‘The Orca Show’ is the Perimenopausal Fever Dream We Deserve

Aysan Celik in The Orca Show

Courtesy of Intiman Theatre

Let’s be clear: Society treats the onset of menopause like a slow-motion car crash into a nursing home. Menopausal women are expected to go quietly, perhaps draped in a drab beige sheet, clutching a bottle of magnesium oil and apologizing for their sudden lack of utility. But Aysan Celik isn't interested in apologies or beige aesthetics. In The Orca Show, Celik takes the change of life and dunks it headfirst into the freezing depths of the PNW. It turns out, if you want to understand why you’re currently possessed by the spirit of a 5-ton apex predator, you have to look at the only other mammalian girly who loses her period at forty: the orca.

I went into this show expecting a performance; I left having mosied through the damp, shimmering reflection of my own perimenopausal psyche. Written, created, and performed by Celik, the show was a journey through the wet parts of our biology that we usually pretend aren't there: the sweat, the hormones, and the sheer, unadulterated rage of a woman whose ovaries are staging a violent coup.

The Biological Flex

There is a specific kind of intellectual snobbery in knowing that humans and orcas make up an elite club of the animal kingdom. Most mammals are expected to reproduce until they drop dead in the dirt, but orcas? Around 40, they simply decide they’ve done enough labor. They transition into the role of the matriarch—the wise, terrifying grandmother who leads the pod to the best salmon and keeps the young bulls from doing something stupid.

Celik’s writing leans into this biological milestone with the grace of a breach and the impact of a belly flop. At the center of this chaos is Celik herself, who steers the ship with a commanding, sophisticated wit on the piano and belted tunes. There is a profound moment where Celik reconciles with her 7-year-old self—the girl who looked at Shamu with nothing but awe and wonder. We all remember that girl; the one who happily sat in the front row of the "Splash Zone" for a massive impact, oblivious to the fact that one day, the splash would be internal and involve a complete lack of estrogen.

In a beat that hits surprisingly hard, Celik offers a sincere apology to the amazing actress and vocalist Meg McLynn, who is dressed as the orca. It’s a reconciliatory moment that transcends the stage; it’s an apology to our younger, pre-hormonal selves for the captive, chaotic reality we’ve inherited. McLynn doesn't just play the whale; she embodies the physical toll and the majestic weirdness of the creature, providing a dancing, vocal counterpoint to Celik’s narrative fire.

A Setlist for the Slightly Kooky

The musicality of this show is where the snark truly finds its rhythm. We aren't talking about soft, tinkling piano ballads. We’re talking about "orca-fied" pop standards dragged through a filter of sophisticated kookery.

When the opening song erupts into Billy Ocean’s "Get Outta My Dreams," it isn’t a fun throwback; it’s the theme song for the Always Horny phase that hits like a freight train just as your skin starts to lose its bounce. It’s followed by Lionel Richie’s "Three Times a Lady," a satirical gut-punch to the performance of femininity we’re all supposed to be maintaining while our insides mimic a mid-sized blazing forest fire.

Show poster

Courtesy of Intiman Theatre

The transitions are seamless and sharp. The Pixies’ "Where is My Mind?" becomes the definitive anthem for the brain fog that makes you stare at the fridge for 10 minutes wondering if you live there. By the time Celik and McLynn bring us to Björk’s "Bachelorette" and The Dead Weather’s "Rolling In on a Burning Tire," the air in the room is thick with the scent of rebellion. These aren't just songs—they are the soundtrack to a woman who is finally realizing that the "feminine thing" was a scam she no longer has the energy to run.

Pheromones and the "Bag of Dicks"

One of the most delicious ironies the show explores is the "strong pheromone" phenomenon. You know the one: you’ve stopped trying. You’re wearing a hoodie that smells like 12 hours of sleep and a lack of give-a-damn, yet suddenly, the world is hitting on you. It’s the pheromones of a matriarch: pure, concentrated "don’t eff with me" energy that acts as a magnet for the very people you want to avoid.

The show captures the erratic swings of this era perfectly. One minute you’re the "Gym Weirdo" intensely staring at a treadmill, the next you’re hanging out your car window hollering "Bag of Dicks!" at a driver who had the audacity to exist in your vicinity. It’s unexplained anger, yes, but it’s also a reclamation. Why shouldn’t we be loud? Why shouldn't we howl?

Celik doesn't stop at the rage; she goes for the jugular with the physical dysmorphia. In a yell-out segment that feels like a feverish church revival, she calls out the absurdities of the aging body: "You have more armpit hair than me!" or “Your hands look like your father’s!"

It’s punchy, rhythmic, and incredibly biting. It forces the audience to look in the mirror, not with the soft focus of a skincare ad, but with the high-definition clarity of a woman who knows her lineage is written in her frown lines. 

The Sex Parties and the Hot Flashes

While the stage is filled with menopause advertisement slideshows—those vintage, patronizing images of "troubled" women needing a pill to stay quiet—the orca sounds provided by McLynn (through the click of her remote) provide a haunting counterpoint. It reminds us that while humans are being sold HRT to counteract their menopausal symptoms, orcas are out in the ocean having massive sex parties and being the undisputed queens of the deep.

The only thing missing from this brilliant, kooky journey was an original song specifically dedicated to the hot flash. I would have loved to hear Celik at the piano, belting a heavy ballad about that internal combustion…the way the heat rises like a tidal wave from the chest to the hairline.

Final Breach

The Orca Show isn’t just a night out; it’s a manual for surviving the transition from "vessel" to "matriarch." Between the Hole-inspired energy of "Violet" and the Keane-induced melancholy of "Somewhere Only We Know," the show proves that the premenopausal journey isn't a funeral for our youth; it’s a breach into a much more powerful, much more dangerous ocean.

If you’re over 40 and feeling like a captive animal in a very small tank, this is your show. It’s the only place where being a "Bag of Dicks"-throwing, 12-hour sleeping, horny-yet-exhausted matriarch isn't just accepted—it’s the headline act.