Caroline: A Theatrical Masterclass

One of the things that makes theatre special is that it’s the most collaborative art form there is. Even a one-person show needs a director, technical designers, stage crew, producers, coaches, and so on. Each specialized in their role, each faithfully doing their job in the hope that–against the odds, in spite of the monumental difficulty of such an endeavor–everything will come together to make the magic that is possible in the theatre. And when it works, that's just what it is: Magic. Caroline, a new play by Preston Max Allen at MCC Theatre, has that magic in spades. It’s a tight one act, telling the gripping story of three family members navigating their tumultuous pasts and even more turbulent present.

At its core, Caroline is a living room family drama, but it packs more into its 90 minute runtime than most big budget Broadway musicals. Maddie (Chloe Grace Moretz) is a young mother on the road with her daughter Caroline (River Lipe-Smith). It's clear from the very beginning that they are fleeing a dangerous situation, and we get a steady drip of information illuminating their plight: Caroline is trans and Maddie's boyfriend broke Caroline’s arm when he found her trying on a dress, leading them to flee their West Virginia home and make for Maddie's parents in Illinois, their only other family. When we get there we meet Rhea (Amy Landecker), Maddie's mother. Tension is high; the last time the two older women saw each other–before Caroline was born–Maddie, in the throes of the addiction and alcoholism she's battled since 15, stole a large amount of money and ran off. The specter of this fraught history looms large as Maddie tries to prove to her mother that she has changed, that she is doing her best for her daughter. She just needs a little help to start a new life away from her suddenly abusive ex-partner and their bigoted, transphobic community. After talking to her husband, Rhea does offer help, but with a brutal condition: Maddie must give up custody of Caroline. Together, the young mother and daughter say no deal, and set out on their own.

It’s a theatrical masterclass.

Start with the technical details. The set is economical and smart, providing a perfect canvas for the story without being too heavy handed in its realism. Lee Jellinek's division of the stage into a few clear zones is wonderful in its simplicity, perfectly erecting the scaffolding of the play's world. The set combines with excellent prop design to make us feel less like we are watching a play and more like we are intruding on intimate private moments.

Even the transitions between sets–all too easy pieces to neglect–contribute to the experience as an integrated piece of the story telling. As Moretz and Lipe-Smith cross stage left from the diner in the opening scene to the hotel room set at the other side of the stage, the diner just disappears. When they leave the hotel, it seems to instantaneously become a kitchen and living room as a flat with two doors descends, linking them to the guest bedroom that appears on the other side of the stage. The changes are sharp, exacting, and flow effortlessly.

The other design elements are likewise dialed in. The songs that play through the house during set changes carry into the following scenes, shrinking from full theatre house sound to the tinny timbre of an iPad or iPhone speaker. The costuming shines, adding depth to all three characters. Just looking at Maddie and Rhea on stage we sense the gulfs between them: personal gulfs of trust, betrayal, and pain, as well as the economical, social, and political gulfs between Rhea's WASP-coded wealthy Chicago suburb and Maddie and Caroline's abandoned home of West Virginia.

Pulling all these elements together is David Cromer's direction, which is nothing short of brilliant. The entire show takes place in just a couple of rooms and the characters spend most of their time sitting–on couches, stools, beds, and benches. But Cromer knows exactly when to move the pieces on his chessboard, whether the move is a character shifting uncomfortably on the couch or making a dramatic cross across the living room. I could go on and on about how Cromer paints beautiful pictures on stage from start to finish, filling Caroline with fantastic tableaus, snapshots that sear themselves into the brain. Maddie and Caroline dragging their suitcases across the stage, seeking safe haven. Maddie standing tall, towering over her mother in fierce defense of herself and her daughter. A friendship bracelet placed gently on the end of the bed, framed by Caroline and Maddie. Every single scene seems to bring with it one of these well-constructed images.

The cast matches Cromer’s excellence. Moretz displays an incredible emotional availability, showing us her character’s pain, worry, shame, and love. Landecker is wound tight as a spring over her estranged daughter's return, never really releasing even as she softens towards her granddaughter. And Lipe-Smith, the young Rochesterian making their NYC debut, gives one of the best performances I've ever seen from a child actor. They have the whip-smart comedic timing of a seasoned veteran and they imbue their character with a level of deep, honest realism that should be the envy of plenty of actors many times their age. On top of that, they are incredibly expressive. Caroline, wise beyond her years, clearly knows the power of a pointed look, and she uses it on both her mother and grandmother to great comedic and emotional effect.

But the real star of the show, the crown into which each of these jewels is so finely set, is Allen’s script.

The show is essentially one long conversation. OK, a couple of conversations, but still. Nothing really... happens per se. And yet, so much happens. Caroline doesn't wow by charting a new path, by doing something experimental or bold; it wows by executing the fundamentals of excellent writing at an expert level. Show, don't tell. Three act structure. Iceberg theory. Raising the stakes. Even the casual student of theatre can see exactly what Allen is doing. It's like a Cacio e Pepe: everybody knows the recipe and none of the ingredients are special or exotic. But the execution, that is where the real challenge is. Execution is finicky, demanding, and difficult. Execution is everything. That’s especially true of realism like Caroline, as the smallest slip can shatter the illusion of the play's reality. I took a writing class once with the novelist Andrew Dubus, who always said that every writer needs a "built in, shock proof, bullshit detector" so that they can find and excise the bits of their drafts that do not ring true. Allen's bullshit detector is clearly in full working order, as every single word of Caroline echoes with a quiet and sometimes heartbreaking honesty. If I were teaching theatre at any level, I would want to teach this text. A Drama 100 class, an acting class, an intro to playwriting course–hell, an advanced playwriting course! There’s something for everybody. It’s that well done.

Allen's dialog is exceptionally natural. Not a single word is wasted; everything contributes to the building of these three characters so they feel deep, complex, and real. This is especially so with the title character. Caroline is an impressive, precocious young girl. But she is completely, believably, just a 9-year-old girl. What a tightrope Allen has managed to walk here. I also deeply appreciated how Allen writes Caroline's transness. It's the inciting incident of the play, of course, but beyond that, it just is. She's a cool, confident, little kid, who just happens to be trans. She's not "confident in her transness," she's just confident: genuinely, deeply self-assured. It's a credit to her fictional mother to be sure, but more than that it's a credit to Allen's writing.

Maddie likewise has impressive depth. It's incredible how much we see her growth in just 90 minutes. Allen gives us just enough glimpses into the fifteen year old girl she was years ago, the shame, the pain she still carries. But more than that, we see Maddie’s unkillable hope, her resolve to keep her daughter safe and healthy.

Rhea, too. Her abrupt turn, the unthinkable ultimatum she gives Maddie, is jarring. But I still found it truthful. I wanted to hate her for it–how could you do such a thing–but I couldn't. Because I could understand it, at least on some level. We see the decade of pain that she's endured. We see the empty, patched-over hole deep inside her, the lasting, unhealable wounds left by Maddie's struggles. And we see her love, for Maddie and for Caroline, despite it all. Even as we disagree with her choices almost to the point of hating her, we see her love.

It's impressive how much depth Allen has managed to pack into such a short script.

While all three performances are stellar, Caroline doesn't need to be elevated by stellar performances; it stands on its own. You could have a couple of bankers sit around a living room and read the script cold and it would still, on some level, work. That said, any of the trio could be taking home some award hardware at the end of the season, and Allen should without a doubt be in the Pulitzer conversation in 2026.

It's amazing how fast things can change, how rapidly situations can escalate, how a moment that will forever demarcate life into "before" and "after" can spring up without warning. For Maddie and Caroline, that moment comes a day or two before we meet them in the first scene. For Maddie and Rhea, that moment was years ago, when Maddie stole from her parents before running off for the second time. For Maddie alone, it's the moment that the neighborhood kids first got her high at fifteen years old. In Caroline, we watch the narrative dominos fall from start to finish with our hearts in our throats. Allen has crafted a meticulous, unbroken chain of cause and effect. He knows his characters intimately and trusts them to take the wheel. The result is simply great theatre, from end to end.