Booked & Scene

Sweet Fruit, Rotten Core  

Set in Puerto Rico, Don’t Eat the Mangos invites us into the crumbling home of three sisters navigating love, loyalty, and the long, festering wounds of generational trauma. What begins as a darkly comedic story following a family’s dysfunction,  quickly spirals into something much deeper—and far heavier. The play centers around Ismelda, Yinoelle, and Wicha, sisters bound by history and the failing health of their tyrannical father. As secrets surface and alliances shift, González asks the audience a difficult question: when your roots are poisoned, can you ever truly stay grounded?

Three Sisters, Countless Layers

The emotional engine of this production is its cast, especially the vibrant dynamics between Yesenia Iglesias (Yinoelle) and Evelyn Howe (Wicha). The middle and youngest sisters bring levity, authenticity, and a chemistry so rich it grounds the entire show. They carry many of the show’s sharpest and most humorous moments, and it’s a true joy each time they share the stage. Their arcs feel full and satisfying—perhaps because they’re the least weighed down by the play’s most harrowing traumas.

Jessica Pimentel brings a deep tenderness and quiet strength to Ismelda, the eldest sister, who shoulders the greatest emotional burden. Her performance feels careful and considered, even as her character’s final decision leaves audiences divided.  

Susanna Guzmán’s portrayal of Mami is subtle until it isn’t—and in the play’s most climactic moment, she delivers an unforgettable performance that left me wanting to stand and applaud on the spot. José Ramón Rosario makes Papi utterly loathsome, fully inhabiting a man whose cruelty shapes the very DNA of the family’s suffering. It’s a deeply effective, hard-to-watch performance that rightly garners disdain from the audience.

The House That Held It All  

While the acting was strong across the board, the true showstoppers might just be the scenic and costume designers. Tanya Orellana’s rotating set is nothing short of masterful. Every nook of the home—from the peeling, weathered exterior walls to the detail-rich kitchen, from the sterile hospital bed to the childlike bedroom frozen in time—tell their own stories. The ever-present mango tree looming was a brilliant visual choice, silently bearing witness to the family’s history and pain.

Zoë Sundra’s costume design was equally impressive. Each sister felt visually distinct, their styles echoing their personalities and internal battles. These costumes were not just clothing—they were tools that helped actors fully inhabit their roles. Together, Orellana and Sundra deserve a standing ovation for bringing a vivid slice of Puerto Rico to Boston’s stage.

Don’t Call It a Comedy  

The Huntington has billed this as a “wickedly funny new family tragedy,” but that phrasing feels misleading. While the play contains moments of sharp wit—often thanks to Yinoelle and Wicha—the humor is a seasoning, not the main course. What this show really is, is a heavy and emotionally intense drama that tackles difficult topics head-on: incest, sexual assault, coercive control, forced abortion, elder care, violence, homophobia, and suicide. These themes are not touched on lightly—they are central, and at times unrelenting.  

Clocking in at just under 1 hour and 50 minutes with no intermission, the pacing felt uneven. The middle portion had me fully engaged, leaning in to catch every word. But the first 30 and final 30 minutes felt padded, with scenes that could have been trimmed to make the experience tighter and more focused. The ending, in particular, suffered from multiple “false finales”—several moments felt like the natural end, only for the play to continue, diluting the emotional payoff.

Ismelda’s final decision, while thematically consistent, left me disheartened. In a piece so centered on pain, survival, and legacy, it felt like a missed opportunity not to more directly address the potential for healing—through therapy, through distance, through self-preservation. For a character who endured so much, her choice to remain felt like a silent endorsement of enduring harm rather than seeking change.

Lost in Translation  

One of the bold choices in Don’t Eat the Mangos is its generous use of Spanish, with what felt like 30–40% of the dialogue spoken without translation. While this added cultural authenticity and rhythm, it also created an accessibility challenge. Many around me in the audience were audibly lost during extended Spanish-language scenes, and it impacted comprehension in key emotional moments.  

As Boston continues to champion new and diverse voices on stage, it’s worth considering how to balance authenticity with clarity—especially for audiences who may not be bilingual. In another city, such as Miami, this play might meet audiences who can more fully connect with both the language and the cultural nuances. Here, it risks alienating some theatergoers who struggle to follow the narrative as a result.

Hard to Digest  

Don’t Eat the Mangos is not a light evening at the theatre. It’s emotionally dense, morally complex, and deeply tragic. While it contains moments of sharp writing, compelling performances, and exceptional design, it didn’t fully come together for me in its current form. A trimmed runtime or an added intermission might have helped make the emotional weight more bearable.

Still, it’s exciting to see Boston stages spotlighting emerging artists and stories that stretch the boundaries of what “regional theater” can be. This is a play that asks hard questions. For me, the answers were less satisfying than I’d hoped. But for others—especially those who recognize the language, the setting, the power struggles—it may resonate on a far deeper level.