Audra McDonald in “Gypsy” Wasn’t What I Wanted—She Was More Than I Knew I Needed

Audra McDonald "Rose's Turn"

Audra McDonald is the GOAT. That’s not up for discussion. But let me be real honest: I didn’t want to go see Gypsy on Broadway. I wasn’t racing to the box office. In fact, I went kicking and screaming.

My mom was in town, and I wanted to take her to a Broadway show. I love Audra—anyone with ears and eyes does—but when I heard she was playing Mama Rose, I hesitated. I didn’t run to this production because, in my mind, I already decided what Mama Rose should sound like. I wanted grit. Brass. A raw, booming belt. That old-school, rip-the-roof-off-the-theater kind of energy. Audra is a brilliant technician, a goddess of tone and intention, but I feared she’d be too elegant. Too pure. Not the sound I craved for this role.

And if I’m being even more honest—some of that resistance came from ego. Years ago, I dreamed of directing and producing a fully Black version of Gypsy. In my vision, we’d swap out vaudeville for the Black minstrel circuit. We’d honor our history, reclaim space, reframe the story through a different lens. And when I heard this production would have a mostly Black cast… it stung a little. Felt like my idea had been lifted. But I had to remind myself—no idea is ever really stolen. And this wasn’t quite my idea anyway.

Still, I didn’t know what to expect. They kept it rooted in historical accuracy—still vaudeville—but through the lens of Black performance and Black life. Of course they did. Because George C. Wolfe is a damn genius. Another reason I should have been running to the theater. George is a personal hero of mine. A legend. Someone I pray to work with one day. So yes, I had to check myself.

And then I sat in the theater, lights dimmed, and the show began—with my dear friend Jacob Trent acting his entire face off right at the top of the show. That boy stays booked for a reason. Pittsburgh in the house! I smiled, proud, and leaned in.

Then Audra entered—from the audience—and something shifted in the air. I stopped breathing for a second. She hadn’t said a word, but already she was Mama Rose. Fully embodied. Every gesture was connected. Every beat was honest. She wasn’t acting. She was living.

And then she sang.

It was beautiful. Controlled. Deeply felt. But when she hit those high notes and flipped into head voice, I rolled my eyes a little. I won’t lie. I thought, “Not this again.” I wanted that full-throated chest belt. I wanted power. Still stuck in my narrow expectations of what this role required. Still judging the sound and not seeing the story.

But scene after scene, she kept pulling me back in. Every moment was filled with a rawness I didn’t expect. With Blackness. With truth. With soul. And slowly, I started letting go of what I thought Gypsy should be.

By the time we were deeper into Act II, I was no longer watching Audra McDonald play Mama Rose—I was watching Mama Rose exist. And I was hooked. The sound, the performance, the presence—everything got uglier in the best way. It got rawer. Messier. Realer. Her choices felt dangerous and alive. She took risks that only an actor in full command of their gifts could take.

And then we got to “Rose’s Turn.”

No fireworks. No wailing. No screaming. Instead, a sound I’ve never heard before—a mix living in the mask of the face, vibrating somewhere between pain and fury. A cry, not for applause, but for validation. And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe again.

I leaned forward in my seat. I clung to every syllable. Every breath. Every bead of sweat that hit the floor felt sacred. I was watching the best acting performance I have ever seen on a Broadway stage. And I’ve seen a lot.

And when she landed that final note—silence.

And then: eruption.

I stood up. The entire audience stood up with me. The show stopped. Fully stopped. Audra McDonald got a full show-stopping standing ovation at the end of “Rose’s Turn.” That theater exploded. People were weeping. Cheering. Screaming her name like we were at a revival tent. And I was right there with them.

I was clapping like a madman. Shouting “Bravo!” like I was the bougiest Black uncle in the room— overcome with pride, pain, awe, and release. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. It felt like we had all witnessed something sacred. A spiritual release in front of our eyes.

George C. Wolfe didn’t direct a musical—he directed theater. Every scene felt like a straight play with music layered on top like a spiritual. The stakes were sky-high. The scenes were cinematic. I felt transported. And more importantly—I felt inspired.

I was a kid again. A musical theater geek in love with the craft. I wanted to run home and practice. I wanted to perform. To create. To reach for something higher than I thought possible. I remembered why I fell in love with this artform in the first place. I remembered me.

Audra McDonald changed me. She shifted something in me. I am so grateful I went. I’m still holding on to my dream of that fully Black Gypsy, but this night was something else entirely. This was a masterclass. A transformation. A moment I will never forget.

Audra, you are the most talented, grounded, luminous artist walking this earth. You cracked me wide open. Thank you for the reminder. Thank you for the inspiration. And thank you for reminding me that when it’s done right… theater heals.