All Nighter
Cram Session or Emotional Exorcism?
The Newman Mills Theatre at the Robert W. Wilson MCC Theatre Space, NYC
There’s a special kind of theatre that smells like Red Bull, nail polish remover, and existential dread—and Natalie Margolin’s All Nighter captures it in one messy, luminous, hilariously accurate gulp.
Set in a campus study space sometime in 2014 (aka the golden age of Tumblr trauma posts and problematic polyamory), All Nighter is a 2 a.m. fever dream about five college seniors cramming not just for finals, but for closure. The production, which just landed at MCC’s teeny-tiny Robert W. Wilson space, is the theatrical equivalent of eavesdropping on a group chat with the caps lock permanently stuck on. And yes, it’s deeply feminist. And no, it’s not tidy.
We meet Darcie, Lizzy, Tessa, Jacqueline, and Wilma—housemates, codependents, frenemies, support group. Think: Girls with worse boundaries and no Marnie to ruin everything with a ukulele. What’s meant to be an academic cram session quickly veers into unpacked trauma, repressed queer longing, and the kind of microaggressions only best friends can weaponize.
And let’s talk about those performances. Kristine Frøseth is a revelation as Darcie, masking her quiet unraveling under a high-functioning facade and thrifted cable-knit sweaters. Havana Rose Liu’s Lizzy is all quivering silence and heavy eye contact—the emotional bomb no one’s brave enough to detonate. But it’s Julia Lester’s Wilma who steals the show, part chaos goblin, part wounded clown, bringing chaotic bisexual energy and monologues that teeter on breakdown and brilliance.
Margolin’s script is whip-smart and deliciously nonlinear. Dialogue overlaps like jazz. People talk at each other instead of to each other. It’s the dramaturgical equivalent of opening 17 Chrome tabs and forgetting what you were even researching. And somehow, it works. Every dropped sentence and unsent text carries emotional weight. It’s messy, but intentionally so—like female friendship, like graduation, like healing.
Director Jaki Bradley keeps the energy swirling, staging moments like a choreography of collapse. At one point, the girls type furiously in unison, then shift into a ritualistic dance that feels both absurd and utterly real. I’ve been there. You’ve been there. The sacred panic of productivity meets the sacred panic of “Who am I if I’m not her best friend anymore?”
Set design by Wilson Chin gives us brutalist academia in all its beige-lit glory. The glass walls remind us how often women are watched—by systems, by institutions, by each other. And Michelle J. Li’s costumes speak volumes: Tessa’s luxe layers vs. Wilma’s glitter-croptop-defiance. Every outfit is a thesis.
Is All Nighter perfect? Not even close. It overstays its welcome in places and leans hard on archetypes. There are a few monologues that feel like they’ve been copied straight from someone’s Finsta. But that’s the point. These are girls trying to become women with no roadmap—just vibes, internet feminism, and a half-eaten acai bowl. It’s flawed, and therefore, it’s honest.
Verdict:
A late-night scream into the abyss of girlhood. Sharp, soft, awkward, and quietly radical. If you’ve ever dissolved a friendship with a hug or stayed up all night hoping someone would finally ask you if you’re okay, All Nighter is for you.
