Boiler Room Studio, Lincoln Hall

Do You Feel Anger? lives in the familiar world of water coolers, staplers, and office conference rooms — but Nelson-Greenberg’s language quickly reveals something far stranger underneath. When Sofia, an empathy coach, arrives at a debt collection agency as part of a lawsuit settlement, she finds a workplace where toxic masculinity has so thoroughly warped the atmosphere that even the most basic concepts — feelings, empathy, basic human decency — have become alien and absurd. The play is laugh-out-loud funny, populated by an unusual cast of characters whose skewed logic and bizarre non-sequiturs mask something genuinely unsettling. What emerges from the sensitivity training sessions is not reform, but a portrait of how pervasive and deeply embedded the patriarchy can be — and how it distorts everyone it touches, including those trying to resist it.

Do You Feel Anger? lives in the familiar world of water coolers, staplers, and office conference rooms — but Nelson-Greenberg’s language quickly reveals something far stranger underneath. When Sofia, an empathy coach, arrives at a debt collection agency as part of a lawsuit settlement, she finds a workplace where toxic masculinity has so thoroughly warped the atmosphere that even the most basic concepts — feelings, empathy, basic human decency — have become alien and absurd. The play is laugh-out-loud funny, populated by an unusual cast of characters whose skewed logic and bizarre non-sequiturs mask something genuinely unsettling. What emerges from the sensitivity training sessions is not reform, but a portrait of how pervasive and deeply embedded the patriarchy can be — and how it distorts everyone it touches, including those trying to resist it.

Do You Feel Anger? lives in the familiar world of water coolers, staplers, and office conference rooms — but Nelson-Greenberg’s language quickly reveals something far stranger underneath. When Sofia, an empathy coach, arrives at a debt collection agency as part of a lawsuit settlement, she finds a workplace where toxic masculinity has so thoroughly warped the atmosphere that even the most basic concepts — feelings, empathy, basic human decency — have become alien and absurd. The play is laugh-out-loud funny, populated by an unusual cast of characters whose skewed logic and bizarre non-sequiturs mask something genuinely unsettling. What emerges from the sensitivity training sessions is not reform, but a portrait of how pervasive and deeply embedded the patriarchy can be — and how it distorts everyone it touches, including those trying to resist it.

Do You Feel Anger? lives in the familiar world of water coolers, staplers, and office conference rooms — but Nelson-Greenberg’s language quickly reveals something far stranger underneath. When Sofia, an empathy coach, arrives at a debt collection agency as part of a lawsuit settlement, she finds a workplace where toxic masculinity has so thoroughly warped the atmosphere that even the most basic concepts — feelings, empathy, basic human decency — have become alien and absurd. The play is laugh-out-loud funny, populated by an unusual cast of characters whose skewed logic and bizarre non-sequiturs mask something genuinely unsettling. What emerges from the sensitivity training sessions is not reform, but a portrait of how pervasive and deeply embedded the patriarchy can be — and how it distorts everyone it touches, including those trying to resist it.

Do You Feel Anger? lives in the familiar world of water coolers, staplers, and office conference rooms — but Nelson-Greenberg’s language quickly reveals something far stranger underneath. When Sofia, an empathy coach, arrives at a debt collection agency as part of a lawsuit settlement, she finds a workplace where toxic masculinity has so thoroughly warped the atmosphere that even the most basic concepts — feelings, empathy, basic human decency — have become alien and absurd. The play is laugh-out-loud funny, populated by an unusual cast of characters whose skewed logic and bizarre non-sequiturs mask something genuinely unsettling. What emerges from the sensitivity training sessions is not reform, but a portrait of how pervasive and deeply embedded the patriarchy can be — and how it distorts everyone it touches, including those trying to resist it.

Do You Feel Anger? lives in the familiar world of water coolers, staplers, and office conference rooms — but Nelson-Greenberg’s language quickly reveals something far stranger underneath. When Sofia, an empathy coach, arrives at a debt collection agency as part of a lawsuit settlement, she finds a workplace where toxic masculinity has so thoroughly warped the atmosphere that even the most basic concepts — feelings, empathy, basic human decency — have become alien and absurd. The play is laugh-out-loud funny, populated by an unusual cast of characters whose skewed logic and bizarre non-sequiturs mask something genuinely unsettling. What emerges from the sensitivity training sessions is not reform, but a portrait of how pervasive and deeply embedded the patriarchy can be — and how it distorts everyone it touches, including those trying to resist it.

Do You Feel Anger? lives in the familiar world of water coolers, staplers, and office conference rooms — but Nelson-Greenberg’s language quickly reveals something far stranger underneath. When Sofia, an empathy coach, arrives at a debt collection agency as part of a lawsuit settlement, she finds a workplace where toxic masculinity has so thoroughly warped the atmosphere that even the most basic concepts — feelings, empathy, basic human decency — have become alien and absurd. The play is laugh-out-loud funny, populated by an unusual cast of characters whose skewed logic and bizarre non-sequiturs mask something genuinely unsettling. What emerges from the sensitivity training sessions is not reform, but a portrait of how pervasive and deeply embedded the patriarchy can be — and how it distorts everyone it touches, including those trying to resist it.

Martin Crimp’s adaptation of Cyrano de Bergerac moves like spoken word poetry and hits like a rap battle. It is funny, filthy, tender, and sometimes heartbreaking — and it gives young actors a rare opportunity to play with language as a physical, theatrical force. The play’s themes — masculinity, desire, insecurity, the terror of being truly seen — feel as urgent now as they did when Rostand first wrote them. Cyrano is a soldier, a duelist, and a poet — a man of almost terrifying verbal gifts. But he is also an outsider, marked by his enormous nose as someone the world has decided doesn’t belong. In our production, Cyrano’s otherness will find a different form — one that anyone who has ever felt shunned or excluded by society will recognize. When Roxane falls for the handsome but tongue-tied Christian, Cyrano strikes a desperate bargain: his words, Christian’s body. What follows is a love triangle built on borrowed language.

Martin Crimp’s adaptation of Cyrano de Bergerac moves like spoken word poetry and hits like a rap battle. It is funny, filthy, tender, and sometimes heartbreaking — and it gives young actors a rare opportunity to play with language as a physical, theatrical force. The play’s themes — masculinity, desire, insecurity, the terror of being truly seen — feel as urgent now as they did when Rostand first wrote them. Cyrano is a soldier, a duelist, and a poet — a man of almost terrifying verbal gifts. But he is also an outsider, marked by his enormous nose as someone the world has decided doesn’t belong. In our production, Cyrano’s otherness will find a different form — one that anyone who has ever felt shunned or excluded by society will recognize. When Roxane falls for the handsome but tongue-tied Christian, Cyrano strikes a desperate bargain: his words, Christian’s body. What follows is a love triangle built on borrowed language.

Martin Crimp’s adaptation of Cyrano de Bergerac moves like spoken word poetry and hits like a rap battle. It is funny, filthy, tender, and sometimes heartbreaking — and it gives young actors a rare opportunity to play with language as a physical, theatrical force. The play’s themes — masculinity, desire, insecurity, the terror of being truly seen — feel as urgent now as they did when Rostand first wrote them. Cyrano is a soldier, a duelist, and a poet — a man of almost terrifying verbal gifts. But he is also an outsider, marked by his enormous nose as someone the world has decided doesn’t belong. In our production, Cyrano’s otherness will find a different form — one that anyone who has ever felt shunned or excluded by society will recognize. When Roxane falls for the handsome but tongue-tied Christian, Cyrano strikes a desperate bargain: his words, Christian’s body. What follows is a love triangle built on borrowed language.

Martin Crimp’s adaptation of Cyrano de Bergerac moves like spoken word poetry and hits like a rap battle. It is funny, filthy, tender, and sometimes heartbreaking — and it gives young actors a rare opportunity to play with language as a physical, theatrical force. The play’s themes — masculinity, desire, insecurity, the terror of being truly seen — feel as urgent now as they did when Rostand first wrote them. Cyrano is a soldier, a duelist, and a poet — a man of almost terrifying verbal gifts. But he is also an outsider, marked by his enormous nose as someone the world has decided doesn’t belong. In our production, Cyrano’s otherness will find a different form — one that anyone who has ever felt shunned or excluded by society will recognize. When Roxane falls for the handsome but tongue-tied Christian, Cyrano strikes a desperate bargain: his words, Christian’s body. What follows is a love triangle built on borrowed language.

Martin Crimp’s adaptation of Cyrano de Bergerac moves like spoken word poetry and hits like a rap battle. It is funny, filthy, tender, and sometimes heartbreaking — and it gives young actors a rare opportunity to play with language as a physical, theatrical force. The play’s themes — masculinity, desire, insecurity, the terror of being truly seen — feel as urgent now as they did when Rostand first wrote them. Cyrano is a soldier, a duelist, and a poet — a man of almost terrifying verbal gifts. But he is also an outsider, marked by his enormous nose as someone the world has decided doesn’t belong. In our production, Cyrano’s otherness will find a different form — one that anyone who has ever felt shunned or excluded by society will recognize. When Roxane falls for the handsome but tongue-tied Christian, Cyrano strikes a desperate bargain: his words, Christian’s body. What follows is a love triangle built on borrowed language.

Martin Crimp’s adaptation of Cyrano de Bergerac moves like spoken word poetry and hits like a rap battle. It is funny, filthy, tender, and sometimes heartbreaking — and it gives young actors a rare opportunity to play with language as a physical, theatrical force. The play’s themes — masculinity, desire, insecurity, the terror of being truly seen — feel as urgent now as they did when Rostand first wrote them. Cyrano is a soldier, a duelist, and a poet — a man of almost terrifying verbal gifts. But he is also an outsider, marked by his enormous nose as someone the world has decided doesn’t belong. In our production, Cyrano’s otherness will find a different form — one that anyone who has ever felt shunned or excluded by society will recognize. When Roxane falls for the handsome but tongue-tied Christian, Cyrano strikes a desperate bargain: his words, Christian’s body. What follows is a love triangle built on borrowed language.

Martin Crimp’s adaptation of Cyrano de Bergerac moves like spoken word poetry and hits like a rap battle. It is funny, filthy, tender, and sometimes heartbreaking — and it gives young actors a rare opportunity to play with language as a physical, theatrical force. The play’s themes — masculinity, desire, insecurity, the terror of being truly seen — feel as urgent now as they did when Rostand first wrote them. Cyrano is a soldier, a duelist, and a poet — a man of almost terrifying verbal gifts. But he is also an outsider, marked by his enormous nose as someone the world has decided doesn’t belong. In our production, Cyrano’s otherness will find a different form — one that anyone who has ever felt shunned or excluded by society will recognize. When Roxane falls for the handsome but tongue-tied Christian, Cyrano strikes a desperate bargain: his words, Christian’s body. What follows is a love triangle built on borrowed language.

Martin Crimp’s adaptation of Cyrano de Bergerac moves like spoken word poetry and hits like a rap battle. It is funny, filthy, tender, and sometimes heartbreaking — and it gives young actors a rare opportunity to play with language as a physical, theatrical force. The play’s themes — masculinity, desire, insecurity, the terror of being truly seen — feel as urgent now as they did when Rostand first wrote them. Cyrano is a soldier, a duelist, and a poet — a man of almost terrifying verbal gifts. But he is also an outsider, marked by his enormous nose as someone the world has decided doesn’t belong. In our production, Cyrano’s otherness will find a different form — one that anyone who has ever felt shunned or excluded by society will recognize. When Roxane falls for the handsome but tongue-tied Christian, Cyrano strikes a desperate bargain: his words, Christian’s body. What follows is a love triangle built on borrowed language.