Chicago to me was always Bebe Neuwirth’s show, as I knew it from the cast recording — and later Renée Zellweger’s, after watching the film. Based on a real story from 1924, the plot and the outcomes of the trials shocked me with the haunting idea that murder could be a form of entertainment. As an avid fan of mystery novels, I usually feel a sense of resolution when justice is served. Chicago offered no such comfort — and that discomfort is part of its genius.

I attended Chicago in 2025 at the Ambassador Theatre, one of Broadway’s smallest houses with just 1,089 seats. I had previously seen the Korean licensed production in 2024 at a much larger venue with 1,724 seats, and I wanted to compare the two. As it turned out, the intimacy of the Ambassador worked perfectly for a show that thrives not on spectacle but on precision, clarity, and directness. Unlike productions that depend on moving sets or technical tricks, Chicago lives and breathes through bodies, lights, and brass — and nothing more.

The band, fully visible on stage, is integral to the experience. Their brassy vaudeville sound — trumpets, trombones, saxophones, banjo, upright bass, and minimal drums — punches through every number. No lush strings, no romantic flourishes, just punchy cynicism. The conductor sits prominently, almost a character in the show, bridging orchestra and story in true cabaret fashion.

What surprised me most was how striking and modern the staging felt, despite its deliberate simplicity. I had assumed this minimalist aesthetic was part of the original production, but later learned it began with the 1996 Broadway revival — a transfer from a concert staging in the Encores! series. In an era dominated by chandeliers, barricades, and helicopters, Chicago dared to strip everything away. There are no trap doors, no flown-in scenery, no hidden mechanics. Instead, the set is defined by a central bandstand, flanked by flip-up ladders and a small central door — all used with sharp theatrical wit. It looks like a throwback to the past, yet plays with such self-awareness and economy that it still feels ahead of its time.

Sophie Carmen-Jones delivered Velma Kelly with impressive vocal confidence and physical swagger. At times, her phrasing leaned toward restraint — sustaining the vowel sounds just a moment longer and softening the consonants, which gently blurred the bite of certain lyrics. This gave her performance a smooth, simmering quality. Her movement was crisp, particularly in the “Cicero” section of Cell Block Tango.

Among the murderesses, Kristen Faith Oei (Hunyak) delivered her Hungarian monologue with surprising clarity and emotional honesty. The dancer who opened the number — Liz (Mikayla Renfrow) — set a commanding tone, while the “knife ten times” inmate, played by Celina Nightengale, made her verse quietly hilarious with an almost innocent delivery.


Haley Croman portrayed Roxie Hart initially as the girl next door — approachable, almost ordinary. But as she sang, her facial expressions shifted; she exuded seduction with a smooth confidence that seemed to rise effortlessly. Roxie and Velma’s phrasing was unusually tight, likely the result of consistent performing together. Their duet “Nowadays” blended beautifully, each adjusting to the other’s tone and timing. In contrast, Korean productions, despite strong talent, sometimes struggle to achieve this cohesion due to multicasting and limited shared rehearsal time.

Max von Essen cut a clean figure as Billy Flynn in a sharply tailored suit — cool and commanding. His singing surprised me: long phrases delivered with barely an inch of mouth opening, every vowel placed with precision. Even during the ventriloquist act with Roxie, he moved his mouth just enough — subtly, surely, never overplaying it. This wasn’t a cartoon lawyer; this was the kind of man who could talk anyone into anything — even save Jesus for five grand.

Rema Webb brought Mama Morton to life with power and ease, matching her grounded, no-nonsense stage presence. J. London as Mary Sunshine delivered the most spectacular transformation. His soprano floated with such conviction that many in the audience never suspected the reveal. When the wig came off, I was already clapping, watching the crowd gasp as Billy quipped, “Things are not always as they appear.”

Raymond Bokhour (Amos Hart) was simply adorable. His invisibility became magnetic — a slow reveal of quiet devastation. “Mister Cellophane” was heartbreaking in its restraint, earning the biggest applause of the night. When he softly asked for his own exit music, only to be met with silence, the audience stepped in. They gave him the loudest, warmest send-off — an ovation for the only honest man in the show. It wasn’t scripted, but it felt right.

The blocking for Mister Cellophane, where the ensemble turns their backs on Amos, was a symbolic gut punch. He’s invisible not just metaphorically, but literally ignored. Chicago excels in such Brechtian touches — like the drunk juror, a direct jab at the farce of justice, or the ensemble’s percussive “uhs” and “ahs” punctuating the rhythm like instruments themselves. Even small details — props slid across the stage by actors rather than hidden mechanisms — revel in exposing the artifice.

Beyond the cast, what struck me was the ensemble’s age. On Broadway, many looked to be in their 30s or older — veterans whose maturity added weight to every step. In Korea, ensembles tend to skew younger due to industry structure: without union protections or long-term contracts, it’s harder to stay in the field unless you rise quickly to leading roles. The difference isn’t about talent but sustainability.

Over the years, Broadway has also embraced diversity — in race, age, body type, and background. Seeing this range on stage feels both refreshing and hopeful compared to Korea’s still more homogenous casting culture.

Lastly, a nerdy aside. After seeing Chicago in Korea, I explained to my younger son why “cellophane” was chosen for Amos’s song. In the 1920s, polymer films were not yet vinyl; cellophane was a natural polymer, transparent, semipermeable, and very expensive. Making a human-sized sheet would have cost a fortune — maybe even five thousand dollars back then. My son rolled his eyes, saying no one would care. But I think it’s worth mentioning, because real cellophane is far more than the art-class plastic wrap we know today.

As a whole, Chicago dazzled without relying on spectacle. It’s a show built on wit, minimalism, and razor-sharp performance. The Ambassador’s shallow stage and tight seating only heightened its intimacy. Every “wow” moment came not from machines or lavish props, but from the precision of bodies, music, and lights — the essence of theater laid bare.