Amm(i)gone

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In the timeless tragedy Antigone, the central figure faces a profound moral dilemma, bravely choosing death to honor her brother with a proper burial—a choice that raises eternal questions about duty, loyalty, and the nature of justice. Adil Mansoor’s Amm(i)gone, currently gracing the stage at The Flea Theater, offers a fresh and insightful spin on this ancient tale, exploring not just the decision to bury a brother, but the reasons behind it.

In Amm(i)gone, Mansoor masterfully delves into the delicate nuances of cultural and personal differences, exploring the connections that bind us even in our diversity. Co-directed with Lyam B. Gabel, this meta-theatrical production—spanning a compact yet potent 80 minutes—recounts the journey of Mansoor and his mother as they embark on the project of translating Antigone into Urdu. Surrounded by designer Xotchil Musser’s evocative set of wooden cutouts and intricate mosaics, and serene candles for effect, Mansoor guides the audience through their creative process, blending dialogue, video and audio recordings, and projected imagery to weave a story that is both intimate and expansive. The production’s clever use of multimedia enhances the emotional weight of their shared task, inviting the audience to reflect on the complexities of language, family, and legacy.

Mansoor’s choice of Antigone is a deliberate one, grounded in his recognition of a shared worldview between the play’s central figure and his own mother, a devout Muslim. Both individuals, he notes, place a profound emphasis on the afterlife over earthly existence—a belief that resonates deeply with his mother. His instincts prove spot-on, as she quickly warms to the play, even remarking at one point, “Why don’t you make theater like this?” This moment underscores the subtle yet powerful connection Mansoor draws between the ancient Greek tragedy and his own cultural and familial context.

Mansoor briefly delves into the intricacies of Sophocles’ immortalized drama. Using a projector, he compares different translations—his own included—of a pivotal exchange between Antigone and her sister, Ismene, offering a fascinating glimpse into the nuances of textual interpretation. In another standout moment, an audio recording captures his mother’s sharp analysis of the 2015 Barbican production directed by Ivo van Hove and starring Juliette Binoche, where she astutely decodes Binoche’s line reading, suggesting that the character of Antigone may not truly believe in the morality of her actions. Yet, while Amm(i)gone engages with these dramaturgical layers, it is ultimately less about their translation process and more about the deeper, emotional bond between mother and son. Mansoor’s work explores the complexities of their relationship, using theater as a lens to examine identity, culture, and the ties that bind.

In this poignant exploration of familial love and tension, Mansoor and his mother share a bond that is both tender and suffocating, as he eloquently puts it, “threatening to break us.” The deep respect Mansoor holds for his mother is palpable, evident in his choice to call her “Ammi”—the Urdu term for mother—preserving a sense of privacy and reverence. Their relationship is further illustrated through his careful decision to obscure her face in old photographs, preserving her pre-hijab identity, as if to protect an intimate history that transcends the present.

Mansoor admires not only his mother’s unwavering intellectual curiosity but also her distinctive sense of style, which he describes with endearing affection. One such moment of levity comes when he recounts a striking outfit she wore—culottes paired with intricate wood cutouts and seashells, a humorous yet charming detail that showcases the complexity of their connection.

Yet, beneath these shared moments of admiration and affection lies the heart of their conflict: his mother’s growing devotion to her Muslim faith, which increasingly clashes with Mansoor’s queerness. Though she is aware of his identity, (she finds out about it online), Mansoor tends to sidestep its acknowledgment in her presence, suggesting an emotional rift that remains unresolved. This subtle, yet deeply felt tension serves as the driving force of their relationship, where love and loyalty compete with the unspoken, and the personal becomes political in ways that neither individual fully grasps.

Mansoor’s journey of self-concealment is a powerful theme that resonates deeply throughout the play. The phrase “disappear parts of myself” encapsulates a central struggle, as Mansoor reflects on the need to suppress key aspects of his identity in order to navigate the complexities of his family’s expectations. One particular exchange he leaves open-ended for us. With his parents divorced, he finds it less complicated to come out to his father…the man responds by cryptically breezing over the announcement, perhaps an indicator of something long unsaid about the elder Mansoor that may very well be a justification of why Adil’s parents’ arranged marriage ended – “Everybody does that. We just don’t talk about it.” In a poignant flashback, Mansoor recalls a childhood memory from age five, dressed in vibrant red finery, mimicking a Pakistani bride. This moment, at once both innocent and revelatory, serves as a rare instance when Mansoor felt able to embrace his “full self” in the presence of his family—a fleeting yet crucial connection to his later adult identity as a gay man.

Mansoor’s presence on stage is effortlessly captivating, marked by a gentle, natural ease that draws the audience in. His joy is palpable when he’s excited, and when he delves into more private moments, his demeanor shifts to one of deep reflection or even reverence. A particular highlight of his performance is his love for language, which he conveys with such passion and nuance. In one memorable moment, he unpacks the layered significance of a seemingly simple phrase from his mother—“I can tell you about my mornings”—imbuing it with layers of emotion and insight.

The harmonious blending of confession and intellectual exploration creates a deeply emotional experience. In fact, this highly confessional and deeply personal nature is undeniably a major strength of the play, particularly when Mansoor delivers his heart-wrenching climactic breakdown, in which he imagines the conversation he wishes he could have with his mother. The raw emotion in these moments lands powerfully.

However, the play’s self-awareness rooted in Mansoor’s decision to make art out of his intimate story from the very beginning provides a truly ardent backbone for the proceedings. In one scene, he plays a recording of his initial conversation with his mother, outlining their translation of Antigone into Urdu, a choice that adds a layer of distance between the rawness of his experience and the process of reflecting upon it for future artistic creation.

Mansoor’s performance takes us, the audience, on a very captivating excursion. His stage presence is gentle and unforced—gleeful when excited, reflective or even reverent when recounting personal moments. His love for language, especially in how he analyzes the significance of his mother’s simple phrases, infuses the production with depth. The lyrical beauty of his mother’s linguistic fluidity—switching effortlessly between English and Urdu—becomes a poetic metaphor for their complex connection, a testament to the power of language to bridge worlds and convey unspoken feelings.

At its core, Amm(i)gone is about translation—both linguistic and emotional—as Mansoor and his mother attempt to bridge the gap between their differing worlds. The play’s exploration of identity, love, and faith is poignant, but it is ultimately a story that will resonate most with those who appreciate the tension between personal history and the art it can inspire. “I couldn’t say the word ‘home’ anymore. I don’t know what words I can say to my mom. I don’t know how to talk to my mom. I don’t know what version of myself to be with my mom.” The question, as Mansoor admits, is whether he can ever be truly “alive” with his mother—offstage, beyond the performative. We hope in time, as we wipe away our own tears, he will find that moment of reconciliation.

In a conversation between Annie Jin Wang, associate director for Artistic Programming at PlayCo (one of the play’s co-presenting institutions) and Lyam B. Gabel, Mansoor’s co-director, Gabel sums up with “I hope that the project keeps doing what it has been doing all along, and that’s creating moments of recognition, catharsis, hope and struggle for audiences of so many different identities. I can point specifically to queer audiences, especially those who grew up in religious households, but many people outside of those identities have found the piece really transformative. And I think it’s felt really necessary in a lot of people’s lives. That’s the best thing theater can do, so I hope it just keeps doing that.” Note to Lyam, rest assured that’s exactly what it’s doing.

Amm(i)gone (extended through April 14, 2025)

PlayCo, Woolly Mammoth Theatre, The Flea, and Kelly Strayhorn Theater

The Flea Theater, 20 Thomas Street, in Manhattan

For tickets, visit http://www.ovationtix.com

Running time: 80 minutes without an intermission