The Off-Broadway Theatre Review:
A bruising and intimate story of siblings learning how to stay
By Ross
A silence settles into a theatre just before you get hit. A shared stillness where we collectively lean inward at the same time. Then the reverberations of the boxing ring hit our senses before we understand the battle unfolding in front of us. The sounds feel internal, as all else disappears except for his heartbeat, his breathing, and the thud of feet hitting the boxing room mat. It is the sound of a confrontation shaped by history. That vibration is felt early on in the new play, The Monsters, at New York City Center Stage II, and the shared sense of danger never really retreats.
Tension and confrontation wrap around the play like Ace bandages on a few vulnerable joints. As written and directed by Ngozi Anyanwu (Good Grief), protection and defence live and breathe within those vibrations in this 95-minute, one-act two-hander. The play is a gripping, deeply felt exploration of estranged siblings as they attempt to navigate their way back to one another. It is a story shaped by trauma, absence, and the complicated language of survival, told through the physical vocabulary of Mixed Martial Arts and the retraining of the heart as much as the body.
In the center ring of this play are “Big” and “Lil,” played with striking intensity by Okieriete Onaodowan (Broadway’s A Doll’s House) and Aigner Mizzelle (Broadway’s Chicken and Biscuits). Years after being orphaned and, in many ways, abandoned, Lil tracks down her older brother, now a hardened and locally celebrated MMA fighter who has embraced his reputation as a “monster.” It’s written across his back, courtesy of costume designer Mika Eubanks (LCT’s Flex), and etched just as clearly in his eyes. What follows is less a family reunion than a wary circling, as both siblings test the space between them. “Oh shit, what has it been? 15 years?” is quickly followed by “What do you need?” and “I don’t owe you shit.” It is tension and mistrust wrapped tightly over need, with both unsure whether they are stepping toward connection or bracing for impact.
Onaodowan delivers a performance that is tightly coiled and fiercely guarded. His “Big” moves through the world as if every interaction carries the possibility of attack. His body is constantly prepared to defend or strike. Mizzelle’s “Lil” arrives with a different kind of volatility, driven by longing but masked as bravado. Her attempts at reconnection often land with the awkward force of someone who has not yet relearned how to be close, or how to truly let someone in. Together, they create a dynamic that feels at once dangerous and deeply recognizable.
Their performances are matched by the production’s striking physical language. With choreography by Rickey Tripp (Broadway’s A Wonderful World…) and fight direction by Gerry Rodriguez (Broadway’s Appropriate), and further grounded by training from former UFC fighter Sijara Eubanks, the movement within the piece becomes its own form of dialogue. The fights are not simply displays of skill but expressions of history, memory, and emotional residue. Each strike, each defensive stance, carries the weight of everything left unsaid.
The design elements reinforce this sense of immersion. Andrew Boyce’s sparse, gym-like set, lit tightly by Cha See (Broadway’s Liberation), creates an arena that feels both literal and psychological, a space where confrontation is inevitable, and care, questionable. The sound design by Mikaal Sulaiman (MTC’s Cost of Living) is particularly effective, establishing a visceral atmosphere from the outset. The reverberations of the ring seem to echo through the body, creating a sonic landscape where breath, heartbeat, and impact blur together into something almost internal.
What emerges most powerfully, though, is the emotional rhythm between the siblings. Their reunion is marked by defensiveness and hesitation, a series of verbal and physical dodges that mirror the mechanics of a familiar fight. Simple questions carry enormous weight. “Did you miss me?” lingers in the air as both an accusation and a plea. The answer is never offered plainly, yet it is present in every glance, every retreat, every moment where one of them almost reaches out before pulling back.
Fragments of their shared past begin to surface as the rounds progress. We see glimpses of the children they once were, the ease and affection that existed before everything became so beaten down. Those moments flicker against the harder edges of their present selves, revealing how much has been lost and how much still remains beneath the surface. Training becomes a form of communion, a way of speaking when words fail, even as it exposes how deeply both have internalized the need to protect themselves at all costs.
There is a restless energy that drives the piece, a sense that both “Big” and “Lil” are searching for something they do not fully know how to name or hold on to. They are starved for connection but unsure how to sustain it. The tension lies not only in whether they will reconcile, but also in whether they can stay in the same space without retreating into the defences that have kept them safe for so long.
As the final bell approaches, the fight has shifted. Not resolved, not erased, but altered. The guarded stances soften just enough to allow something else to exist alongside the pain. What lingers is not the violence that defined their separation, but the fragile possibility of presence. A choice to stay. A choice to let someone stand close without raising their guard. And for a moment, that feels like the bravest act of all.
