Poor Judge
Pig Iron Productions/ Wilma Theatre
265 S Broad St.
Philadelphia
Showing through Jan. 25, 2026
Buy tickets here
The sound track for Poor Judge.
The first chord of the musical Poor Judge punctuates a blonde wig slapped onto our protagonist’s head, delivered to them by the rest of the cast who are all sporting the same hair style. They start singing a song written by the indie rocker whose style they’re stealing: Aimee Mann’s “How Am I Different?” is the perfect track for an opening act in an absurd show that asks, how do we fit in or stand out in a culture obsessed with artistic and societal assimilation?
I wasn’t familiar with the music of Aimee Man when I showed up to see Poor Judge, a Pig Iron production set to the alt icon’s song catalogue and now playing at the Wilma Theater. Written by Philly’s Dito van Reigersberg, the dance-cabaret explores the highs and lows of living in Los Angeles and working in Hollywood. Mann’s recorded song book of iconoclastic tracks is the perfect outsider art to accompany a script that charts the standard life challenges of breakups, harsh job auditions and self-expression against the superficial landscape of Los Angeles. The story is a case study of what it means to search for mainstream success when your heart sings a different tune.
The show is also an ideal introduction to Aimee Mann, turning ten of her best songs into rich ensemble vocal arrangements paired with strings, piano, drums and even accordion. I literally got goosebumps every time a storyline crescendoed into song.
The score of the show spans many years of Mann’s career, but lyrics from one song in particular — “How Am I Different?” — stood out as an apt motif in the show, echoing the play’s themes of heartbreak, loss, and the search for self-actualization.
“I can’t do it/ I can’t conceive/ You’re everything you’re trying to make me believe/ ‘Cause this show is too well designed/ Too well to be held with only me in mind/ And how, how am I different/ How, how am I different/ How, how am I different?” The show’s meta sense of humor is off to a running start in these first lines as a chorus of Aimee Mann impersonators wonder aloud if they could be the exception to the rules of heartbreak.
Mann’s question is echoed by a line which pops up repeatedly in the show: “Is there any difference between me and everyone else?” It's first said in the aftermath of the main character’s breakup upon arriving in Los Angeles after moving cross-country as a couple, then again as the protagonist tries to compete for their career during a casting call containing only Aimee look-alikes. When they do land a role, the line is delivered again, this time said through fake tears brought in behind the scenes to really sell it. From misadventures in love to industry let downs, this same question frames the concerns that prevail for our protagonist, even when they find the success they hoped for.
In the liner notes for the album Bachelor No. 2 or, The Last Remains of the Dodo, Mann explains that the inspiration for “How Am I Different” came from being pursued by someone with a messy dating history. "[He] was trying to convince me that with me, it would be different. This is not unlike the experience of being wooed by a record company." Mann’s lyrics and the show’s repeated dialogue both speak to issues of the heart and the empty promises of the entertainment industry.
The show's penchant for pulling back the curtain on Hollywood was played for laughs while underlining an identity crisis. While filming an audition, the protagonist tells themself: “All I have to do is sound like a human, just like you rehearsed it.” Later, we see them planning what to say when meeting up with their ex: “Will I ever see you again?” they wonder aloud, but to no avail. Even when you rehearse your lines, heartbreak persists. In this way, we’re not so different. We're all human.
This simple heartfelt truth is what endears so many to the music of Aimee Mann; you cannot turn away from life’s hard truths. In a place that wants emotion to be bottled and tucked away for its turn on the silver screen, there’s comfort in letting your feelings bubble over as they come. Tearing into your favorite song with a chorus of six other Aimee Mann impersonators is cathartic.
The experimental strangeness of this show is what made it so magnificent: live video projection and moving miniature sets, a whole song performed lying down, and choreography timed to live popcorn popping. It’s a fringe production that found a mainstream audience with its unique formulation of off-kilter humor and a cast of Philly powerhouses. The show ends with a reminder that when Mann’s label snubbed her, rejecting Bachelor No. 2 because it wasn’t deemed radio-friendly, she found a way to strike out on her own — and so can you.
