Anthony Alfaro (Photo: Julieta Cervantes)
The Potluck
By Julia Polinsky on July 21, 2026
Trauma exists; never doubt it. Dealing with trauma impels a lot of art, and many artists weave their lives, and their wounds, into their work. Sometimes, that makes super theater; sometimes, it feels like that time and care could have been better used. The time and care and thought and work and dedication that went into The Potluck, the new musical produced by Soho Rep/INTAR and now at Playwrights Horizons through August 2, definitely mines trauma for art.
The Potluck spends the first act in a whirl of self-doubt, self-questioning, waffling self-reference. Even under Sarah Benson’s capable direction, the first act confuses and even alienates some of the audience. Which is a pity, because the performance is so heartfelt. But. Ouch. This one hurts.
The Potluck is both about and written by César James Alvarez, a non-binary playwright/musician who got a grant to write a musical about their traumatic life and now can’t figure out how to do it. Alas, The Potluck teaches an object lesson in how not to tell a story: pitch to a foundation, get a commission, discover you actually have to write the show when you really, really don’t know what to say or how to say it, then waffle for an hour or so, to music. You can also spend the second act working out your non-binary identity issues, managing to connect them to your childhood trauma, accompanied by the ghosts of the Greensboro 5.
Anthony Alfaro (Photo: Julieta Cervantes)
Addressing the audience directly, our main character, César, is the stand-in for César James Alvarez, the author of the show. Alvarez was born a year after the Greensboro Massacre in 1979, when the Klan and the American Nazi Party killed five protesters. César’s parents, although they were not at the massacre, were very close to two of the dead, and named César for their friends.
César (the character, played by Anthony Alfaro) spends considerable time kvetching about writing. Face it: procrastination is by definition tedious. There’s no story here, other than “my parents just missed a terrible experience and their guilt got hung around my neck for the rest of my life and I feel bad.” That’s not a plot; it might excite a plot, though. Alvarez tries, oh how he tries, to dramatize writer’s block, but let’s be frank: writer’s block is even more tedious than writing. This show seems, at first, doomed.
Except! While César’s working out what to write, they interact with Moss, an intern (the wonderful Jasmine Rafael) who is even more cynical than César. There’s lots of exposition and explanation, and a fairly devastating video of the Massacre itself (video design from Stefania Bulbarella), which is so clearly not a postmodern recreation that it’s hard to watch (audience members can choose to wait it out in the lobby). And the stage houses several first-rate musicians. Say it loud: the musicians are super. Wonderful. (They double as the Greensboro 5).
Zack Segel, Gían Pérez, Dionne McClain-Freeney, Jacob Brandt, Andrew R. Butler (Photo: Julieta Cervantes)
The look of the show invites fracturing (scenic designer and spiritual advisor: Emily Orling). To the left, a kitchen setup where César’s parents talk and cook; back and both sides, musicians and their instruments; to the right, toward the front, a desk, where César writes (or tries to), all enclosed with a beautiful blue/red/fluorescent paint-spatter background. Costumes from Qween Jean hit the 1970s vibe just right for the Greensboro 5 and help César discover themself as they explore their non-binary nature. Lighting from Mextly Couzin comes across as a little hit or miss, but Eamon Goodman’s sound design is splendid.
Alfaro himself is a ridiculously talented singer and has dance moves to die for. When things get interesting toward the end of Act 1, as César and Moss hold a séance and it works, the ghosts of the Greensboro 5 (the people killed in the massacre: Jim (Jacob Brandt), Bill (Andrew R. Butler), Sandi (Dionne McClain- Freeney), Cesar (Gían Pérez), and Mike (Zack Segel) come to the forefront. The first act closer is the first time the show comes together, with the ghosts/protesters/musicians uniting to sing.
The second act deals more with Cesar’s coming to the realization of their non-binary nature; in effect, the whole show is a giant “who am I?” moment, dealing with uniting separate elements into a whole. Between bearing the weight of the names of the beloved dead, and their political dreams, and being the gender-fluid person they are, César makes his art and connects to his past.
The Potluck’s title comes from the massacre survivors’ annual get together to have potluck paella. Both Césars, the character and the author, use the idea of a shared meal, shared music, and shared time to which everyone contributes, as a metaphor for the state of the world. We create together; we share what we create. In the teeth of politics, identity, murder, and the passage of time, we can each give a little something to one another. Sometimes, it’s questions or music or doubt. Sometimes, it’s names. Sometimes, it’s a bite of paella.
At the Peter Jay Sharp Theater at Playwrights Horizons
416 W 42nd St.
Running time: 2 hours, 30 minutes, one intermission
Through August 2, 2026
