linda maria girón and River Bermudez Sanders Photo by Cheshire Isaacs

The set (by Jenna Lauren Carroll) establishes an appropriately forbidding mood with dozens of ropes (and at least one belt) hanging from the flyspace, their frayed ends brushing the stage, creating the sense of a dense, dark forest. (Lighting design by Ray Oppenheimer.) Into this space comes Anita (Ashley Jaye), panic in her eyes as she futilely attempts to hitch a ride from the few cars that travel a country road. After a few frustrating moments, she is joined by Charli (River Bermudez Sanders), and we learn the pair is trying to escape from a Christian conversion camp that was endeavoring to turn the teens straight.

While Charli and Anita are hoping simply to escape, fellow camper Zo (linda maria girón) is done with running and is ready to fight back. It doesn't take long before this trio has a target, a foe to fight against. This comes in the form of Thomas (Kenny Scott), a camp counselor (who also turns out to be a sadistic sociopath) who has tracked the escaped teens and confronts them in the woods. Bad idea, for Zo turns the tables on Thomas, who is then trussed up and held captive as the teens debate their next steps: continue with their escape or go back to the camp, imprison the other counselors, and convert them from their homophobia in a sort of reeducation gulag.

Choi's characters are relatively well-developed, and distinctive in their viewpoints. Charli speaks with carefully progressive language, trying always to be inclusive and inoffensive: "What I'm hearing you say is..." or Why did we breach your privacy? Because we want to connect with you." Zo is angry, so angry in fact that she has no compunction against using the techniques of their oppressors against them–and more, going so far as to waterboard (offstage action) one of the counselors, much to the horror of Anita and especially Charli. Anita is the meekest of the three, but has the clearest goal: to get back home to look after her younger sister.

There are a few compelling scenes and even a fair bit of humor, as when Charli, as part of his effort to reeducate Thomas out of his homophobia, rattles off a slew of first names of LGBTQ icons so Thomas can respond with the last names. For his part, Thomas is intractable, and also uses the language of his foes against them: "I was born this way," he says when they confront him about his sadism.

Despite these positive aspects (including Choi's flowing, naturalistic dialogue), the show is a bit of a mess. It would help justify the teen's actions if we were able to see some of the tactics used by the conversion camp (and the kids' parents) in order to justify the rebellion. Though nothing can justify the actions of the people who run these camps, or parents who shame their queer children (the kids rattle off the effects of conversion attempts: much higher rates of suicide, self-harm and homelessness), but giving their foes a voice other than a psychopathic sadist would actually strengthen their case. The show also has some ridiculous plot points (how did they manage to bring their parents to the camp and hold them prisoner along with the counselors?) and sputters to an unsatisfying conclusion that never answers any of the questions raised during the previous two hours.

Becca Wolff uses the confined space of the Potrero Stage quite effectively and has guided her cast to solid, if unexceptional performances, but this world premiere production needs some significant work before it's ready for a bigger stage. Back me against a wall and I'd have to say skip this one.

Crowded Fire Theater's Limp Wrist on the Lever runs through October 4, 2025, at Potrero Stage, 1695 18th Street, San Francisco CA. Performances are Thursdays-Sundays at 8:00 p.m., with matinees Saturdays and Sundays at 3:00 p.m. There will be an additional performance Monday, September 22 at 8:00 p.m. Tickets are $25 general admission, or pay what you can at the door, and no one will be turned away for lack of funds. For tickets and information, please visit www.crowdedfire.org.