On the just-passed 250th anniversary of Jane Austen’s birth, the appetite for her work feels bottomless and diverse. On stages and screens, we are seeing “straight” period-piece versions, neon‑bright modernizations, and even gleeful mash‑ups like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Wren Theatre’s Pride and Prejudice—adapted by Ferron Delcy and Jesse McQueen and directed by Tatum Lee—stakes its claim by refusing to pick a lane. It wants the romance and the period social critique, but with a modern inflection. It wants Austen’s sly wit, plus its own raucous laughter. And it wants the “straight drama” plus the subtextual queerness turned embodied text.
Ambitious? Absolutely. And that ambition mostly pays off.
Austen’s 1813 novel needs little introduction: it centres the celebrated dance of misjudgment and awakening between Elizabeth Bennet (one of five Bennet sisters in need of husbands) and the aristocratic Mr. Darcy — a tale set against a backdrop of class strictures, economic precarity, and the comic‑tragic theatre of family. Wren’s first act of courage is the decision to mount the adaptation, given the complexity of the story’s plot and the sheer number of characters. McQueen and Delcy have crafted a brisk, self‑aware adaptation that honours the source even as it nudges it (sometimes shoves it bodily) into contemporary idiom — exemplified by a chorus‑like expletive that hopscotches among speakers and becomes a winking refrain — and contemporary sensibilities, which are best seen in the elevation of long‑discussed queer coding into explicit stage action.
Under Lee’s adroit and brisk direction, the cast delivers with aplomb. Lizzie Moffatt’s Elizabeth Bennet is wiry, intelligent, and toe-tappingly impatient with hypocrisy: she skillfully locates the character’s skeptical joy, as well as her defiance. Meanwhile, Devin Bell’s Darcy embraces a pursed, quiet monotone that conveys perfectly his awkwardness and repression—though, in the cavernous Randolph Theatre, some lines disappear upward and away.
Around the lead pair, the Bennet family forms a credible, complex collective. Lizette Mynhardt’s first-born Jane Bennet glows with earnest and measured warmth, opposite Lucas Blakely’s sweet and affable Mr. Bingley. Paige Madsen’s Mary finds subversive hilarity in artistic performances which refract the broader performance we come to understand she is engaged in. As the man-hunting youngest daughters Marissa Rasmussen’s Lydia and Katelyn Doyle’s Kitty go unapologetically broad with their mugging, shrieks, and piggybacks. Meanwhile, Jennifer McEwen’s fussing Mrs. Bennet and Daniel Christian Jones’s reserved Mr. Bennet strike a familiar and satisfying domestic chord.
The remainder of the ensemble spreads strong performances across the play’s range of social situations and tones. Jesse McQueen goes over the top as the scheming and ultimately thwarted Caroline Bingley, while Liam Cardinell’s sashaying, preening social climber Mr. Collins outdoes her in bringing the aforementioned gay subtext onto the stage. Anne Shepherd grounds the class narrative with her stately, imperious Lady Catherine, while Caleb Pauze’s mendacious Mr. Wickham, Darius Rathe’s up-for-anything Fitzwilliam, Karen Scobie’s surprising Charlotte Lucas, and Zaniq King’s sunny Georgiana Darcy fill out the palette.
This packed production is not altogether perfect: at moments, it teeters on the edge of going off the rails (for me, one such moment is the romance film-style entrance and sloooow walk of Darcy towards the now-enlightened and apologetic Elizabeth). But each time, it smartly recovers. Because the company, like the script, goes for broke, it consistently rewards the audience with something recognizably classic, yet appreciably new.
Design backs the play’s big-hearted, go-for-broke vision. Lee’s representational set—a hanging roof frame and windows that fluidly imply parlors, promenades, and drawing rooms—works hand‑in‑glove with projections: sunset softens edges; night settles with a visible moon. Alia Stephen’s lighting carves the space with precision, and Lee’s costumes smartly articulate class and temperament across the large cast. Cardinell’s sound cues are crisp, and the actors are helpfully mic’d, though as noted, the amplification can sometimes vanish into the Randolph’s cavernous roofing. Overall, the production’s clean, modular grammar lets the story lead.
With their reimagined Pride and Prejudice, Wren doesn’t bolt on zombies—but the company does very much want to have their cake and eat it, too: romance, social commentary, excavated and exaggerated humor, modern profanity, joyful queerness, and more. Mounting a show of this pedigree and complexity — and doing so with such unabashed creativity — is an audacious lift, so hats off to Wren for giving this classic tale a modern pulse.
For more info, visit wrentheatre.com. This production ran at the Randolph Theatre February 18–22, 2026.
© Scott Sneddon, Sesaya Arts Magazine 2026
