From the moment the lights go up, the show detonates like a confetti cannon loaded with childhood trauma, adult actors in knee socks, and enough musical charm to melt the polar ice caps. Director Danny Mefford delivers a production so fizzy, so fast, and so emotionally loaded that the audience barely has time to breathe—except between laughs, when several people are clearly wiping away tears they definitely didn’t see coming. This isn’t theater. It’s therapy disguised as a spelling competition.
Spelling Bee Returns off-Broadway
Front and center is Lilli Cooper, giving the performance of someone who should have her own float in the Macy’s Parade. As eternal spelling champion Rona Lisa Peretti, she glows with the manic intensity of a woman who peaked at age 12 and has been riding that high ever since. Beside her, Jason Kravits is the human embodiment of deadpan as Vice Principal Panch, delivering definitions so ruthlessly funny they should come with a warning label. Put these two together and the spelling bee becomes less an academic event and more a comedic hostage situation—with the audience happily bound and gagged.
But the true miracle of the show lies with its “kids”—played by adults who somehow capture the entire emotional spectrum of middle school without ever feeling like sketch comedy rejects. Each child is a walking, talking fever dream of insecurity, determination, and hormones that have absolutely no business being on a Broadway stage.
Take Leaf Coneybear, for example, who bounces around the stage with the frantic joy of a squirrel mainlining Capri Sun. Justin Cooley makes him a lovable tornado, a boy who’s been underestimated by everyone he’s ever met—including himself—until he slips into a supernatural trance and becomes a spelling savant. It’s both hilarious and, somehow, deeply touching.
Then there’s Olive Ostrovsky, played with heartbreaking delicacy by Jasmine Amy Rogers. Olive is the quiet kid who always looks like she’s about to apologize for existing, clutching her dictionary the way some children hold teddy bears. Rogers turns her into the emotional core of the show, delivering a softness that sneaks up on you before walloping you in the chest with “The I Love You Song”—a number so devastating you could hear a pin drop in the audience, if not for all the people quietly sniffling.
Leana Rae Concepcion’s Marcy Park has the exhausted posture of someone who’s been winning things since she learned to sit upright. The contrast between her icy competence and her soul-crushing burnout is played with delicious, razor-sharp timing. Philippe Arroyo, as Chip, captures the tragically comedic meltdown of a former champ who’s discovering that winning once is way easier than winning again. And Kevin McHale’s William Barfée (that’s “Bar-FAY,” thank you very much) spells with his foot like a man summoning ancient demons—and it absolutely kills.
The great miracle is how these characters, so quirky they borderline on absurd, never become caricatures. The cast treats every kid with earnest, open-hearted respect, turning what could have been a parade of gimmicks into a surprisingly profound celebration of difference, ambition, and the exquisite awkwardness of growing up.
And then—because this show refuses to let the audience get too comfortable—it drags real theatergoers onstage to compete. These volunteers are lovingly chewed up and spit out by Cooper and Kravits with comedic precision that deserves its own Olympic category. Watching unsuspecting adults get eliminated from a fictional spelling bee has never been so delicious.
The script has been freshly polished with references that land like well-aimed spitballs, including a few political jokes that hit the bull’s-eye without ever derailing the chaos. Even the building becomes a punchline, with nods to the other shows playing next door. It feels current without trying too hard, clever without showing off, joyful without apology.
And then there’s William Finn’s score—still shimmering, still buoyant, still capable of breaking your heart in under 16 bars. Songs glide from goofy to gut-wrenching with no warning, sneaking emotional truths into melodies so catchy you’ll be humming them on the train for weeks.
By the time the show ends, the audience is lit up like a hive of ecstatic bees. People leave floating, buzzing, glowing—pick your metaphor, it works. This revival doesn’t just entertain. It rejuvenates. It resurrects joy from the dead.
In short: Run. Don’t walk. Buy a ticket. Then buy another. “Putnam County Spelling Bee” is the happiest, funniest, most unexpectedly moving show in New York right now.