REVIEW: The Mad Ones
- Victoria Luxton (she/her)
- 1 hour ago
- 4 min read
Friday night at Qtopia, and Oxford Street is just beginning to hum. Inside, the space feels as
it always does, warm, intimate, quietly anticipatory. A plastic cup of sparkling in hand, I settle
in, already certain I’m in for something good. Kerrigan and Lowdermilk are the blueprint for a
certain kind of musical theatre kid, blue jeans, big feelings, unapologetic belts. For many of
us, their sound is foundational. This score feels like home territory. YES. Let’s go.
We’re greeted by a striking visual. A red, beat-up car planted centre stage. It is an ambitious
piece of set. Cars on stage are notoriously unwieldy, often more obstacle than asset, but
here it immediately grounds the world. This is a story about driving, about motion and
momentum, about the intoxicating freedom of youth and the shadow that follows it. Around it,
shards of dark, reflective material hang suspended, catching the light at sharp angles. My
theatre date whispers it first, debris. The aftermath of something. A crash, perhaps. It is an
image that lingers.
At its core, The Mad Ones is a coming-of-age story refracted through memory. Samantha
Brown, played by Meg Robinson, sits at a crossroads, both literal and emotional, poised to
decide whether to follow the safe, expected path laid out before her or veer into something
unknown. She is pulled in competing directions, by her well-meaning mother Beverly, by her
steady boyfriend Adam, and most powerfully by the memory of her best friend Kelly.
Kelly, played by Teo Vergara, does not simply exist in recollection. They interrupt, provoke,
and push. They are ever-present, needling Sam forward, dragging her out of indecision and
into confrontation with herself. What unfolds is less a linear narrative and more a fractured
emotional landscape. Grief tangled with joy, friendship blurring into something deeper, and
an internal queer awakening that feels both inevitable and terrifying.
Under Sarah Campbell’s direction, the relationship between Sam and Kelly is rendered with
remarkable care. Robinson and Vergara share a chemistry that feels immediate and
essential to the success of the piece. Every moment of almost-contact is charged. A brushed
arm, a fleeting touch, a pause that lingers just a second too long. These are small choices,
but they land. You can feel Sam blushing, feel the hesitation, the curiosity, the pull toward
something not yet named. It is in these subtleties that the production finds its emotional truth,
and the audience leans in with them.
Vocally, the pair deliver exactly what this score demands and what audiences hope for. Big,
open, all-American belts that soar without strain, grounded in clarity of storytelling.
Individually they are exceptional, together they blend like a dream. Their duets feel lived-in,
instinctive, and deeply connected, capturing the kind of friendship that is both expansive and
consuming.
Ethan Malacaria’s Adam, the ever-reliable boyfriend, brings a gentler energy to the stage.
He has the privilege of delivering one of the score’s most quietly affecting numbers, and he
resists the urge to overplay it. Instead, he leans into stillness, into warmth, into the simplicity
of the character. There is something undeniably familiar in his portrayal, safe, steady,
uncomplicated. It is a contrast that works beautifully against the emotional volatility
elsewhere in the piece. Oh, teen boys.
Tisha Keleman’s Beverly arrives as both comic relief and emotional anchor. An overbearing,
high-expectation mother who wants the best for her daughter, Beverly could easily tip into
caricature, but Keleman keeps her grounded in recognisable truth. Her solo, unpacking the differing expectations placed on young women and men, lands with clarity and bite. The
pressure to succeed, to prove, to stay focused, to not be derailed by love or distraction, is
articulated with precision, and it resonates.
Keleman delivers like a diva when it counts, but it is her control of tone that impresses most.
One raised eyebrow can have the audience spitting out their sparkling, yet moments later
she pivots, and the room shifts with her. The arguments between Beverly and Sam are
among the most affecting in the piece. Directed with a kind of restraint that allows the text
and the actors to take centre stage, these scenes do not feel heightened or theatrical for the
sake of it. They feel lived. Raw. By the end, there is a collective effort in the room to hold it
together. I know I was not the only one blinking away hot tears.
It is also worth noting the accent work across the production. It is consistently strong, and
crucially unobtrusive. In a piece so rooted in a specific American idiom, this level of detail
elevates the world rather than distracting from it, and it is not something to take for granted.
The challenges of not having the band physically in the room prove no obstacle for The Little
Big Theatre Co. The sound is full, supportive, and alive in all the ways it needs to be. In a
city where independent musical theatre can feel like an uphill battle, this kind of work
matters. It matters that companies like this keep going, keep making, keep insisting on the
value of the form. It is not easy. It is, however, essential. We love to see it. I love to see it.
This is a story about love, but not just romantic love. It asks what it means to lose someone
who shaped you, to outgrow versions of yourself, and to choose a future that does not come
with guarantees. Is it about the loss of a friendship, the loss of a first love, or the loss of
certainty itself? Perhaps all of the above.
Get in and see it before the season sells out, you won’t regret it. Be sure to get your tickets to see The Mad Ones playing at Qtopia's Loading Dock until the 16th of May!
