Review: THE SOUND OF GRIEF, TURNING SLOWLY IN THE DARK
Review: THE SOUND OF GRIEF, TURNING SLOWLY IN THE DARK
MASS IS AN UNFLINCHING RECKONING WITH LOSS, GUILT, AND THE UNBEARABLE HUMAN COST OF GUN VIOLENCE.
MASS IS AN UNFLINCHING RECKONING WITH LOSS, GUILT, AND THE UNBEARABLE HUMAN COST OF GUN VIOLENCE.
★★★★★
★★★★★
There are plays that invite reflection, and then there are plays that seem to reach inside you, take hold, and refuse to let go. Mass, Fran Kranz’s quietly devastating stage adaptation of his 2021 film, now at the Donmar Warehouse, belongs firmly in the latter category. Directed with remarkable restraint by Carrie Cracknell, this is theatre stripped to its barest elements—four actors, one room, a table—and yet it carries the emotional force of something far larger, more seismic, and deeply unsettling.
There are plays that invite reflection, and then there are plays that seem to reach inside you, take hold, and refuse to let go. Mass, Fran Kranz’s quietly devastating stage adaptation of his 2021 film, now at the Donmar Warehouse, belongs firmly in the latter category. Directed with remarkable restraint by Carrie Cracknell, this is theatre stripped to its barest elements—four actors, one room, a table—and yet it carries the emotional force of something far larger, more seismic, and deeply unsettling.
Set in a modest community space within an Episcopal church, the play begins with an air of uneasy civility. Two couples—Jay and Gail, Richard and Linda—have agreed to meet in search of something resembling closure. What that word means, or whether it is even attainable, hangs over the room like a question no one is prepared to answer. It is revealed early, and with a bluntness that lands like a physical blow, that this meeting is the aftermath of a school shooting. Jay and Gail’s son, Evan, was killed. Richard and Linda’s son, Hayden, was the one who pulled the trigger.
Set in a modest community space within an Episcopal church, the play begins with an air of uneasy civility. Two couples—Jay and Gail, Richard and Linda—have agreed to meet in search of something resembling closure. What that word means, or whether it is even attainable, hangs over the room like a question no one is prepared to answer. It is revealed early, and with a bluntness that lands like a physical blow, that this meeting is the aftermath of a school shooting. Jay and Gail’s son, Evan, was killed. Richard and Linda’s son, Hayden, was the one who pulled the trigger.
From this point, Mass unfolds not as a conventional drama but as an emotional excavation. For 90 uninterrupted minutes, these four parents sift through memory, blame, regret, and the impossible weight of what cannot be undone. Kranz’s writing is extraordinary in its precision—never showy, never sentimental, but so attuned to the rhythms of human speech that it feels almost overheard rather than written. Silences stretch. Words falter. Anger arrives in jagged bursts, then recedes into something quieter, more dangerous.
From this point, Mass unfolds not as a conventional drama but as an emotional excavation. For 90 uninterrupted minutes, these four parents sift through memory, blame, regret, and the impossible weight of what cannot be undone. Kranz’s writing is extraordinary in its precision—never showy, never sentimental, but so attuned to the rhythms of human speech that it feels almost overheard rather than written. Silences stretch. Words falter. Anger arrives in jagged bursts, then recedes into something quieter, more dangerous.
The performances are nothing short of astonishing. Adeel Akhtar gives Jay a tightly coiled intensity, a man who has perhaps learned how to function again but not how to live with what has been taken from him. Opposite him, Lyndsey Marshal’s Gail carries her grief differently—more openly, more vulnerably—but no less powerfully. Together, they embody a loss that has settled into the bones.
The performances are nothing short of astonishing. Adeel Akhtar gives Jay a tightly coiled intensity, a man who has perhaps learned how to function again but not how to live with what has been taken from him. Opposite him, Lyndsey Marshal’s Gail carries her grief differently—more openly, more vulnerably—but no less powerfully. Together, they embody a loss that has settled into the bones.
As Richard and Linda, Paul Hilton and Monica Dolan navigate an even more complicated terrain: the agony of mourning a child while confronting the knowledge of what that child did. Hilton’s Richard often seems on the verge of collapse, clinging to reason as a kind of lifeline, while Dolan’s Linda delivers perhaps the evening’s most shattering moments—her attempts to articulate her son’s pain, and her own failure to recognize it, are almost too much to bear.
As Richard and Linda, Paul Hilton and Monica Dolan navigate an even more complicated terrain: the agony of mourning a child while confronting the knowledge of what that child did. Hilton’s Richard often seems on the verge of collapse, clinging to reason as a kind of lifeline, while Dolan’s Linda delivers perhaps the evening’s most shattering moments—her attempts to articulate her son’s pain, and her own failure to recognize it, are almost too much to bear.
Cracknell’s direction is deceptively simple, and all the more effective for it. The four sit around a table for most of the play, speaking, listening, unraveling. But the table itself rotates, almost imperceptibly, ensuring that no face is ever hidden for long. It is a subtle device, but a profound one: there is no escape here, no safe angle, no place to look away. We are made to confront each perspective in turn, to sit with each parent’s truth, however uncomfortable.
Cracknell’s direction is deceptively simple, and all the more effective for it. The four sit around a table for most of the play, speaking, listening, unraveling. But the table itself rotates, almost imperceptibly, ensuring that no face is ever hidden for long. It is a subtle device, but a profound one: there is no escape here, no safe angle, no place to look away. We are made to confront each perspective in turn, to sit with each parent’s truth, however uncomfortable.
There is, too, an inescapably personal dimension to the experience of watching Mass, one that the play seems to invite rather than resist. For those who came of age in the United States as school shootings became a grim and recurring reality, the story does not feel distant or abstract. It feels lived-in. Sitting in the Donmar’s quiet darkness, I found my mind returning—not analytically, but instinctively—to places like Columbine High School, Sandy Hook Elementary School, Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, and Robb Elementary School—names that have, over time, become shorthand for unimaginable loss. I was reminded, too, of standing among thousands at the March for Our Lives in Washington in 2018, just weeks after Parkland, when grief and anger briefly coalesced into something like collective resolve. What Mass captures, with extraordinary sensitivity, is not simply the scale of such tragedies, but their aftershocks—the private, enduring devastation carried by those left behind. It is a perspective that resists appropriation; one cannot claim to understand it fully. But the play insists, quietly and forcefully, that we at least try to face it.
There is, too, an inescapably personal dimension to the experience of watching Mass, one that the play seems to invite rather than resist. For those who came of age in the United States as school shootings became a grim and recurring reality, the story does not feel distant or abstract. It feels lived-in. Sitting in the Donmar’s quiet darkness, I found my mind returning—not analytically, but instinctively—to places like Columbine High School, Sandy Hook Elementary School, Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, and Robb Elementary School—names that have, over time, become shorthand for unimaginable loss. I was reminded, too, of standing among thousands at the March for Our Lives in Washington in 2018, just weeks after Parkland, when grief and anger briefly coalesced into something like collective resolve. What Mass captures, with extraordinary sensitivity, is not simply the scale of such tragedies, but their aftershocks—the private, enduring devastation carried by those left behind. It is a perspective that resists appropriation; one cannot claim to understand it fully. But the play insists, quietly and forcefully, that we at least try to face it.
And it is uncomfortable—achingly so. The play does not offer easy answers, nor does it pretend to. Instead, it asks questions that linger long after the lights come up. How do we recognize pain before it turns outward? What responsibility do we bear for the suffering we fail to see? And, perhaps most urgently, what kind of world allows such tragedies to become commonplace?
And it is uncomfortable—achingly so. The play does not offer easy answers, nor does it pretend to. Instead, it asks questions that linger long after the lights come up. How do we recognize pain before it turns outward? What responsibility do we bear for the suffering we fail to see? And, perhaps most urgently, what kind of world allows such tragedies to become commonplace?
There is a moment, late in the piece, when the conversation shifts—just slightly—toward something resembling understanding. Not forgiveness, exactly, and certainly not resolution, but a fragile, fleeting recognition of shared humanity. It is almost unbearable in its tenderness.
There is a moment, late in the piece, when the conversation shifts—just slightly—toward something resembling understanding. Not forgiveness, exactly, and certainly not resolution, but a fragile, fleeting recognition of shared humanity. It is almost unbearable in its tenderness.
This production of Mass may be one of the most impactful and, yes, triggering pieces of theatre you will encounter. It does not comfort. It does not console. But it does something far more vital: it insists that we bear witness. That we listen. That we reckon.
This production of Mass may be one of the most impactful and, yes, triggering pieces of theatre you will encounter. It does not comfort. It does not console. But it does something far more vital: it insists that we bear witness. That we listen. That we reckon.
One leaves not with applause still ringing in the ears, but with a quiet, insistent question: how many more conversations like this must take place before anything changes? If there is any justice, this play will not remain confined to a London stage. It deserves to be seen widely—especially by those in positions of power, particularly in the United States, who continue to resist even the most basic measures of gun reform. Because Mass makes one thing devastatingly clear: inaction is not neutral. It has consequences. And those consequences are measured in lives cut short, in families shattered, in grief that never truly fades.
One leaves not with applause still ringing in the ears, but with a quiet, insistent question: how many more conversations like this must take place before anything changes? If there is any justice, this play will not remain confined to a London stage. It deserves to be seen widely—especially by those in positions of power, particularly in the United States, who continue to resist even the most basic measures of gun reform. Because Mass makes one thing devastatingly clear: inaction is not neutral. It has consequences. And those consequences are measured in lives cut short, in families shattered, in grief that never truly fades.
It is, quite simply, unforgettable.
It is, quite simply, unforgettable.
Mass - Donmar Warhouse
Attended on 5 May 2026