Supermarket 86 – Dream House | theSpace @ Surgeons Hall
In the flickering fluorescence of a small-town convenience store, Supermarket 86 unfolds like a memory half-recalled—warm, awkward, and tinged with regret. It’s 2007, and a blizzard has swept through Ithaca, New York, closing the roads and trapping five young women overnight in a supermarket that feels more like a liminal space than a retail outlet. What begins as a weather-induced inconvenience becomes a crucible for confession, confrontation, and quiet catharsis.
Mia Pelosi’s script is deceptively gentle. It doesn’t shout its themes—it lets them seep in slowly, like the chill through the automatic doors that never quite close. As Rose, the weary cashier with a voice like gravel softened by honey, Pelosi anchors the piece with a performance that’s all restraint and resonance. Her ex walks in just before the power cuts, and the emotional voltage spikes. What follows is a series of revelations—some whispered, some shouted—that feel earned, even when the plot leans on coincidence.
The ensemble cast includes four other women—Jules, Tasha, Lena, and Morgan—each drawn with care and played with conviction. They blow in with the storm, bringing unresolved histories, half-healed wounds, and the kind of emotional shorthand that only comes from years of shared summers and broken promises. The chemistry between them is electric—so natural, so unforced, it feels less like theatre and more like eavesdropping. Their dialogue crackles with authenticity: half-finished sentences, private jokes, and moments of silence that speak louder than words.
For some audience members—particularly men—there’s a voyeuristic thrill to this intimacy. All five characters are female, and the show offers a rare window into the emotional terrain of young women navigating identity, legacy, and longing. It’s not exploitative, but it does evoke the same curiosity that once made Cosmopolitan a guilty pleasure for male readers: a sense of listening in on conversations not meant for them, and being moved by what they hear.
Director Ellie Aslanian keeps the staging tight and intimate, using the confines of the Stephenson Theatre to evoke both claustrophobia and closeness. The set—a lovingly cluttered supermarket aisle—becomes a metaphor for emotional detritus: the things we carry, the things we discard, and the things we pretend not to see.
What elevates Supermarket 86 beyond its premise is its emotional honesty. It’s a play about young women navigating the messy terrain of friendship, grief, and self-definition. It’s about the stories we tell ourselves to survive, and the ones we finally dare to share when the night is long and the exits are blocked.
The show never overreaches. It stays grounded in the human, the awkward, the tender. And in doing so, it reminds us that even the most ordinary places—a supermarket, a snowstorm, a game of “Truth or Dare”—can become sacred when we choose to show up fully.
Reviewed by Pat Harrington
Tickets and more information here We interviewed Mia Pelosi here
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