Sequels aren’t exactly rare or novel. As a creative enterprise, they’re safer than a wholly original property because they thread a narrative needle, providing readers/viewers with something both familiar and unknown—a new story featuring characters and a world we already “get,” no exposition necessary.

More recently, of course, we’ve witnessed the rise of the prequel (Wicked, anyone? The Joker? Cruella?), which offers the same artistic advantages but projects backward in time rather than forward.

With all this in mind, allow me pause to sing the praises of prolific, Michigan-native playwright Joseph Zettelmaier (now based in Florida) for breathing new air into an old form with his latest play, The Men of Sherwood, now having its world premiere via Penny Seats Theatre Company through December 8.

While most sequels lean in hard on a story’s central character, depending on their allure to draw fans back, Zettelmaier instead kills off a beloved, charismatic hero and asks: What happens to a story’s minor characters, the followers, when the nucleus that long held them together perishes? Can a body, without its beating heart, function? (And even if it can, should it?)

The absent leader in Sherwood, of course, is Robin Hood, and the 90-minute play chronicles the Christmastime reunion of four of his Merry Men who are considerably older and less merry. Wry Abbott (formerly Friar) Tuck (Will Myers) hosts the gathering in his order’s wine cellar; Sir Alan Clare (Andy Jones), the band’s former minstrel, has had his title and land restored, and thus arrives as a married lord and father, clad in armor; John Little (Joel Mitchell) remains a jovial, loud, larger-than-life figure who lives on the fringes of English life; and the youngest among them, glowering William Gamwell (Jonathan Davidson), has just been released from a five year prison sentence for attempting to assassinate the corrupt King John.

Besides memories and shared past experiences, what do these men have in common with each other now? Precious little. But that doesn’t quell their desire to somehow find a way back to each other.

If this makes Sherwood sound more character- and relationship-driven than plot-driven, well, that’s accurate. But I’d argue that that’s not a bad thing. In fact, I came away thinking that Sherwood may be one of Zettelmaier’s strongest plays to date.

Yes, the first scenes, wherein Tuck and Alan talk, argue, and joke, did eventually make me wonder when the others would arrive, but that long runway before takeoff provides the foundation needed to feel the impact of what’s to come. When Little John and William do arrive, things quickly turn darker and angrier, as old grievances and tragedies rise to the surface. Throughout the show’s second half, I was riveted, breathless to see if and how this aging group of men would sustain their brotherhood, despite vast differences.

Sherwood’s cast of four, skillfully directed in-the-round by Michael Alan Herman, is a pretty airtight ensemble, but special mention must be made of Mitchell, who manages to uncannily embody the boisterous character of Little John without tipping the scales too far, thus keeping the story’s focus balanced. Myers is also well-cast as the belly-rubbing, good-humored Tuck, whose gentle wisdom must sometimes cool the men’s flaring tempers. Davidson, through his brusque movement and expression, palpably conveys the loose cannon energy William needs, while Jones communicates the awkwardness of a man who finds himself living among the very rich that the Merry Men previously stole from.

Ultimately, these four men are dancing (and occasionally tussling, of course) around each other, figuring out how they might still fit together, so the in-the-round presentation helps with the naturalness of this dance, as does Ray Buckalter’s set design. With just a few set pieces stationed in each corner (a fire, a table desk, etc.), the space becomes a kind of conversational boxing ring, with the men occasionally retreating to those corners to pause before entering the fray once again.

Fight director Jen Pan choreographs the fights that do break out, which feature staffs, a dagger, and Little John’s “stick” (I can still hear Mitchell’s annoyed voice correcting, “Quarter staff!”). The props were designed by Charlie Cato, and costume designer Josie Eli Herman visually cashes in on the romantic sweep of the Robin Hood myth, with big-hooded, flowing capes and medieval-style boots. Lighting designer Sydney Geysbeek and sound designer Julia Garlotte complete the play’s illusion, subtly transporting us to this distant past.

What most impresses me about Sherwood, though, is the way it takes what seems like a low-stakes venture—the fate of the world hardly relies on these men figuring out what they mean to each other, after all—and transforms it into a gripping, meaningful meditation on friendship. None of us age without changing many times along the way, but what does that mean for those we love, who are also always evolving?

It’s a tough question. Sherwood doesn’t offer answers, but it does argue that it’s a conversation worth having. And I tend to agree.

Jenn McKee is a former staff arts reporter for The Ann Arbor News, where she primarily covered theater and film events, and also wrote general features and occasional articles on books and music. 

The Penny Seats Theater's production of Joseph Zettelmaier's "The Men of Sherwood" continues through December 8 at Cahoots, 206 East Huron Street, Ann Arbor. Visit pennyseats.org for tickets, showtimes, and more information.