Review: Minstrel by Jabari Elzie

A Bold, Satirical Triumph

Sharp, Funny, Uncomfortable—Minstrel Marks the Arrival of a Major New Voice in Theatre

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Jabari’s Minstrel arrives like a thunderclap—unapologetic, incisive, and bursting with the kind of wit that slices deeper the more you laugh. This new theatrical work is as intelligent as it is daring, examining the commodification of Black culture with clarity, humor, and emotional depth. It’s theatre that knows exactly what it’s saying and refuses to tiptoe around the truth.

I’d liken Minstrel to Monty Python: comedic, sharp, and clever, but with a distinctly different edge—less musical, more culturally grounded, and pulsing with political intent. From the first scene, Minstrel sets the tone for something electric. Two Black men—alike in their pursuit of meaningful artistic careers, equally successful in their own right—sit side by side. Played by Murphy Applin Jr. and Seth Ajani, the pair are tasked with curating a lineup of television shows aimed at captivating Black audiences.

They work under the unseen but omnipresent voice of BETM (Black Entertainment Television Media), an all-controlling network that hovers like a modern-day overseer. BETM doesn’t speak often, but when it does, its directives are loaded. Through this disembodied voice, Jabari cleverly critiques the power media companies wield over Black art—who gets to commodify it, who gets to qualify it, and ultimately, who decides how it’s consumed: the artist or the industry?

By centering two opposing Black characters—each embodying clashing ideologies around art, success, and self-worth—Jabari reveals a powerful tension. One sees performance as a means of survival: play the game, cash the check. The other clings fiercely to authenticity, rejecting systems built on white supremacy and capitalist ideals. These aren’t just archetypes—they’re flawed, passionate, fully realized individuals whose friction sparks both comedic brilliance and painful introspection.

Minstrel carries all the markings of high theatre: bold performances from a strikingly talented cast of both Black and white actors. Daddy Ramazani brings a raw, magnetic energy to 3-Pac, a rapper who set the precedent for what hip hop has become. Bailey James, McKenna Flekman, and Bret Raybould also deliver standout performances, each with sharp vocal control and a thoughtful understanding of how their characters’ identities intersect with the play’s larger themes.

Through thoughtful character interactions, Minstrel explores how Black artists must navigate an industry that loves Black culture but too often refuses to fully see Black people. Their conversations, arguments, and performances unpack the paradox of being both creators and commodities. It’s a critique, yes—but never a lecture. Jabari has a gift for embedding commentary in character, in humor, and in the quiet moments where truth hangs thick in the air.

The inclusion of white voices in the cast is not incidental. It serves as a powerful theatrical mechanism—reminding us that this conversation isn’t one-sided. Every audience member is implicated. Yet even with its layered casting, the play never strays from its central focus: the complexity of Black identity, especially in relation to performance and public perception. Jabari doesn’t gently ask whether Black culture is being appropriated for profit. He states it plainly. And in doing so, he invites the audience—Black or white—not to resolve the discomfort, but to sit with it.

Tonally, Minstrel balances satire and sincerity with impressive finesse. It’s funny, even absurd at times, but always grounded in purpose. The comedy draws you in, then delivers an emotional gut-punch when you least expect it.

Visually and rhythmically, the production is striking. The direction is confident, the pacing deliberate—leaving space for both silence and explosive moments. The ensemble’s chemistry is undeniable, and their commitment to the themes elevates every scene.

Most impressive, though, is how Minstrel resists the temptation to offer easy answers. It doesn’t resolve its contradictions—it lives in them. The lure of fame, the price of authenticity, the fear of being seen only through the lens of profit—all of it remains intentionally unsettled.

In the end, Minstrel is more than a play—it’s a statement. A warning. A mirror. It challenges us to examine what we demand of Black artists, what we reward, and what we silence. And it does so while keeping us fully entertained, fully engaged, and, crucially, fully awake.

Jabari shows staggering promise. His command of tone, character, and structure suggests a writer not just of talent, but of purpose. Minstrel is a sharp-edged debut that cuts through the noise—and marks the beginning of what is sure to be a remarkable career.

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