At the Barricades

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In great theater, history is not merely recounted but resurrected with breath and pulse, defiance and hope. In At the Barricades, the indomitable company What Will The Neighbors Say? breathes new life into one of the 20th century’s most harrowing yet heroic chapters — the Spanish Civil War of 1937. We find ourselves in Madrid not as tourists, but as comrades in struggle, embedded within a city and a country fraying at the seams, on the verge of succumbing to the iron fist of fascism. And yet, in the shadow of tyranny, a radiant flicker of international solidarity takes flame.

This is not a tidy historical re-telling — no, it is a visceral, theatrical seance, conjured under the astute and deeply humanistic direction of Federica Borlenghi. The setting is theater space MITU580, yet in a matter of moments, we are transported to a war-ravaged Madrid, with its cracked stones, burning sky, and defiant hearts. The government, under the iron boot of Franco and bolstered by Mussolini’s Italy and Hitler’s Germany, is on a bloody crusade to eradicate dissent. But rising from the rubble and radio static is the Spanish Republic, desperate and dwindling, but not without allies — not without dreamers.

Enter the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, and with them, the soul of this production: ordinary men and women from across the globe, largely American, many Communists, all idealists. Their belief? That human beings are born equal — not to be exploited, not to be ranked or ruled, but to live in solidarity, dignity, and mutual respect. Their journey is the spine of At the Barricades, and their sacrifice — colossal, poignant, often fatal — is laid bare not with sentimentality, but with reverence.

Writers James Clements and Sam Hood Adrain have not merely written a script; they have composed a requiem of resistance, a tapestry of human resolve stitched from letters, memoirs, and the ghosts of those long since gone. It is not only the Americans whose stories resound — the Spaniards, the Scots, the international patchwork of volunteers each have their place, each voice rising in the choir of anti-fascist resistance. These voices — these lives — are given flesh and fire by a six-person ensemble of rare cohesion. Each actor moves not as an individual, but as a limb of a greater whole. Their performances are lived rather than performed, suffused with compassion, grit and a kind of sacred duty.

The play’s true center is not a single protagonist but a makeshift coalition of outsiders and idealists, a band of disparate souls bound not by blood or nation but by a shared moral urgency. At its ideological helm are two Spaniards: Elena, brought to life with searing clarity by Stephanie Del Bino, is a professor whose feminist convictions cut through the fog of war with unwavering force. Edu Díaz’s Diego, the group’s calm yet resolute commander, carries the gravitas of a gay man fighting for more than just survival—his struggle is for a freer, more humane Spain, a Spain that will embrace him and will be worth dying for. The Americans, no less impassioned, arrive not as saviors but as fellow sufferers of systemic violence. Devante Lawrence’s Walter, once relegated to the role of porter, exudes a quiet, grounded strength; Chelsie Sutherland’s Victoria, a nurse, radiates weary compassion. As Black Americans, their decision to join the fight feels viscerally earned—they recognize tyranny when they see it.

Playwright Adrain’s Anthony, in contrast, brings a cool cerebral detachment to the group—a white man whose privilege allows him to view conflict through a philosophical lens, his commitment genuine but somewhat abstracted. And finally, co-plwright Clements’ Jim, a working-class Scot, adds a poignant thread to the tapestry: a man in search of purpose, fleeing poverty but arriving at something closer to faith. Each of these characters has been marked by injustice, whether it is gendered, racial, economic or existential. And it is that scar tissue—not flags or slogans—that binds them together in a collective fight. Theirs is not a generic battle of good versus evil, but a deeply personal, morally complex stand—one where the stakes are not only political, but achingly human.

In a bold and immersive gesture that speaks to both the thematic urgency and the physical intimacy of the piece, director Borlenghi, in collaboration with set designer Frank J. Oliva, has arranged the audience in a horseshoe configuration, wrapping them around three sides of the playing space. This staging decision is not merely spatially inventive—it is dramaturgically potent, evoking the claustrophobic immediacy of barracks life with striking authenticity.

The set itself is a carefully curated clutter of makeshift military accommodations: weathered cots, a modest side table, a functional if austere dining area, dog-eared books, and an assortment of military detritus that speaks volumes about the daily grind and emotional weight of service life. These elements, piled with what appears to be deliberate disorder along the fringes of the space, lend a palpable realism and tactile texture to the world of the play. The visual tableau achieves a kind of lived-in poetry, with the overall effect remaining evocative—an environment that doesn’t just contain the story, but presses in on it, just as the barracks press in on those who live within them.

Adrian Yuen’s meticulously crafted lighting design serves not merely to illuminate but to delineate, drawing a stark and evocative contrast between the interior sanctum of the barracks and the desolate expanse beyond its fragile confines. Within, a softer, more intimate glow bathes the soldiers in warmth—an illusion of safety, however transient—while the exterior is rendered in harsher, colder hues, evoking the unforgiving and ever-looming specter of conflict. This interplay of light and shadow does more than mark space; it underscores the psychological schism between moments of respite and the relentless threat of violence.

This visual dichotomy is rendered all the more potent by Stephanie J. Carlin’s haunting sound design, a carefully composed auditory collage that envelops the audience in the aural textures of war. The sharp punctuation of gunfire and the distant, mournful wail of train whistles serve as reminders of movement and displacement—echoes of lives uprooted and futures derailed. Interwoven through this sonic tapestry are period songs that carry with them the weight of history and resistance, most notably ¡Ay Carmela!, the anthem of the Republican troops. Its plaintive melody threads through the production like a ghostly refrain, a lament for ideals lost and comrades fallen.

Johanna Pan’s costume design achieves a striking and evocative balance between utilitarian realism and subtle theatricality. Her thoughtful juxtaposition of everyday plainclothes with elements of military attire does not merely clothe the ensemble—it imbues them with a tangible history, a lived-in authenticity that suggests both survival and solidarity. The characters emerge not as archetypes or anonymous figures, but as a makeshift band of individuals united by circumstance, each costume a thread in the larger tapestry of their shared narrative. This sartorial mélange contributes profoundly to the production’s emotional verisimilitude, anchoring it in a world that feels at once immediate, familiar, and vividly human.

The production dares to juxtapose brutality with beauty. Between gunfire and ideological debates, we are given reprieves of dance and laughter — small rebellions of joy in a world falling apart. These moments are not distractions; they are declarations. We, as the audience, are reminded again and again that in the face of fascism, to laugh, to love, to stand arm-in-arm — these are acts of political resistance.

One of the production’s most profound gifts is its refusal to simplify. It does not romanticize war nor reduce ideology to slogans. Instead, it invites its audience to lean in, to ask questions, to feel the weight of sacrifice. “What is your story?” the play asks — not only of its characters, but of us, the watchers, the inheritors of their unfinished struggle.

At the Barricades is more than a play — it is a communal reckoning, a call to memory, and perhaps, a whisper to conscience. As history’s tide threatens to again turn toward division and despotism, this piece stands as both elegy and alarm. The theater has seldom felt more necessary.

At the Barricades (through June 29, 2025)

What Will The Neighbors Say?

MITU580, 580 Sackett Street, in Brooklyn

For tickets, visit http://www.neighbors.thundertix.com

Running time: one hour and 40 minutes without an intermission