Each night, a different group of frogs gathers to splash among the red-covered audience chairs at The Assembly Theatre.
It’s bitter cold outside, but the water inside is comfortable.
A special frog — a different one each night — jumps into the stage area. There in the shallows, they find a waterproof envelope.
They open it, and paper appears.
The paper was sent by another frog, who is not here. The paper does not know the special frog. The special frog does not know the paper.
There is only water, and time, the special frog and the other frogs. And in the background of that paper, that other frog.
The special frog reads.
The paper asks the special frog to do and say things. It explains what that other frog imagines, hopes, knows, and desires. It encourages the special frog to splash, to leap, to Ribbit, to catch flies.
It also asks the special frog to ask the other frogs to do things.
In response, the other frogs jump as frogs do. They swim as frogs do.
They count. They help. They wait. They tread water.
The water feels ordinary. At first, this is a fun, funny splash and swim.
But then … wait: is it feeling a little warm? A couple of frogs reach their elongated legs towards the walls of the space.
Ouch!
It is hot to the touch. They pull back.
The special frog reads on. But the paper is becoming … waterlogged. The special frog is becoming a con-fusion of themself and that other frog … at once a ringleader, a witness and a conspirator.
The other frogs listen to the special frog’s clicks, hums and murmurs, and with their large, bulbous eyes, they take note of the gestures.
As instructed, they resume splashing and swimming.
But it’s becoming odd. The past is sitting beside the future. The present stretches, then snaps back.
And the water is starting to feel somehow different.
It it … warmer?
Maybe. And there, on their green skin, is that the feeling of … repression?
Maybe. And wait … what is that feather-light caress? It’s holding back the incredible power of their fused upper-and-lower leg bone. Is that …. social convention?
Maybe…no, yes. Perhaps.
And has the oxygen they gulp from the limited air above the rapidly rising water been laced with something…? Is that …. the constraint and restraint of performance?
“Yes!” at least a few think to themselves.
They touch the walls of the space again, and recoil in pain. The surface burns. It scalds. And the other frogs continue to swim, though more slowly.
The water begins to bubble. Steam rises.
The special frog’s soggy, now-shredded paper has become a mirror and a map and an invitation. The other frogs have become audience and chorus and subjects and … victims?
The minutes turn. They do not move in a straight line. About 75 of them. No intermission.
Belatedly, at the last possible moment… some of the frogs cry out in awareness of their predicament. With great difficulty, they scramble up, and over the sides and out. Some even offer a foreleg to pull another frog up.
Do they all make it out? It’s impossible to tell through the steam.
But those who did have been changed by their experience.
Some are scalded, some merely pruned. But all are awake in new ways. They see more clearly where they are. They can call a pot a pot. They won’t be boiled so readily again.
This is Nassim Soleimanpour’s White Rabbit, Red Rabbit: a fascinating, ingenious and discomfiting thought experiment, which operates on multiple levels and is almost impossible to talk about without spoiling. It has been performed over 3,000 times, translated into 30+ languages, and has been performed by some of the world’s most celebrated special frogs including Whoopi Goldberg, Bobby Cannavale and Nathan Lane.
Wholly original, the show is a must-see. No: a must-experience.
And each night until February 20 at the Assembly Theatre, a different wholly unprepared special frog —such as Naomi Snieckus (the night I escaped the pot) or Alia Rasul or Anand Rajaram or Ken Hall or Jamie Cavanagh or Diana Bentley or Tony Nappo or Anne van Leeuwen or Theresa Tova or Ennis Esmer or (you get the idea) — will ensure that the experience is unforgettable.
Only the water is the same. The swim, the splash, the sensitizing, and the possibility of succumbing like a boiled frog — those are all-new and waiting for you.
Hop in and see for yourself.
Content advisory: show includes discussion of suicide.
White Rabbit Red Rabbit runs until February 20, 2026 at The Assembly Theatre, in association with One Four One Collective, and Nassim Soleimanpour Productions. Tickets are available at theassemblytheatre.com.
© Scott Sneddon, Sesaya Arts Magazine 2026
