Review: New York Theatre Workshop's Saturday Church Could Become the Next Rent

Jonathan Larson’s Rent feels a bit passé today. Don’t get me wrong; it’s a seminal work that has a rightful canonical place. But what was new and shocking in 1996—its frank depictions of AIDS, queerness, drag, and addiction set to a rock-and-roll beat—feels relatively commonplace nearly 30 years later.

From the very first thump of the new musical Saturday Church, you can tell that it’s going to become a spiritual successor to Larson’s now classic. Bearing the same transgressive energy and rebellious spirit, Saturday Church similarly reinvents the story of a chosen family, but in a way that brims with the urgency of 2025. Much like Rent, it’s a little rough around the edges in its world premiere production at New York Theatre Workshop (emphasis on “Workshop”), but much like star Bryson Battle’s starring performance, it’s entirely winning and impossible to hate.

Saturday Church is loosely based on a 2017 indie film written and directed by Damon Cardasis, who experienced firsthand the phenomenon of “Saturday Church” in New York’s West Village, where at-risk, often homeless queer youths are invited for meals and socializing. Cardasis pens the book alongside Fat Ham scribe James Ijames; the score is made up of trunk songs by the pop star Sia, with by additional lyrics by the book writers and additional music from DJ/record producer Honey Dijon.

It’s the story of teenager Ulysses (Battle), grieving the death of his father and desperate to be allowed in the church choir, presided over by his aunt, Rose (Joaquina Kalukango). Rose is also his makeshift guardian; he doesn’t see much of his mother, Amara (Kristolyn Lloyd), who is too busy working double shifts at the hospital to pay attention to a son who’s searching for his corner of the sky.

After getting beaten up on the train, Ulysses meets Raymond (Jackson Kanawha Perry), who invites him to Saturday Church, where he’s instantly taken under the wing of Heaven (Anania), Dijon (Caleb Quezon), and especially Ebony (B Noel Thomas), the erstwhile matriarch who has recently experienced a tragedy of her own. There, Ulysses goes on a journey of self-discovery that will either bring him closer to his family or push him even further away.

The movie—bleak but inspirational—was probably truer to life than the stage version, which softens a lot of the darkness in the transition to the inherently brighter world of musical-theater. Most notably, Cardasis and Ijames introduce Black Jesus, a sparkly narrator/guardian angel figure, played by the eternally glittering J. Harrison Ghee. Watching over Ulysses and reminding him that it’s impossible to live a double life, Black Jesus smartly gives Ulysses a person to trust and confide in without fear.

Other parts of the book feel less assured. Cardasis and Ijames never quite justify why Ulysses needs three maternal figures—or which one matters most. There’s Aunt Rose, stern but loving, who ultimately undergoes the greatest transformation (beautifully underplayed throughout by Kalukango). There’s his actual mother, Amena, to whom Lloyd gives her full weight, despite being limited to entering, opening a few envelopes, and hurriedly leaving again. And there’s den mother Ebony, who, despite Thomas’s sheer magnetism, has a handful of unresolved story issues of her own that can’t be masked by personality.

Many of the problems—from the script’s need for clarification to the awkwardly timed transitions in Whitney White’s restless production—might be forgiven with a truly remarkable score, but the melodies blend together, the subwoofers vibrating out butts with yet another similar-sounding house beat. What’s missing is variety—something neither Sia nor Honey Dijon nor orchestrators Jason Michael Webb and Luke Solomon manage to provide. (Admittedly, I was extremely charmed by the way they use Sia’s “House on Fire” as a love song, but don’t expect to hear “Chandelier” or “Titanium.”)

White stages the show like a concert, with flashing lights (Adam Honoré), sound you can feel in your chest (Gareth Owen), and smart costumes by Qween Jean that acknowledge how these are people who don’t have a lot of money, yet still manage to look fabulous. Darrell Grand Moultrie uses as much of David Zinn’s cramped little set as he can for the runway ready choreography.

Saturday Church would fall apart if it didn’t have a charismatic leading presence, and Battle’s is just that. Sweet and sad, you root for him from the second he walks on stage. Then he starts singing with his insane multioctave voice and it’s game over. Most importantly, his performance captures the fear of living your truth in a world that resists it, and the strength it takes to do it anyway.

That’s the message of Saturday Church, to exist proudly and unapologetically in a world that would rather you stay invisible. You only have one life, and as Jonathan Larson said, there’s no day but today.