Review: BOB & JEAN: A LOVE STORY at Arizona Theatre Company
By Herb Paine. Originally published on BroadwayWorld.com.
There are love stories that sweep us up in the thrill of passion, and then there are love stories that unfold with the slow, deliberate patience of real life. Bob & Jean: A Love Story, premiering at Arizona Theatre Company, belongs to the latter, but it is no less exhilarating. It is a labor of a son’s love.
Written by Pulitzer Prize and Tony-winning playwright Robert Schenkkan, the play is inspired by the true wartime courtship of his parents, brought to life through letters exchanged across vast continents and battlefronts. In an age when love often unfolds in text messages and vanishing images, this production is a poignant reminder of a time when love was written in longhand and built on carefully chosen words.
At its heart, Bob & Jean is an ode to love’s endurance in the face of uncertainty. Set in the early 1940s, Bob, a Navy bomb disposal officer, and Jean, a USO actress, meet in New York and are instantly drawn to one another. But just as quickly as their story begins, war intervenes, sending Bob to the Pacific and Jean on tour to perform for troops. What follows is a deeply personal chronicle of their relationship, told through their letters—sometimes tender, sometimes humorous and teasing, always passionate and pulsating with the ache of separation.
The play’s emotional thread is guided—and enriched—by the presence of the Narrator, a role that adds a reflective, almost meditative quality to the storytelling. Played with inspired authority and warmth by Scott Wentworth, the Narrator is the grown son of Bob and Jean, discovering their wartime correspondence and piecing together the story of their enduring love. His voice serves as an emotional anchor, bridging past and present, and offering a deeply personal perspective on the events as they unfold. This framing device is one of the play’s greatest strengths, allowing the audience to not only witness Bob and Jean’s story but also to feel its lasting impact across generations.
Schenkkan’s writing is sharp, intimate, and refreshingly unsentimental. He avoids the easy trappings of romantic nostalgia and, instead, offers dialogue that is deeply human—full of wit, doubt, and the kind of yearning that feels achingly real. The play never falls into the trap of being a mere historical reenactment; instead, it is a living, breathing testament to the resilience of love in the face of war.
That said, the structure—two hours of largely epistolary exchanges, broken by a 15-minute intermission—can at times feel static. The stakes rarely escalate, and the pacing, while deliberate, occasionally risks dragging. It’s a story full of heart, but one that asks an audience for a good deal of patience.
Thankfully, director Matt August knows exactly how to meet the play where it lives. His staging is precise, elegant and disciplined, always ensuring that the performances and the text drive the emotion.
Scene transitions are handled with seamless fluidity, enhanced by Mike Billings’s subtle shifts in lighting and Stephen Gifford’s minimalist and functional set design, accented by billowing drapes and the sweeping backdrop of timeworn love letters.
The chemistry between the two leads (Jake Bentley Young and Mary Mattison) is vital in a production like this, and the performances deliver. As the title couple, they carry the piece with endearing chemistry.
Young captures the internal struggle of a man trying to stay strong in a world where death is always near. His voice carries the poetry of a romantic and the weight of duty, but it is in his unspoken moments—pauses before finishing a sentence, the hesitation in a breath—that we truly feel his vulnerability. And then, there are prize moments when he luxuriates in the romance of it all, boisterous, animated—literally, head over heels.
Mattison is radiant as Jean—equally compelling, playing her role with charm and resolve. Her scenes are a study in contrast—one moment she is full of energy, performing for soldiers, the next she is alone with a letter in her hands, the loneliness pressing in, the uncertainty about commitment heavy on her heart.
The exchanges between the two lovers feel lived-in, not performed, making it easy to invest in their journey.
One of the play’s most striking achievements is its commentary on communication itself. In an era dominated by instant gratification, Bob & Jean s a poignant reminder of the emotional richness that can blossom from patience and anticipation—from the time it takes to craft a thought, to wait for a reply, to live with the ache of silence, to celebrate the arrival of the mail. The delays become part of the romance. They add a level of emotional depth that feels almost foreign in our hyperconnected world.
To the playwright’s credit, Bob & Jean speaks to inescapable, darker realities—antisemitism, the Holocaust, and the shadow of the atomic bomb—without letting these themes overwhelm the central narrative. They are reminders of the real world in which these lovers must live. They give the story texture and gravity. And, given their irrepressible devotion, it may be that love conquers all.
Still, there is a sense—especially by the final scenes—that the play is as much for the playwright as it is for the audience. Schenkkan’s effort to memorialize his parents’ love is undeniably moving, but also deeply personal, and the result sometimes drifts toward indulgence. The drama is more in the feeling than in the action, and viewers who crave narrative momentum may find their attention wandering.
And yet, it’s hard not to be charmed. Arizona Theatre Company has staged a heartfelt and finely wrought production—a love story that resists sentimentality and embraces sincerity. Bob & Jean may not sweep you off your feet, but it will wrap its arms around you and whisper a reminder of what it means to hold on.
In the end, it is not just a story of love—it’s a meditation on memory, connection, and the things worth waiting for.