From Tulsa With Lust: The Outsiders Is Way Hotter Than You Remember

Sodapop ripped his shirt off center stage and just… stayed like that. For a long time. A really long time. I know he’s supposed to be the bimbo brother—the himbo with heart, the touchy-feely greaser who makes audience members want to touchy and feely his body—but he’s so much more than that. And he probably doesn’t even realize it. Because, well… he’s kind of an idiot.

As I watched the adults smirk into their Playbills and smelled the unholy cocktail of Axe body spray and adolescent sweat around me, I noticed something: both demographics lost their damn minds at the reveal of Sodapop’s glistening, stage-lit areolas.

On Broadway, Sodapop Curtis is the neon sign flashing "Welcome to Puberty!" Few things signal the leap into adulthood like the sudden, gut-punch realization of sexuality. This play understands that. It revels in it. The Outsiders oozes sex appeal, and I was bashfully delighted by just how much.

Rolling around in the rain? Sexy.
Sliding down the hood of a car mid-musical number? Sexy.
Throwing omnipresent gravel into the air while thrusting like Usher circa 2004? Unreasonably sexy.

The Outsiders works because it captures the reckless thrill of growing up, of shedding the last remnants of childhood and jumping headfirst into the unknown. It’s gritty. It’s hopeful. It’s TULSA.

The Play Doesn’t Shy Away From Discomfort

The Outsiders doesn’t just tell you these boys have hard lives—it makes you feel it, sometimes in ways that are deeply uncomfortable.

Johnny’s home life isn’t just referenced; it’s projected onto the stage, his parents’ verbal and physical abuse playing out in real-time. It’s not a quick cutaway or something softened by suggestion—it lingers, forcing the audience to sit with it, to feel Johnny’s world closing in just as he does. And then there’s Dally, reckless and violent, threatening to storm into that same home just to provoke Johnny’s mother. The audience might not be meant to sympathize with him, but in a moment like that, we do.

Darry dressing Dally down is another turning point. Dally is the story’s unrepentant delinquent, the character we expect to be the least redeemable—but Darry’s words cut deep, stripping away bravado and reminding him (and us) that, for all his tough talk, he has nothing. No real job. No family responsibilities. No future. The moment stings because Dally has been presented as someone too hardened to be hurt—but here, for a split second, we see the wound.

And then there’s the violence. Real violence. Someone’s head slamming into a car, followed by the high-pitched, engulfing ring of tinnitus that makes you brace yourself in your seat. Those moments are not stylized or over-choreographed—it just happens, the way fights do, too fast for anyone to react.

The sound design in this show doesn’t just accompany the action—it forces you to absorb it. The deep, rumbling bass before a fight makes you feel the tension in your chest before a punch is ever thrown. The piercing tinnitus sound after an impact makes the world feel like it’s closing in, forcing you to experience the split-second disorientation of real violence. Even in quieter moments, the way sound is layered—a distant siren, the murmur of an offstage world that never stops moving—keeps the audience on edge. It’s not just what you see that pulls you in; it’s what you hear.

But it’s not just the action that makes this production feel raw—it’s the world itself. The feel of real gravel underfoot, kicked up and scattered as the characters fight to hold their ground. The sudden downpour of rain pounding onto the stage during the rumble, soaking everyone—actors and audience alike—in the weight of the moment. The heat from actual fire engulfing the church, its glow flickering against the actors’ faces as they make an impossible choice.

These aren’t just theatrical tricks; they are felt. When Johnny and Ponyboy throw handfuls of gravel, you hear it land. When the rain comes, you see the fabric of their clothes cling to them, heavy and unrelenting. When the fire blazes, you almost expect to feel its warmth from your seat. The show doesn’t just depict a rough world—it builds it, breathes it, lets it settle into your skin.

There’s a grit to The Outsiders that so many coming-of-age stories shy away from. Growing up is messy, awkward, and at times brutal, and this show doesn’t try to tidy that up. But it also doesn’t exploit it—it moves fast, exhilarating, almost cinematic, making the audience feel safe even as they grip the sides of their seat. The emotional stakes are high, but so are the physical ones, and that investment—both in the characters and in the sensory world around them—is what makes this production feel alive.

The Music: Does It Carry the Story?

Some moments in The Outsiders feel like they’re built for music, and when the score rises to meet them, it’s striking. Great Expectations is one of those moments. On its own, it’s a beautiful, aching piece, but in the context of the show, it becomes something more—a quiet reckoning with the weight of growing up. The song captures that specific teenage tension between what you want, what you think you should want, and what you’ve been told you should want. It’s the uncertainty of standing at the edge of something bigger than yourself, knowing you have to move forward but not knowing how. The harmonies swell in a way that feels like a knot in your chest unraveling, and it works because, for all the roughness of The Outsiders, this is its softest, most universal truth: at some point, we all realize we can’t stay kids forever.

And then there’s "I Could Talk to You All Night," which nails that breathless, exhilarating moment of new love. It’s the feeling of never tiring of someone's voice, of wanting to memorize the way they think, the way they see the world. The song pulses with anticipation, the kind where you're always waiting for the next sentence, the next laugh, the next little piece of this person to be revealed. It’s pure, unfiltered infatuation—the kind that feels infinite when you’re in it.

That being said, not every song lands as well. The twang-heavy, country-inflected numbers tend to blur together, making some sections feel less like musical storytelling and more like a radio stuck on the same station. Maybe that’s the point—maybe Ponyboy secretly resents Darry because every time they fight, he launches into yet another vaguely similar-sounding ballad about responsibility. (But then again, isn’t that the fate of all parental figures—doomed to repeat themselves until their message finally sinks in?)

The Cast: Who Defines This Production?

Some performances completely redefine these characters, making it almost impossible to go back to the film versions.

Sky Lakota-Lynch is a better Johnny than Ralph Macchio ever was. Ralph played Johnny as a shaking, wide-eyed puppy, but Lakota-Lynch gives him a quiet wisdom, a backbone. This Johnny isn’t just some helpless kid waiting to be saved—he can handle his own. There’s fragility to him, yes, but it’s not pathetic. Ralph made Johnny seem like a little bitch; Lakota-Lynch makes him someone you respect, someone you believe in. He doesn’t just play Johnny as the tragic little brother of the group; he plays him as someone carrying years of hurt in a body too small to bear it. And there’s a power in that.

Alex Joseph Grayson’s Dally brings nuance to a character who, frankly, hasn’t aged well in the era of Me Too. In the movie, Dally’s toughness teeters on abusive; here, there’s a real sincerity beneath his recklessness. When he threatens to “save” Johnny’s mom from a beating, it’s not just posturing—it’s the closest thing to big brother energy Johnny actually gets. In many ways, he’s more of a protector than Darry ever is.

And then there’s Daryl Tofa, who outright steals the show. He moves with an ease, a quiet confidence that makes him magnetic in every scene he’s in. His presence is the most uncontrived thing onstage—there’s no effort in his charisma because he doesn’t need any. His movements, his voice, even the way he stands—it all feels grounded, natural, effortless.

Brody Grant is a fantastic Ponyboy, truly wonderful and alluring. But here’s the thing: Ponyboy, as a character, has always been insufferable. And this version doesn’t make him any less so. He whines about everything being his fault, and honestly? It kind of is. Grant gives him the aching vulnerability the role needs, but this script doesn’t do him many favors—it leans into his self-pity in a way that makes it hard to stay on his side.

Darry’s role feels tired—probably because Darry himself is exhausted. He’s spent years holding everything together with nothing to call his own, and the performance reflects that. But vocally? He’s the strongest in the cast. His voice isn’t Broadway-polished, but it doesn’t need to be. It feels ripped right from a Nashville stage, a sound that’s more weathered country than classic theater.

The Technical Elements: A Revamped Classic

For a story that’s been around since 1967, The Outsiders doesn’t feel dated—it feels revitalized, thanks to the way light, sound, and projection are used to pull the audience straight into its world. The use of projectors isn’t just a gimmick—it’s storytelling. Johnny’s parents’ fight isn’t acted out on stage; it’s thrown onto a screen in grainy, flickering shadows, making it feel both distant and inescapable—like a nightmare he can never quite wake up from. The lighting is sharp, purposeful—darkness swallows entire characters whole, while slashes of neon cut through the gloom like streetlights in an empty city. And the sound? It’s not just heard; it’s felt. The tinnitus-like ring after a character gets slammed into a car? It engulfs the theater, so you feel the impact just as much as the characters do. The bass before a fight scene? It builds like an oncoming storm, pressing into your chest before the first punch is even thrown.

It’s ironic, really—this is a story from over half a century ago, but it moves like something brand new. So many Broadway shows rely on familiar tricks—big-budget spectacle that wows but doesn’t innovate. The Outsiders takes an old story and makes it feel urgent, modern, and alive. The technology isn’t just there to impress; it’s there to immerse, to disorient, to make the world feel as raw and unpredictable as growing up itself.

Tulsa Gets Freaky

There’s a scene where Sodapop and Ponyboy lay side by side on their car-turned-bed (times are apparently tough in 1960s Tulsa). Sodapop—still half-naked—is upside down. Ponyboy is right-side up. And to the wrong kind of person (me), this looked uncomfortably close to a 69 position. Which is… upsetting. Because they are brothers. I know we’re in Tulsa, Oklahoma, but come on.

Now, let’s get to the real question:
What’s the difference between Socs and Greasers?
Well, apparently—Greasers EAT ASS!

I thought long and hard (five seconds) before deciding whether this belonged in my review. But then I asked myself: is it ethical NOT to discuss the Broadway-sanctioned ass eating happening at Buck Merrill’s place?

Let’s set the scene. Beneath the deep red glow of the high beam—a rotisserie chicken light if there ever was one—a woman arches her back, spreads her legs, and a man bends down and bobs his head between them. For like… a good long while. This is not a quick, furtive lick. This is a commitment.

Look, there were a lot of suggestive staging choices available. They could have gone with a sultry glance, a strategically timed dip, a tasteful fade to black.
But no.
They chose full-throttle, unambiguous ass eating.
And so, I choose to make it one of the focal points of my review.

I’ll leave you with that to chew on.