The Wizard of Oz at CTC: A Review

The Wizard of Oz, directed by Rick Dildine, is currently playing at the Children’s Theatre Company in Minneapolis on the UnitedHealth Group Stage. Adapted from The Wizard of Oz, the production features music direction by Victor Zupanc and choreography by Christopher Windom. Designed as an all-ages theatrical experience, the show brings a familiar story to a younger audience.

There is a moment early in the production that captures its ambition: Dorothy’s house lifts into a swirling, tornado-like projection, a kind of holographic image that carries her into Oz before landing, famously, on the Wicked Witch of the East. It’s visually inventive, and for a brief stretch, it feels like anything might be possible.

That sense of theatrical magic returns whenever Glinda appears. Descending from above on a trapeze-like rig, surrounded by a glowing circle of light, she brings a calm, almost otherworldly presence to the stage.

Elsewhere, the pacing is less certain. The first half lingers on extended sequences with the townspeople, which seem to dilute the momentum. In a show so closely associated with its central trio, the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion, it’s noticeable when those characters take a back seat. For a production aimed at younger audiences, that imbalance can feel especially pronounced, since keeping children engaged requires momentum, and prolonged focus on secondary material can cause that energy to dip.

When those familiar characters do take center stage, the energy lifts. The Cowardly Lion, in particular, draws some of the biggest reactions. His playful bravado, especially in moments where he attempts to prove his toughness, lands as genuinely funny, and the audience of children clearly connects with his goofy confidence.

The Scarecrow, in particular, delivered a strong performance. You could really feel his personality come through, and there were moments where his movement, especially rising from a low, grounded position into standing using a turf-like dance technique to get to his feet, was striking, expressive, and highly effective.

The ensemble work is another highlight. Musical numbers are tightly executed, with choreography that feels synchronized and fluid as townspeople move in and out of scenes. There’s a strong sense of coordination across the stage, and at moments you can feel the audience responding to familiar musical cues and rhythms, which adds to the shared energy in the room.

There were also moments where the production could have pushed further, particularly in its pacing and sense of humor. A slightly more relaxed rhythm in certain scenes might have allowed stronger acting beats to land more clearly, especially if the production leaned into more playful “winks” or acknowledgments to the audience. Given that the staging already includes inventive moments like Glinda’s descent on a trapeze-like rig, there is room for more consistent use of theatrical effects or design choices that might heighten the sense of spectacle even further. At times, the overall visual approach feels relatively minimal. In scenes where Dorothy’s house is referenced, the staging sometimes relies primarily on projections with sparse farm materials in the foreground, which can soften the impact of the iconic image of the house being swept into the sky.

The frequent visual shifts from story moments into projection-heavy staging often feel like resets rather than continuous transitions. Instead of building seamlessly from one environment to the next, the production sometimes appears to restart visually with each scene change. This can also affect how performances land, as attention is repeatedly redirected toward new visual environments before character work has time to fully register.

Not all elements come through as clearly. At times, the sound design feels uneven, with moments where voices don’t fully resonate in the space.

Dorothy anchors the production with a steady presence, though the performance remains somewhat understated.

Ultimately, this is a production that shines in flashes, through visual effects, standout character work, and moments of stagecraft that gesture toward something more immersive. But those highlights are occasionally slowed by pacing choices and uneven technical execution.

The Wizard of Oz continues at the Children’s Theatre Company through June 14, 2026.

Four World Premieres at Luminary Arts Center:a review

 The program at Luminary Arts Center on Saturday, April 19 at 2 p.m. brings together a range of choreographic voices, including works by Shane Larson and Assaf Salhov, performed by the ARENA DANCES company. The afternoon situates itself within a contemporary framework that blends structured composition with moments of improvisational feeling, drawing from multiple musical and cultural influences.

The program unfolds through shifting atmospheres of light, sound, and collective movement, where dancers often emerge from near-darkness before dissolving back into it. Faces disappear, leaving the body, and the surrounding soundscape, to carry the weight of expression. This interplay creates an environment where perception feels slightly altered, as if the audience is being asked to listen as much as to watch.

One of the most striking motifs is a recurring sense of suspension and trust. Dancers launch themselves into one another’s arms, bodies held horizontally in midair before being caught, evoking the instinctive leap of a child seeking safety. The feeling stays with me, as the repeated trust-fall moments suggest dependence and a search for footing within a world that often feels sonically unsettled. The dissonant, radio-like textures in the score heighten this tension, as if clarity is always just out of reach.

In Fishscale, choreographed by Shane Larson, the structure appears to follow a sequence of musical chapters, “Overture,” “10 years,” “Chess,” “Quick departure,” “Where am I gonna land?”, and “Immunity.” These function as compositional sections rather than separate dances, each marking a shift in tone or pacing. The title suggests layering and protection, something textured and overlapping, mirrored in the way movement accumulates and sheds across the work.

The Fold, by Assaf Salhov, draws on a diverse musical landscape, including selections by Béla Bartók and Getatchew Mekurya. At times, the choreography references elements of Ethiopian traditional dance, particularly in moments of quick, rhythmic shoulder isolations and head movements, gestures reminiscent of eskista, known for its intricate upper-body articulation. These sequences carry a grounded vitality, contrasting with passages where performers roll across the stage in continuous, wave-like motion, creating momentum that travels from one body to the next.

A vivid section unfolds under a deep crimson backdrop, accompanied by the sound of children’s voices, curious, questioning, and unguarded. The layering of these voices with fluctuating, tuning-like sounds evokes a sense of discovery, as though the piece briefly inhabits a child’s perceptual world. Elsewhere, dancers gaze upward into an unseen light source, as if responding to a distant opening beyond the stage, something luminous and just out of reach, inviting both wonder and uncertainty.

Throughout the performance, the interplay between individuality and ensemble remains central. Whether in moments of stillness, subtle gesture, or full-bodied propulsion across space, the dancers navigate a shared landscape that feels at once intimate and expansive. The result lingers less as a fixed narrative and more as a series of impressions, textural, emotional, and quietly resonant.

Sunday Blog post

 This week felt like a sprint, one thing after another, no real gaps in between.

Earlier in the week I volunteered at Peace House, a soup kitchen on Franklin in South Minneapolis, showed up, did what needed to be done, then moved on to the next thing. I felt a little bit anxious being there, not in a bad way, just aware of everything going on around me, so I ended up writing a story about it afterward to process it.

I kept going to the gym every day, no breaks, just part of the routine at this point.

I made time to sit at the Eagan Library so I could write in between everything else, just plotting myself there for a bit to get words down before heading back out.

Friday started early, dropping my son off at school in the morning, it looked beautiful outside, clear, calm, almost like a perfect morning, and then within an hour the rain started. Later I went to the Eagan YMCA and it got so dark outside it looked like nighttime through the windows. I remember walking through the gym and looking out thinking something was off, like the whole day had shifted.

At some point I picked up a passenger driving for Uber in North Minneapolis, didn’t recognize her at first at all.We worked together at Robbinsdale Farm and Garden (Robbinsdale in one of Minnesota’s most historical towns). We started talking, and I remembered she lived a block away from where I grew up. We weren’t close back then but we knew a lot of the same people, so we just kept going back and forth naming people, remembering things, connecting everything.

We drove through a hailstorm while all this was happening, and I had to pull off the exit ramp from the highway to be safe and we just kept talking about childhood and people we hadn’t thought about in years. She mentioned how Facebook feels like a ghost town now, which felt true.

She was going to her mom’s house, same house, still there on Girard, just a block from where I used to live. I dropped her off and almost immediately got another passenger a few blocks away, took that ride all the way back to West St. Paul where I live(such a coincidence!) . Right after that I got on the phone with my younger brother, he knew the girl from the neighborhood too, and we started connecting even more dots, naming more people from back then, building out the web of who knew who in that neighborhood.

It rained on and off all day, at least five different times, starting in the morning and continuing through everything. After that last ride the weather cleared up almost immediately but I was so wiped out,I picked my son up from school and went to bed.

On Saturday afternoon, I went to the Luminary Arts Center to see Arena Dances, the space is right next to the Minnesota Opera and Acme Comedy, everything kind of clustered together, easy to move between spots, different kinds of energy all in the same area. The event itself was loud, fast, a lot going on.

Then I went to a spontaneous theater event at the Central Library in Minneapolis where we wrote monologues for writers and then watched actors perform them right there, write it, hand it off, see it acted out immediately. I got lucky with timing because I was already downtown, drove over and found parking about two minutes away. Parking downtown can be like a needle in a haystack with metered spots, but this time I got in and out easily and kept the energy going.

Rideshare client and ptsd

I had a rideshare. Liner who told me about her daughter who had been in the military overseas during the war. She said there was an incident where two of her daughter’s comrades jumped out of a plane and their parachutes never opened, and after that her daughter really changed. She said it led to a lot of PTSD and a sadness that kind of stayed with her.

And I told her, yeah, I understand that more than people think. I went back to something I said earlier about my father, how I would describe him as “angrier than shit,” like he was carrying that military weight in him all the time and it would just come out in different ways. And she said, “yeah, that military experience, it affects the whole family,” not just the person who went through it.

I also told her about another passenger I had picked up before who said she actually received benefits because of PTSD from both of her parents being in the military, so it really runs through families in a way people don’t always talk about.

Then she shifted back to her daughter and told me she’s actually doing well now—living in Washington, running her own hair salons, and even getting ready to have her business advertised on a billboard. And I said, “that must be a proud moment for you.” And she was like, “yeah, it is, but I wish she was here. I don’t like the idea of my grandkids growing up without seeing their grandma.”

They had gone through about 10 years where they didn’t talk, mostly because her daughter had trouble opening up emotionally, but she said they’re on good terms now and she’s really happy about that.

And I told her, yeah, that’s really what matters, just being able to talk again and have that connection in the present.

I think moments like that are why I like these rides. People end up sharing parts of their lives they probably don’t say out loud that often, and for a short time, you’re just there listening. Sometimes that’s enough.

 

The First Thing I Said Was “I’m Really Anxious”: My First Day Volunteering at Peace House

Walking into Peace House in South Minneapolis, I thought I needed a role. Instead, I learned what it means to simply show up.

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When I first arrived in South Minneapolis, I couldn’t even find parking. My GPS kept looping me around, making it seem like the building was a mile away when really it was right there the whole time, and by the time I finally parked, I was already overwhelmed. Outside, there were people digging through a trash can, trash scattered across the ground, and I remember thinking, what am I walking into?

When I stepped inside, the first thing I said to the volunteer was, “I’m really anxious right now.” I didn’t even try to hide it. I needed something—someone—to attach my mind to, just to steady my racing heart.

At first, I didn’t understand what I was supposed to do there. I had come thinking I might learn how to cut hair, but there was no one there to teach me, and I kept wondering what I was even doing there, what volunteers actually do in a place like this. One of the women told me, “If you’re not doing something like hair, you’re here to listen. To be a presence. To be a kind of friendship.” But the room didn’t feel still enough for that. People were constantly coming in and out, grabbing food, talking, leaving again, like dozens within the hour, and it felt chaotic in a way that made it hard to imagine sitting down and really knowing anyone.

She showed me around anyway. There was a wall of volunteer photos, and she mentioned, “Sometimes people just take their pictures down.” Then she brought me to a back room with shelves of hygiene items and clothing, and told me, “If something’s missing, I’ll go to the thrift store with my daughter and pick it up.” Shoes, small essentials, things that might not seem like much but clearly mattered. That stayed with me because she was already volunteering her time and still finding ways to give more. There was also a place where people could charge their phones, and that detail hit me in a very practical way—of course, if you’re less housed, where do you charge your phone, where do you keep anything steady for even a few hours?

We sat down and she offered me food, and I said yes, mostly because I needed something to focus on besides how anxious I still felt. Later she told me, “You did a really good job regulating yourself by the time we sat down,” which surprised me because it didn’t feel like I had done anything intentional, just that sitting helped.

We started talking about her past as a substitute teacher, and she said none of this made her anxious compared to what she had seen before, like students throwing chairs or situations that felt unpredictable in a different way. I told her, “I had a small student jump on me once and beg me not to call her mom that day.” Another volunteer nearby laughed and said, “Yeah, you’ll be lucky if you see me for the next eleven days after this,” and we all laughed, and it felt like a moment where I could actually exhale.

At some point, I could tell she thought I’d be capable of doing this kind of volunteer work. Maybe she says that to everyone, because it’s obvious they need people, but it still made me pause and think about whether this was something I could actually do.

I started thinking about why I felt drawn to this space at all. My own mother was less housed for a long time, and even saying that out loud felt complicated, like something I wasn’t sure how to place. But I’m starting to understand that it shapes the way I see places like this—not because I share the same circumstances, but because something in me recognizes it, or feels close to it in a way I can’t fully explain.

Later, I sat with a woman who had bright purple hair, curled carefully, and she told me, “I did it myself.” We talked for a few minutes about hair, about how important it is to feel put together, to feel confident as a woman, and it was such a small, light conversation, but it felt real in a way that didn’t ask anything from either of us.

Before I left, the volunteer explained more about what people could offer there. She said, “You’d be surprised—people can give as much as a nail cut. Or help identify wounds and point someone toward a free clinic. A lot of people who are less housed don’t know where to go, how to get insurance, or what resources are even available. Sometimes they just need someone to advocate for them.” That stayed with me too, the idea that something as simple as knowledge—something I might take for granted—could actually be a form of care.

I also couldn’t stop thinking about the food. Something as simple as a tortilla, some lettuce, and refried beans. It didn’t feel like enough, not for a grown person trying to get through a day, and it made me think about how there are still gaps, not just in presence but in resources, in funding, in what people are able to give.

I don’t know yet if I’ll volunteer there again. But I do know that places like Peace House matter. They matter because they offer something steady in the middle of instability, a place to sit, to eat, to charge a phone, to be seen, even briefly. And I think there are more ways to contribute than most people realize. Not everyone knows how to cut hair—I don’t—but maybe someone can trim nails, or recognize an infection, or share information about a clinic, or help someone understand how to get insurance. Those are not small things. If anything, this experience made me realize that giving back doesn’t always look like a big, obvious act. Sometimes it looks like noticing what you already know and offering it to someone who needs it. And maybe the city doesn’t just need more places like this, maybe it needs more people willing to see that they already have something to give.