REVIEW: “There’s no place like home.”
Photo by Renee Rosensteel
Review: “There’s no place like home.”
My Sister’s Lipstick explores family, queer identity, and grief
by Emma Diehl | Critical Insight
There’s something both alluring and alienating about isolation—the secret delight of the clothes you wear when no one’s watching, the personal rabbit holes you fall into at 2 a.m. In isolation, life slows down; in some ways, it even stops.
But how do you pierce the bubble and move forward when you feel frozen in place?
My Sister’s Lipstick, running at the New Hazlett Theater, opens with plucky strings reminiscent of a 1950s movie musical as it draws us into the world of George (Annie Moorehead), who hasn’t left their apartment in some time. And why would they? In their artfully appointed cocoon, they have everything they need: back issues of Vogue stacked as high as their bed, the collected works of Judy Garland, and an extensive archive of tapes and DVDs to pass the time.
The outside world pleads for them, embodied by their sister Morrison (Audrey Klein), the only person George allows inside. There are open mic nights to visit, jobs to tend to, and a family home to clear out following their father’s death. But for George, the siren song of staying in and revisiting The Wizard of Oz proves too powerful to resist.
Between visits to coax George out of isolation, Morrison searches for signs of certainty to process her father’s death, including an impromptu visit to a church where she meets Jane (June Almonte). Rooted in the outside world, Jane acts as a foil to George’s retreat inward.
Initially, a one-act play that took place exclusively in George’s apartment, this staging of playwright Anna King Skeels’ My Sister’s Lipstick expands the story’s scope, introducing more characters and locations. Yet they approach each scene with tenderness and patience, allowing them room to breathe.
As a sister three times over, I’m acutely familiar with the rat-a-tat rhythm Skeels captures between Morrison and George. There’s a delicate push and pull—wanting to be a source of support while also yearning for change, the desire to give advice while knowing it may be futile. In a moment of frustration outside George’s door, Morrison parrots a piece of therapeutic wisdom about acceptance, a line so resonant it could have been lifted from my own therapy sessions.
Skeels creates a compelling contrast between George’s interior world and Morrison’s external one. Warm lighting bathes George’s apartment, and the lighting design by Eve Bandi emphasizes their sense of safety. Production and scenic designer Natalie Rose Mabry contrasts stark white moving boxes crowd Morrison as she sorts through grief and the remnants of their family home. The tension between interior and exterior, the self versus what the world observes, permeates the piece.
Alone, George directly addresses the audience, reminiscing about favorite Vogue cover stories or debating the merits of Judy Garland’s A Star Is Born versus Barbra Streisand’s 1976 version. Their apartment is a self-contained world full of stories and memories. A reimagined yellow brick road swirls artfully across the stage, terminating at George’s bed—the center of their universe. Or perhaps it’s where the road begins, beckoning George to follow it out of isolation and into the unknown.
Despite so much of the action taking place in George’s apartment, My Sister’s Lipstick never feels claustrophobic under Pria Dahiya’s direction (Dahiya is also a Critical Insight fellow). Objects on George’s vanity—lipstick tubes and mascara wands—become stand-ins for the family as George processes their relationship with their father and their own identity. Simple objects, imbued with meaning, transform into powerful storytelling tools.
Skeels draws a poignant parallel between the interiority of queer identity and the challenge of externalizing the self. In a post-lockdown world, George’s struggle to re-engage with life feels deeply familiar. Many of us can recall the sense of isolation from the pandemic and the trepidation of stepping back outside. My Sister’s Lipstick captures that uncertainty with empathy, inviting us to consider how we, too, might take that first step beyond the door.
About Critical Insight:
Critical Insight is a new generative writing fellowship between Pittsburgh Public Theater and American Theatre magazine.