The Broadway Theatre Review: A cult classic struts back into Studio 54 with polish, mischief, and a knowing wink
By Ross
“On the day I went away, goodbye
Was all I had to say, now I
I want to come again and stay.”
The first time I encountered “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” I was not reclined comfortably in a theatre seat, ready to take in a spectacle. I was seventeen years old, nervously gripping a flashlight at a small one-screen movie house in London, Ontario, bracing myself for a night I had been warned could spiral into chaos. I had been told to watch for people climbing onto the stage to “Toucha toucha toucha touch” the screen, to be ready to stop flames sparked from lighters held aloft during “there’s a light,” and to expect a kind of audience behaviour that felt completely foreign and insane to this young Canadian teenage boy. Thankfully, none of those disasters arrived on that dark and stormy night near the Frankenstein castle, but something far more lasting did. That night, standing in the back of the auditorium, I watched a room transform into a living, breathing orgasm of sound, ritual, and unrestrained expression. I did not yet know the show’s history or cultural footprint, but I felt its pull immediately, and that rubber-gloved grip has never quite let go.
Returning now, many decades later, to the 2026 Broadway revival of The Rocky Horror Show at Studio 54, that personal history hums just beneath the surface. Directed by Sam Pinkleton (Broadway’s Oh, Mary!), this production arrives with a clear understanding of the property’s legacy, not only as a stage musical that premiered in London in 1973 but as a global phenomenon shaped as much by its audiences as by its creators. With music, lyrics, and book by Richard O’Brien, the show has long existed at the intersection of camp, counterculture, and sexual liberation. This revival leans into that lineage, inviting us into a world that is both carefully constructed and knowingly unruly.
From the “thrill me, chill me, fulfil me” outset, the tone is unmistakable. Juliette Lewis (Scorsese’s “Cape Fear“), serving as a fierce and fabulous off-kilter usherette, pulls us into the evening with a knowing wink and grin that signals exactly what kind of ride this will be. When two one-eyed, feathered creatures make their decadent entrance, the effect is immediate and electric, a visual and tonal echo of those iconic red lips, now reimagined with a live, prowling theatricality. The audience responds with palpable hunger, lapping it up like starved devotees finally let loose on a glass of party punch and a slab of meatloaf. It is camp, celebrity, and gleeful deviance served with a confident flourish.
Standing tall at the center of the production, Luke Evans (West End’s Backstairs Billy) as the iconic Dr. Frank-N-Furter makes a striking and confident Broadway debut. His performance leans into a playful charisma, supported by a powerful and resonant singing voice that finds its strongest footing in “I’m Going Home.” His Frank is less aloof tyrant and more seductive ringmaster, inviting us in rather than holding us at bay. Around him, the ensemble brings a clear sense of joy in the material. Andrew Durand and Stephanie Hsu, as Brad and Janet, strike an especially effective balance, grounding their characters’ wide-eyed absurdity with sharp comedic timing that never tips into parody. Their journey feels cleanly drawn and smart, giving the narrative a much-needed spine.
Rachel Dratch (Broadway’s POTUS) offers a dry, deadpan Narrator that threads the evening together with understated precision, while Amber Gray contributes to a company that clearly relishes the material. As the iconic Rocky, Josh Rivera (Spielberg’s “West Side Story“) emerges as a buoyant and unexpectedly endearing presence, balancing physicality with a childlike openness. Elsewhere, the results are more uneven. Michaela Jaé Rodriguez (“Saturday Church“) and Harvey Guillén (“Companion“) bring undeniable presence, but their interpretations, alongside moments like the choreography of Ani Taj (Audible’s Dead Outlaw) in “Time Warp,” feel as though they are pushing hard to carve out distinction from the film’s shadow. The effort is visible, but the result leans more chaotic than fully shaped, missing some of the precision that allows the number to land with its usual infectious clarity. Not every reinvention needs to announce itself quite so loudly.
The production delivers its visuals with unapologetic flair. The scenic design by dots (Broadway’s Appropriate) creates an immersive world that blends splattered black-painted haunted-house decay with red-tinted sci-fi excess, extending into the theatre with an almost conspiratorial wink. A wickedly helmed car glides Brad and Janet through the space, a forest of shifting tree cutouts closing in with eerie playfulness, and toy-castle lights dot the theatre like invitations into the madness, making the audience feel deliciously implicated in the dead-of-night proceedings. David I. Reynoso‘s fiendishly delicious costumes are a particular triumph, from Frank-N-Furter’s spectacular nurse ensemble to Rocky’s cheeky, non-traditional onesie, and the decadent flair of Magenta and her usherette. It is all fabulously excessive in exactly the way it needs to be.
That sense of control [“Slut“] extends to the handling of audience participation. This production acknowledges the tradition while setting clearer boundaries, creating space for interaction without allowing it to overtake the performance. It plays like a negotiation, a shared rhythm between audience and actors, occasionally pausing just long enough for a delectable and defiant callback to land [“Asshole!“] before pressing forward again. It does not always hit that elusive sweet spot, but the attempt becomes part of the evening’s charm.
As this surprisingly tight, quick two-hour show progresses, the energy softens slightly in the second act, and the pacing loses some of its early momentum. The production’s polished sheen and affectionate nod to nostalgia occasionally temper the raw, unruly spirit that has long defined the material. Fortunately, the core remains intact. Brad and Janet’s journey into a world that dismantles and reshapes their understanding of identity and the meaning of propriety still carries weight, buoyed by an infectious score that continues to pulse with rebellious energy.
“Don’t dream it, be it,” and sitting in that theatre, I found myself reminiscing back to that first night in 1981, standing scared in the shadows with no idea what I was about to witness. The surroundings have changed, the edges have been smoothed, and the chaos now moves with a more deliberate hand, but the invitation to sexual freedom and enlightenment remains. It is still a door left slightly ajar and a step to the right, still a space where curiosity meets performance with your hands on your hips, and where bringing your knees in tight still feels like a small act of release. That familiar shiver of antici…pation, equal parts excitement and uncertainty, continues to flicker through the experience, and it is that sensation that keeps The Rocky Horror Show very much alive and dancing.
