There’s something hauntingly poetic about the way nature cycles through chaos and order, and Vince Gatton’s play Chagutok leans into that tension with the kind of audacity that makes theater feel alive. The story, set on a desolate Alaskan island and steeped in supernatural mystery, isn’t just about cicadas—it’s about how humans grapple with forces beyond their control, whether they’re 17-year insect swarms or the existential void of divine ambiguity. What makes this particularly fascinating is how Gatton uses the cyclical, almost apocalyptic nature of cicadas as a metaphor for our own relationship with time, power, and the unknown. Personally, I think the play’s genius lies in its refusal to offer easy answers. It’s not a sci-fi romp; it’s a psychological labyrinth wrapped in a cosmic joke, and that’s exactly what makes it resonate in an era where we’re all trying to find meaning in a world that feels increasingly unmoored.
The cicada’s 17-year emergence isn’t just a biological marvel—it’s a cultural touchstone that Gatton weaponizes with precision. He’s not the first to notice that these insects coincide with moments of societal upheaval (just ask anyone who remembers the 2004 Bush administration or the 2016 election). But what’s striking here is how he transforms that observation into a narrative device. The Chagutok Lights, this mysterious phenomenon tied to the cicada cycle, become a symbol of collective memory. One thing that immediately stands out is how Gatton frames these events as both a blessing and a curse. The characters in Chagutok are haunted by the past, not just literally but emotionally—this is a play that understands that trauma doesn’t disappear; it just resurfaces when the world feels ready to confront it again. In my opinion, this is where the play’s true power lies: it doesn’t just tell a story; it invites the audience to sit with their own unresolved histories.
The Dayton Playhouse FutureFest is no stranger to bold choices, but Chagutok’s win feels like a statement. This isn’t just a play about supernatural phenomena—it’s a critique of how we process history, how we assign meaning to events that feel arbitrary. What many people don’t realize is that Gatton’s work is deeply rooted in the American psyche. His references to Stephen King and the existential dread of Lost aren’t random; they’re a nod to a cultural lexicon that thrives on ambiguity. The adjudicators who praised the play’s seamless plot and immersive world-building likely recognized this: Chagutok isn’t just entertaining—it’s a mirror held up to our collective anxiety about the future. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the play’s characters navigate their relationships amid this cosmic uncertainty. The tender partnership between Rex and Daniel, for instance, isn’t just a subplot—it’s a testament to human resilience in the face of the incomprehensible. This raises a deeper question: Can love or friendship exist in a world where everything feels like it’s spiraling out of control? Gatton suggests yes, but only if we’re willing to confront the chaos head-on.
Looking at the other festival entries, it’s clear that Chagutok stands out not just for its originality, but for its emotional heft. Works like dress—which tackles gender identity and toxic masculinity—are vital, but they often feel like they’re shouting into a void. Chagutok, on the other hand, is a quiet scream, one that lingers long after the curtain falls. What this really suggests is that audiences are craving stories that don’t just entertain but challenge them to think differently. The fact that Gatton’s play was chosen as the audience favorite is no accident; it speaks to a hunger for narratives that blend the fantastical with the deeply human. If you take a step back and think about it, this is the kind of storytelling that could redefine what theater is capable of in the 21st century. It’s not just about escapism anymore—it’s about finding hope in the messiness of existence.
As America celebrates its 250th anniversary, Chagutok feels like a necessary reminder that our past is a tapestry of contradictions, and our future is a blank canvas waiting to be painted. Gatton’s play doesn’t offer solutions—it offers a space for reflection. And in a world that’s increasingly polarized, that might be the most radical act of all. The next time cicadas emerge, I wonder if we’ll all be sitting in our living rooms, wondering where we were the last time, and what that says about where we are now.
