BLACKPILL: REDUX

Click here if you liked this article 4

https://www.theatreworks.org.au/2026/blackpill-redux

Date Reviewed: 08/01/2026

We enter into a sound boom as we take our seats at Theatre Works. A blast rattles the room before a single line is spoken. This visceral auditory assault immediately primes the audience for immersion, ushering us into a digital underworld where adrenaline replaces reflection.

Written and directed by Chris Patrick Hansen, BLACKPILL: REDUX is a timely interrogation of the manosphere, gaining urgency as incel-adjacent rhetoric increasingly spills from online grievance into offline harm. The narrative follows 25-year-old Eli (Oliver Tapp), spiralling after threatening online behaviour on Hinge is reported to his workplace and costs him his job.

Where popular Netflix series’ Adolescence (2025) leans into quiet naturalism, BLACKPILL opts for black comedy and theatrical overload, capturing the frantic logic of a TikTok feed. Its greatest strength lies in its cohesive ensemble: no single performer dominates, allowing the power of the collective to take centre stage. Standout moments include the hive-mind of “Gemma” HR representatives and the boxing sequences with a personal trainer chanting rigid mantras of masculinity.

The Paracosm production is at its most potent when the cast functions as a single, throbbing Greek chorus. Their swarm-like logic reinforces the anonymity of online culture, suggesting that Eli’s descent is not a solitary fall but a surrender to a collective way of thinking.

There are many highlights, though the fragmented delivery occasionally works against narrative clarity. The Hugh Grant “Blue Pill” rom-com pastiche and the dream sequences with Ross from Friends, Snape and others are well-executed, but feel as though they belong to a different production. That said, through these additions, Hansen mirrors the disorienting experience of digital life, where conflicting messages coexist and attention splinters under algorithmic pressure.

The show unfolds across three acts. During Act II, a power failure abruptly halted the performance. This unplanned moment of silence unintentionally underscored the work’s themes, but was handled with humour and composure. "At least you can be sure we're not lip synching," they joked 

Visually, Jacques Cooney Adlard’s design is a technical triumph. The projected hexagonal screens function as the lifeblood of the piece, pulsing with messages, imagery and threat. The major shortfall lies in one aspect of sound design: during Naz’s synthesised voice sequences, dialogue was occasionally muffled, forcing the audience to rely on caption screens.

Spoiler alert: In the finale, Naz removes his mask in what becomes a chilling anti-climax. By revealing the face behind the menace as unremarkable, the production suggests that radicalisation is fuelled not by monsters, but by banality. While the idea is compelling, the revelation arrives abruptly and lacks sufficient dramatic groundwork to feel fully convincing.

Similarly, Eli’s sudden reconsideration comes too swiftly. Given the digital tide that has seemingly swallowed him whole, his change of direction feels underdeveloped and emotionally unearned.

Despite its few flaws, BLACKPILL: REDUX is a moving and intellectually bracing work that is genuinely delivered by a talented cast and crew. Imperfect but ambitious, it confronts an urgent cultural crisis head-on, demanding attention rather than comfort, and leaving audiences unsettled in exactly the way it intends.

Who’s it for
Audiences interested in contemporary politics, digital culture, and theatre that confronts uncomfortable social realities head-on. It will particularly resonate with younger viewers fluent in online discourse, as well as educators, parents and policymakers seeking to understand how radicalisation takes root in plain sight.

• Highlights
  Electrifying ensemble performance that prioritises collective power over individual star turns
• Striking lighting and digital design that viscerally captures life inside the algorithm
• Razor-sharp corporate satire and the haunting realism of the train sequence
• A bold, unapologetic refusal to sanitise the consequences of online misogyny

Performances run through to Saturday, 17 January and takes place nightly at 7.30pm with 2pm matinee performances on Saturdays. Closed Sunday.

Reviewed by Mary Sinanidis