A SELF-INFLICTED WOUND POSING
AS THEATER. SAFE WORD: CURTAIN

An erotic psychological thriller script
without the erotic, psychology, thrill, or script

Dear Gay Theater-makers,

I am writing today to encourage you to see the terrible new play Punish Me, by triple-threat writer-producer-actor Michael Dukakis, currently renting space at the Hudson Backstage Theatre. Do I recommend it? Absolutely not. But you should experience bad theater — watch well-meaning people plummet into the abyss — so that you do not also inflict this kind of torture on your fellow artists, audiences, and, most importantly, me.

The idiot plot in this memory play, “inspired by true events,” concerns Nick (played by Dukakis), a struggling screenwriter from Greece living in Los Angeles on an artist’s visa. Using overheated dialogue meant to evoke 1940s film noir (don’t get excited — there’s no style here), Nick opens by lamenting that Hollywood is full of hustlers and fakers. His scripts go nowhere. A skilled actor might lean into the bitterness; Dukakis instead plays Nick as a whiny, mopey doormat, telegraphing every twist to anyone who has ever seen a movie.

Dylan Griner, Michael Dukakis

Nick attends some red-carpet event and meets Damon, a handsome photographer played by Dylan Griner. Damon flirts. Nick shows no interest — until learning Damon’s mother is a powerful Hollywood producer. They begin dating. Damon soon instructs Nick to delete his “apps.” Your mind is already ahead of me, so I’ll move on.

There is a widely accepted principle in the arts: when you are the boss, you hire people better than you. This collapses when the boss casts himself as the lead having no discernible training. Griner certainly looks like a catch, but when every scene is opposite someone whose vocal delivery barely rises above a mumble, well, you have to drive with traffic. Brianna Bell is refreshing as Nick’s therapist friend Giselle, mostly because we can hear her. Dukakis identifies Giselle as a lesbian, but beyond the label there’s nothing lesbianic about her — representation by footnote.

Michael Dukakis, Jaiden Blessing

As Shelly, Damon’s possibly-psychotic ex, Jaiden Blessing begins as if she understands what kind of play she’s actually in — which is to say, not a “psychological thriller.” Lidia Porto plays Damon’s mother with the kind of naturalistic ease that comes from being a journeyman actress, leading me to suspect that she directed herself. (Young actors, take note: when you’re trapped under weak direction, milk your performance, chew the scenery. They won’t notice.)

Dukakis’s writing is undercooked and underdeveloped, collapsing into clichés amateurs usually learn to avoid. Major plot points arrive via blunt exposition or vanish into holes. “Engaged” and “married” are treated interchangeably, leaving a key plot point murky for a third of the running time. There’s ridiculous dialogue that veers into self-parody: Closeted Nick tells closeted Damon how much he enjoys gay sex “until I cum.” [Dramatic head tilt.] “Then comes the storm.” In their first meeting, Shelly screams, “He made me get an abortion!” — and then nothing. We’re just… leaving that there?

Michael Dukakis, Dylan Griner

Attempts at harrowing violence end up being risible instead. Recounting childhood abuse, Nick intones, “I counted all thirty-five steps” as his father pushed him down the stairs. Let’s pause. Thirty-five steps? A straight staircase would be absurdly long. A curved or landing-broken stairwell would destroy momentum every ten steps. Even Buster Keaton would’ve wrapped it up by twenty. A smarter theater queen would’ve added four steps as a Hitchcock nod — but that same queen would also know to stay away.

Monique Sorgen’s visionless direction opts for flat realism — the hallmark of imaginative surrender — saddling the play with more blackouts than a dive bar during a citywide power outage and scenes shorter than an attention span on TikTok. Sorgen does nothing to shape or stitch them together, letting momentum die repeatedly. Annie Reznik serves as intimacy coordinator, which is modern theater’s version of hiring a valet to park a bicycle. Remember, queer theater-makers, bring on an intimacy coordinator if you want to throw money down the drain while learning absolutely nothing about how gay men actually court or fuck. Together, these two display a level of cluelessness rivaling straight women who write gay fiction and gay porn.

I’ll ignore the rookie mistake of staging actors on the floor directly in front of the first row, blocking half the audience’s view. I’ll even forgive the clumsy flashbacks and scene transitions that made me stifle laughter. Or the pathetic fight choreography. Need I continue?

Michael Dukakis, Dylan Griner

You have two attractive male leads. Within minutes they’re undressing and making out on a beach. Sorgen stages them at the extreme edge of the set, while Reznik blocks Griner’s stunning hairy chest with Dukakis’s back. No offense, Michael, but your back is not your best asset, and someone should’ve told you. A minute later they’re dressed again. No nudity. No eroticism. Just flesh-colored boxer-briefs. Boxer-briefs. I’ve felt more sexual tension during a Lifetime movie handshake.

Despite a content warning announced after seats are taken, Punish Me utterly fails to put the erotic in erotic thriller (actually, it doesn’t have thrills either). Hell, there was more chemistry between Giselle and Shelly than in all of Nick and Damon’s grinding. Actor-writers, there is no shame in writing a play where you get to make out with a cute boy. That’s how Eating Out began. Savor it. Make us enjoy watching.

Brianna Bell, Michael Dukakis

Steve Pope’s lighting design fares no better. The beach scene is lit like an overcast afternoon. Moments later Damon points out a shooting star in the night sky. In Los Angeles. With that light pollution. Combined with Sorgen’s blocking, the play is nearly over before we finally see Griner’s gorgeous hazel eyes. How do you cast beautiful people and then refuse to display them?

Costuming receives even less thought. A clothing rack sits center stage for the entire play, yet the story spans nearly a year with virtually no costume changes. Damon, now in full villain mode, swindles $500,000 from Nick. I wanted to know: where does it go? Drugs? A suite at Disney World? Producing his own play? What, no wardrobe upgrades? Not even one decent jacket? Nope, Damon remains in the same cheap t-shirt and jeans, as if poverty were a conceptual choice.

Michael Dukakis, Dylan Griner

Writers often avoid showing fictional artists’ work lest audiences become critics mid-story. Here, we watch Nick type and read aloud from his autobiographical screenplay: “A painful silence for 30 seconds.” And suddenly it hit me — Punish Me is exactly the sort of script Magnum Opus Theatre used to perform during Sacred Fools’ glory days (RIP): unproduced terrible screenplays like Abi’s Choice, “Word for word. Unedited. We didn’t change a thing,” but with love and asphyxiatingly funny humor. This is your chance to see that kind of screenplay, but performed earnestly.

Don’t attend to mock — that’s rude. But laugh when laughter comes. Groan when it demands it. Cover your eyes in embarrassment. These people deserve the honesty.

With affection,

Nick

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photos by Avi Kaye

Punish Me: A Psychological Thriller
Hudson Backstage Theatre, 6539 Santa Monica Boulevard
95 minutes, no intermission
Wednesdays at 7:30
ends on February 25, 2026
for tickets ($29-$35), visit On Stage 411

for more shows, visit Theatre in LA

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