julius Caesar @ The Lupin Theater
Review by Paul Oswell

I doubt that unseasonably violent storms or spontaneously combusting men were witnessed on the night that the New Orleans Shakespeare Festival chose to stage this particular play, but you could be forgiven for believing it to be a portentous decision. Just a week before opening night, the Supreme Court declared the possibility of king-like immunity for future Presidents, a development that is strikingly on the nose given the Trumpian themes of the opening act.

We meet Caesar (played by Silas Cooper) in his pomp, on the cusp of regal authority thanks to a rising tide of plebian devotion. Two close associates, Cassius (Erin Cessna) and Brutus (Wendy Miklovic), are beginning to see Caesar as weak due to his seizures and ailments, and they fear that ascension to the crown will spell the end of the Republic. High ranking members of a political organization looking to replace a physically flawed but well-liked figurehead? Seems like Joe Biden should also brush up on his classics.

Wild weather, fiery omens and his wife’s nightmares alert Caesar to possible tragedy, while a lethal conspiracy gains traction among the political class in the dead of night. Even though the morning brings the Ides of March, JC does very much not beware them. At first, he tells the Senate that he will not attend that day, refusing to give a reason, with the Nixonian rhetoric of, “The cause is in my will.” When the president does it, that means it is not illegal. 

His hubris eventually has him change his mind and attend court, and there he is gleefully celebrated with cake and fine wine. I’m just kidding. As we all know, he is instead brutally murdered, stabbed repeatedly by almost everyone he trusted. His one true ally, Mark Antony (James Bartelle), witnesses the bloody aftermath, superficially sanctioning the assassination but as the mob departs, he vows revenge. 

If the first act is a patchwork of personal machinations and skullduggery, the second plays out the consequences on a larger scale. Caesar’s son, Octavius (Zarah Hokule’a Spalding), arrives in Rome and forms a coalition with Antony and Lepidus (Enne Samuel). Armies are raised to fight the exiled Brutus and Cassius. They are ultimately successful, Brutus committing suicide still haunted by Caesar’s ghost. 

Director Salvatore Mannino skillfully creates an evocatively dark, tempestuous world that seems fraught and ominous. Hope Bennett’s impressively coherent costume design is reminiscent of the utilitarian garb of guerilla fighters, with hints of the latest Dune movies. The lighting and video projections (a moveable video wall conjures up changing scenes and moods) work deftly with the sound design, used most pleasingly to recreate booming arena speeches - excellent work by Alexander la Vallant Freer, James Lanius III and Steven Gilliland respectively. 

Cooper’s Caesar flits convincingly between potency and paranoia, while Miklovic and Cessna are powerfully engaging, mixing stirring rhetoric and aggressive ambition. Bartelle’s Mark Antony runs on high emotion throughout, the withering subtext of his ‘honorable men’ speech at Caesar's funeral one of the most memorable scenes. Seller’s Casca is everything a conniving, consigliere-type should be, while Hokule’a Spalding makes sure that Octavius’ arrival is explosively dramatic. 

It’s a large cast, but Monica R Harris, Ryan Hayes, Justice Hues, John Jabaley, Aria Jackson, Mary Langley, Matthew Raetz, Stephen Rose Pendleton, Enne Samuel, Joe Signorelli and Kristin Witt all render beautifully well-drawn characters. The staging is at close quarters, giving it a visceral immediacy. Disorienting torches flash across the audience and death scenes are starkly intimate.

As noted, it’s a spookily topical production, the lions that stalk the capitol almost too relevant an allegory for today’s real-life political landscape. Or perhaps violent swings of power are so historically common that Julius Caesar is simply an evergreen fable. Either way, lend your ears and eyes to this fantastically entertaining production - it's no less effective a filter through which to view today's politics than the nightly news. 

Julius Caesar plays at the Lupin Theatre through July 21st. For show information and tickets, click here. 
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​Review: Kinds of Kindness

It’s strange to say that a director is ‘returning to form’ after their last movie - in this case, last year’s Poor Things - won prizes (Oscars included) across the globe. What I mean here is that Yourgos Lanthimos is returning to a kind of form that is reminiscent of the mood of his early films, such as Dogtooth. 

What does that even mean, though? Kinds of Kindness is an unsettling, experimental triptych that sees a return to writing with his collaborator Efthimis Filippou. All three stories share a cast, including Margaret Qualley, Joe Alwyn, Willem Dafoe, Emma Stone, Hong Chau, and Jesse Plemons. (One fun thing to note: much of the movie is shot in and around New Orleans, with scenes in The Windsor Court Hotel, and around the CBD). 

The basic plots are these: In part one, Plemons is in a subservient relationship to his boss, Defoe, who controls his every waking moment. In the second, Plemons is a cop whose wife (Stone) is rescued from a shipwreck but he’s convinced that she’s not the same person, and in the third, Plemons and Stone play members of a cult, led by Dafoe and Chau, who seek a divine being on Earth.

All of the worlds depicted are familiar yet deranged, with violence, delusion and perversion all simmering under a superficially mundane surface. Lanthimos drops clues and details that overlap or hint at connections - a character referred to as “R.M.F.”, a fascination with dogs, his trademark stylistic weirdness and a brutal dissection of power dynamics. 

The events on screen - some surreally beautiful, some viscerally depraved, some psychologically scarring - allow for a real spectrum of readings. Some have floated that each one represents a particular religion (Islam, Judaism, Christianity), and there are dozens of theories already abounding in film discussion threads. 

The Lanthimos hallmarks are all there, and if you’ve enjoyed his pre-Poor Things work, especially his earlier Greek movies, then you’ll find lots to chew over here. Characters all speak in that clipped, removed way, and instances of socially unusual behaviour are mainly just accepted by everyone at face value. 

Although the photographic flourishes of Poor Things and The Favourite aren’t to be found, it’s nevertheless a provocative and unhinged film in other ways. People lose sense of themselves, whether through self delusion or control by others, and it can feel disorienting to watch, the sense of things only coming together with pieces that you’re not even sure are part of the same puzzle.

The best summary of how the director sees humanity comes by extrapolating the lines of the opening song, Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) by The Eurythmics: Some people want to use you. Some people want to get used by you. Some of them want to abuse you. And some of them? Some of them...want to be abused. (PO)

Clue @ The Saenger Theatre
Review by Dorian Hatchett

Based on a boardgame from 1943, and then a hit movie from 1985, the plot of the chaotic scramble that is Clue: A New Comedy was no surprise to most of the audience tonight at the premiere of the New Orleans leg of the national tour.

There is very little truly new under the sun in the world of the theatre. We attend the theatre to be transported, for a few minutes, to somewhere outside of ourselves. To exist in a place where the story and the movement are magic, even if we already know them by heart. In that goal, I am absolutely delighted to report that this show is a complete success.  

The ensemble cast with their code names were all consummate character actors. In this production, there is no such thing as over the top, and from accented affectation to acrobat-level physical comedy, the the bodies on stage (both alive and deceased) roused the audience to spontaneous laughter and applause in a seemingly endless series of crescendos. From the very first moment of dialogue between Wadsworth and Yvette, the tone is set with a cartoonish approach to comedy and a flawless delivery of witty banter with perfect timing.  

The set was a real star in this show. A series of shifting walls and doors turned the relatively small stage of the Saenger Theater into an entire victorian mansion with a seamless suspension of disbelief.  The raging thunderstorm beyond the windows of the foyer was a constant companion to the drama within.  

The actors know this set, and interact with it with a comfort and familiarity that rarely shines in traveling productions, and I found myself impressed again and again with the movement of the action as it flowed through walls and around corners with grace and sophistication. All the while, I was laughing at the Benny Hill-esque chase scenes and madcap buffoonery that really highlighted the expertise of the actors and their mastery of the material.

Sometimes the simplest of physical gags can be the hardest to pull off, but this ensemble made it look easy and fun. Instead of attempting to redo the performances of previous actors in these roles, each actor made their character completely their own, in a new approach to a classic story.  

Be delighted, be impressed, be amused, and be part of the audience of a show that is at its root, just fun for fun’s sake.  

Clue: A New Comedy at the Saenger Theater July 18-23 
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​First night review: The Importance of Being Earnest @ Le Petit Theatre 
review by Aura Bishop

The Importance of Being Earnest is many young English Literature students’ introduction to the work of Oscar Wilde. As a theater student at Grace King High School in 1997, it was also my introduction to Le Petit Théâtre. Prior to this, all of the plays I’d seen were in other schools, colleges, or the occasional church. It was exciting - I was finally going to see a play from a local theater company, in the French Quarter, in a cool, old (possibly haunted?!) theater. 

It's hard to believe that was almost exactly 27 years ago. Everything old is new again.

Earnest is probably one of Wilde’s most accessible works - a farce of mistaken identities about the expectations of 'proper society' and how we are all different people in different social situations. Its sharp, witty lines are still quoted to this day. The humor is equally of its time and ahead of its time, with some surprises and plot twists, which is why this play is still fun to read and watch even though it was written almost 130 years ago. 

I wasn't sure what I would remember or what I would forget from the plot of the show. Thankfully, I remembered just enough to anticipate some favorite bits and I forgot just enough to enjoy it as if it were fresh. In many ways, this production brought me back to my first visit to this theater and everything that thrilled me about it. The lush period costumes (designed by Kaci Thomassie) and the elaborate set (scenic designer Joan Long) were a great escape to another place and time - both my own youth and to Oscar Wilde’s 19th Century England.

Rohan Padmakumar has perfected the sly smile and confident mischief of rakish playboy and musician Algernon Moncrieff. Noah Hazzard is delightful as hopeless romantic and slightly more responsible friend Jack. Yvette Bourgeois is hilarious as the book-tossing, manic pixie dream ward Cecily. Bethany Lee is the picture of the perfect ingenue/mistaken love rival Gwendolyn. 

Tracey E. Collins is the endlessly quotable society aunt Lady Bracknell, who knows how to slice everyone, much like the cucumber sandwiches she always seems to be in search of: “Hesitation of any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness in the old.” This may be one of the best performances of the role I've seen. 

David W. Hoover raises eyebrows and maybe some hair as the overly jolly Rev. Canon Chasuble. Queen Shereen Macklin has her performance of absent-minded intellectual governess Miss Prism in the bag, and Kyle Daigrepont is punchy and hits his punchlines in the dual roles of Lane and Merriman. 

All of this is adeptly directed by A.J. Allegra. It's his first time directing a show at LPT since he took on the role of Artistic Director of the theater company last year, delivering a show that's well-paced, with note-perfect comic timing. 

The Importance of Being Earnest is at Le Petit Théâtre through June 23rd. Click here for show and ticketing information. 

Home's Kitchen at NOCCA
review by Paul Oswell

There are two kitchen-and-food-based plays running in New Orleans with a focus on the LGBTQ+ community right now. The Cake is a colorful comedic romp, while new play Home’s Kitchen (written and directed by Maeve Chapman - read our interview here), although it has amusing moments, skews more dramatically. 

Mari (played by Sam Drust) lives alone in her New York apartment, listless and unmoored in life. She writes obituaries for a living, obsessively watches a cooking show (the titular Home’s Kitchen) and hangs out with her queer best friend, Liam (Matthew Raetz). As Mari loses her job and spirals into depression, Liam announces that he wants to study in California, unsettling their dynamic. 

Meanwhile, we’re privy to behind-the-scenes drama in the TV show kitchen. Chef and star Richard (Stephen Ladow) is losing his producer Paul (Michael Vaughn-Kennedy), who is suddenly being particularly flirty and wants Richard to present an episode raising money for LGBTQ+ causes. Richard is newly divorced from his wife, estranged from his family, and seems to be still working out his sexuality. 

The two plots take place at either end of a runway-style stage, often at the same time, with Mari being able to mute the TV, Richard occasionally miming his way through until she turns it up again. This is one of the more daring aspects of the production, another being a kind of ‘split screen’ effect as conversations from each end of the stage intertwine. 

There’s also the high-wire artistic decision to have the characters eat spaghetti live on stage, a sometimes messy choice delivering a relatable serving of quotidian reality. The actors must be relieved they’re not breaking into a plate of lobsters, at least. 

Consumed with ennui, Mari delves into her past passion of cooking (she’s a graduate of the CIA - that’s the Culinary Institute of America) to reboot her career opportunities, while Richard wrestles his personal and professional lives with increasing anxiety. Slowly, the leads' worlds slowly edge towards each other in an unexpected way. 

There’s good use of visual effects to project text messages and Twitter updates, as well as voiceovers as characters take phone calls. Drust and Ladow carry the main storyline empathetically, while Raetz and Vaughn-Kennedy provide expressive, compelling support. 

The cast deftly navigate a logistically-challenging play, and Chapman’s direction employs clever blocking to imbue the two static scenes with some dynamism. Liam Corley’s lighting and multimedia effects, as well as Chris Rodriguez’s set design make the most of a visual economy, with impressively believable staging. 

Set against the backdrop of the legalization of gay marriage in the United States in 2015, and dealing with the legacy of the AIDS crisis, there’s a feelgood ending with a dash of bittersweet sentiment. Our lives’ menus are subject to shifting tastes, and with often unexpected changes, and in Home's Kitchen, it’s all about what you do with the new ingredients.  

Home's Kitchen runs at NOCCA through Sunday 9th June. Click here for show information and ticketing