Review: Confronting the Past and Challenging the Present - West End Productions’ Red Velvet

West End Productions’ of Lolita Chakrabarti's

Red Velvet is the kind of theater experience that lingers in your chest long after the lights come up — uncomfortable in the best way, emotionally draining, and deeply necessary. The play dramatizes the true story of Ira Aldridge, the groundbreaking Black American actor who, in 1833, played Othello on a London stage, when Black performers were excluded from serious roles. What unfolds is not just a period piece, but a painful examination of talent colliding with prejudice, ego, fear, and the fragile politics of “how things have always been done.” Watching them bring this story to life feels less like viewing history and more like holding a mirror to the present.

From the opening moments, the cast establishes a rhythm that feels organic. Dialogue overlaps naturally, conversations breathe, and the ensemble operates with the kind of trust that only comes from actors listening to each other. There is a palpable connection onstage — not just professional competence, but genuine interplay that makes the stakes feel real. When Ira is introduced, the audience reaction is exactly what you anticipate, and the company handles that tension masterfully. The difference in how he is perceived is unmistakable, though the characters press forward, as if normalcy can be maintained, a denial that becomes its own form of commentary.

Sebastien Moulton’s Henry Foster quickly became one of my favorite characters in the production. There is a warmth and decency to him that cuts through the awkwardness surrounding Aldridge’s arrival. Foster recognizes immediately that Aldridge’s race will overshadow his brilliance in the eyes of others, yet his focus remains on the artistry itself. He is the rare figure more interested in what the performance could be than in what controversy it might stir — a quiet ally whose kindness feels both genuine and tragically limited.

David Yakubik’s Charles Kean, on the other hand, embodies institutional resistance with chilling accuracy. He is not a cartoon villain; he is far more unsettling than that. He represents the comfortable majority opinion, the voice that insists tradition is sacred simply because it exists. His worldview — that the stage, like society, should not change — prioritizes personal comfort over excellence, familiarity over evolution. Yakubik captures that smug certainty so well that you almost understand why such thinking has endured for centuries, even as you recoil from it.

Philip J. Shortell (Terence/Bernard Wade) carries many of the same traditional ideals as Charles, shaped by long-held social norms, yet there is a noticeable openness to at least consider something different. He isn’t a bold advocate for change, but also isn’t immovable. Shortell plays this middle ground with subtlety, suggesting an internal struggle between what he has always believed and what he is witnessing. It leaves an impression because he represents the possibility that even deeply rooted beliefs can shift, offering a glimpse of how an older generation might start to confront and reconsider its certainties.

Versai Knight brings an electric presence to Ellen Tree, delivering brightness and flair laced with a darker underbelly. She is the stage diva, fully aware of the power of performance and willing to amplify drama when it serves her purpose. Yet she also understands the craft deeply. Her scenes with Ira strike a fascinating balance between showmanship and authenticity — two performers negotiating not just character but survival.

As director Pierre Laporte, Parked Owen takes the audience on a frustrating emotional roller coaster. Initially, he appears to be the champion of progress, someone willing to risk backlash for artistic integrity. For a time, you want to believe in him. Then fear creeps in. When he ultimately aligns himself with the board and retreats into self-preservation, the betrayal lands hard. It is not loud or explosive; it is quietly devastating, a disappointment that feels too familiar.

Maria Latiolais demonstrates a remarkable range by inhabiting three separate roles with clarity and strength, most notably as Margaret, Ira’s devoted wife. Her Margaret provides grounding and emotional support without ever slipping into passivity. You sense the cost of this journey on her as well — the worry, the pride, the knowledge that success for Ira could come with consequences neither of them can control.

Marcus Ivey’s portrayal of Aldridge is the gravitational center of the entire production. He is statuesque and painfully aware of the scrutiny surrounding him. What makes the performance so gripping is not just his authority, but his vulnerability. Ivey allows us to see the exhaustion beneath the dignity, the frustration of having to justify one’s presence before even being allowed to demonstrate talent. When Aldridge speaks his truth, it is not with reckless anger but with the weary determination of someone who has fought this battle too many times. By the final moments, the emotional toll is almost unbearable. You feel his humiliation, his rage, his heartbreak — and the audience carries that weight with him.

Nicee Brown’s Connie serves as a powerful external lens on the action. Often silent, she observes the behavior of her white counterparts with an awareness that says everything words cannot. She recognizes the disrespect aimed at Ira and understands that advancement for one Black performer does not automatically translate into acceptance. Her presence is a reminder of the narrow roles historically imposed on Black actors - servants, background figures - people expected to remain invisible unless needed for someone else’s story.

Several moments in the production stand out with haunting clarity. A simple kiss of the hand triggers an exaggerated reaction from the company, revealing how fragile their composure truly is. Ellen and Ira play the moment with restraint, grounding it in emotional truth, while the rest of the class countered with hysteria, exposes the absurdity of the outrage. Later, the scene in which reviews are read aloud is absolutely crushing. The language used — even within the safe distance of a play — is so vicious that it steals the air from the room. You can feel the audience collectively recoil.

At its core, the production is a study in fear of change. The idea of a Black man playing Othello — a role now most famously associated with Black performers — is treated as scandalous, even dangerous. Professionalism, tradition, and artistic standards become shields for prejudice. The ending is devastating, revealing that alliances are fragile when reputations are at risk and even a great actor can be pushed toward diminishing himself just to survive.

Watching this in our current cultural climate feels c extremely potent. We are living through our own period of division, and this production underscores how much work still needs to be done. Our artists continue to serve as educators, truth-tellers, and emotional translators, whether audiences realize it or not. I have not cried this much in a theater since Musical Theatre Southwest’s production of Bare.

Ultimately, Red Velvet is a story about risking everything for the possibility of progress, about challenging the rigid boundaries of “how things are done,” and about discovering brilliance in places society once refused to look. The outrage that greeted Aldridge’s casting as Othello reminds us how radical inclusion once seemed — and how ordinary it feels now. That contrast is both encouraging and sobering.

Yes, we have come far, but this production makes it clear that the journey toward true equity in the arts — and beyond — is far from over. If you see any performance over the next few weeks, make it this one. Fill every seat! Go in ready to learn, to reflect, and to feel — because you will absolutely feel something.

West End Productions’ of Lolita Chakrabarti's

Red Velvet