Adam Feldman

Putting the word shitshow in the title of your play seems almost like a dare to the writer of an unenthusiastic review. I will resist the easy jab, though, because writer-director Aya Ogawa’s carnivalesque pageant—which explores and explodes different facets of motherhood through satirical vignettes, musical numbers and bouffon body horror—is audacious in more than its name. The show is intent on airing ugly and troubling aspects of maternity, and Ogawa delivers them cesarean style: with a few deep cuts and a lot of mess.

As he proved in SpongeBob SquarePants and more recently in the Wicked movies, Slater has a real gift for movement. Marcel on the Train gives him ample opportunity to showcase it as Marceau tries with varying success to entertain his 12-year-old charges, Life Is Beautifully, and distract them from the dangers outside. The adolescents, all played by adult actors, include the virtuous Adolphe (Max Gordon Moore), the mischievous Henri (an amusing Alex Wyse), the sour and pessimistic Berthe (Tedra Millan) and the cowering Etiennette (Maddie Corman), who—perhaps in response to unspeakable trauma—never says a word.

Barron presses on tender bruises—loss, comfort, fear, concern—in ways that often leave you laughing with a strange pleasure of recognition. But if you find yourself in tears by the end, the play can handle that, too. It holds you in a bracing embrace, as close as it needs to—which is to say, too close.

At the same time, the women—as in Bess Wohl’s Liberation, another celebration of female support—are crisply individualized, both in the writing and by a first-rate multigenerational cast under the direction of Les Waters. The presiding eminences are the testy Marvel and the patrician Chalfant, icons both of the New York stage, but this is, appropriately, very much a group effort. Together, the performers give fresh breath to the old observation that theater is like a church. Through their congregation, mutable yet constant, the play demonstrates the healing power of other people’s stories.

How well do you know Sean Hayes? You probably think of him as a master of broad comedy, as he demonstrated in 11 seasons as Jack on Will & Grace (and as Jerry in Martin and Lewis and Larry in The Three Stooges). Maybe you enjoy his good-natured enthusiasm on the podcast Smartless. Maybe you saw him quip, scowl and play classical piano in his Tony-winning portrayal of Oscar Levant in Broadway’s Good Night, Oscar. Even so, you might still be surprised by how well he plays a basically regular guy in The Unknown: Elliott, a somewhat isolated, somewhat depressed, mostly sober middle-aged writer who has been having a hard time devising a screenplay, perhaps because his own life has so little drama.

Yet The Other Place, like many other attempts to modernize the Greeks, has a hole where the ancient gods, fates and rituals should be. Compared to Antigone’s insistence on honoring the dead, Annie’s protest has risibly low stakes; just as an Oedipus without oracles is reduced to the story of a preposterously unlikely and monstrous bummer, Antigone without deeply rooted righteous principles is just the story of a mentally ill woman who can’t give up her father’s ghost. Compensatorily, Zeldin fills out the story with a theme of sexual transgression that emerges too suddenly to deliver the neomythic familial drama of, say, A View from the Bridge, and whose denouement is triggered by a stage convention—the coupling of an implausible indiscretion and an inopportune entrance—that is less classical than cliché.

Although Schmidt the writer specifies, in all caps, that Ben "MUST BE CHARMING," Schmidt the director ignores that imperative; as embodied by Linklater, who usually is charming, Ben is an insufferable manchild from beginning to end, and nothing more than that. Spending even a second with him, much less The Disappear's two hours and 15 minutes, is not recommended

Although Agnes and Peter sleep together early on, their relationship isn’t primarily sexual. But there’s an element of seduction to their whole dynamic, as Peter, at first reluctantly, gets under Agnes’s skin. Letts is an actor as well as a playwright—he and Coon, who are married, met while co-starring in a revival of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?—and he knows how to craft scenes that keep performers intensely engaged with each other onstage. Smallwood and Coon, reprising their roles from the 2021 production of Bug at Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theatre, strike a compelling balance. He arrives full of secrets that he gradually reveals; she arrives empty and eager to swallow them up, spiraling ever farther away from life beyond her room. (In several ways, this role is like the flip side of the steadfast mother Coon played so indelibly in Mary Jane.)

Much of the pre-opening press about this revival has revolved around the 96-year-old Squibb, who might be the oldest actor ever to play a principal role on Broadway. She merits that attention with a remarkable performance that combines frostiness and fogginess into a firm coat of rime. But the other actors are equally good. Burstein, who radiates human tenderness, is perfectly employed as the play’s kindest character, and his final scene is devastating; Lowell finds the appropriate levels of stiffness and charm for his faux Walter. And Nixon is simply the best I’ve ever seen her onstage: As Tess labors to connect with her mother—or alternatively to give up any hope of connecting with her—Nixon invests her testiness with complex underlying notes of bitterness and exhaustion.

All of the above might make for an entertaining evening if Chess were just a concert, which unfortunately it is not, despite Mayer’s concert-style staging: the orchestra is onstage, with minimal sets (by David Rockwell and video designer Peter Nigrini) but maximal lighting and sound (by Kevin Adams and John Shivers, respectively). The problems with Danny Strong’s new book present themselves instantly in the obnoxious form of the Arbiter (Bryce Pinkham), whose smarmy metatheatrical narration, when it isn’t restating the obvious, often seems to be making fun of the rest of the show. Though never welcome, and usually shouty, his narrator is at his absolute worst when he strains for humor.

Icke’s Oedipus is continuously engaging and smart, and it is exceedingly well performed by a cast that also includes Teagle F. Bougere, Bhasker Patel and Ani Mesa-Perez as aides and employees. Where it runs up against a wall—as many modern adaptations of ancient texts do—is in trying to make the story function without gods and fates. The possibility of divine machinations is brought up in passing here and there, but inconclusively.

Like the rest of the show, however, the score doesn’t quite cohere; it feels like less than the sum of its parts. Arden’s direction provides good small moments but can’t provide an overall attitude the material lacks, and the production’s look is inconsistent: Christian Cowan’s costumes are great fun, but Laffrey’s TV-set design relies too heavily on a large mobile screen, and the finally marble staircase looks a mess at the bottom. The Yiddish word for The Queen of Versailles is ongepotchket: tacky and busy, with components that might be fine alone but don’t come together. If you want to see it, you should probably see it soon: Like all those unlucky French courtiers, this show seems headed for the chopping block.

Laurie Metcalf and Micah Stock star in Samuel D. Hunter's gorgeous new play. Five stars.

Five stars. Bess Wohl's feminist drama keeps the conversation going.

DeBessonet’s elegant direction contributes to the clarity. This is the same production that she premiered in semi-concert form last year at New York City Center (and which we discussed in an interview then), newly outfitted with a spare, effective set by David Korins and attractive abstract projections by 59 Studio. The very fine 2024 design team is otherwise intact: Linda Cho (costumes), Tom Watson (hair), Adam Honoré and Donald Holder (lights) and Kai Harada (sound). The beautifully full orchestra, led by music director James Moore, plays William David Brohn’s original orchestrations; Ragtime is not dance-driven, but choreographer Ellenore Scott keeps things moving when appropriate.

But while story itself is inspiring, some central emotional focus seems missing from the way it unfolds in Punch, which winds up feeling less like a full-blown play and more like a digressive PSA about the dangers of street fighting and the value of restorative justice. Harrison’s performance aside, the play’s blows are hit and miss: connecting here, grazing there but not quite landing a proper hit.

In the end, though, it may not matter much which cast you see. Putting the audience closer to the actors does not make a show like Phantom more moving; it only takes some of the grandeur away. And Masquerade’s peripatetic structure inevitably keeps wrenching you out of theatrical illusion: One moment you are in the Phantom’s underground lair, and then you are on an escalator; now you are watching a murder in the opera-house wings, and then you are looking at the office buildings behind Christine and Raoul’s duet. But if you have any affection for Phantom at all, it’s a blast. The main attraction of Masquerade is not its stars, its story or its music of the night; it’s the pleasure of re-exploring a property you already know and seeing it from a new angles. Get dressed up, hide your face and give yourself over to the phantasy.

The pleasant prospect of seeing Reeves and Winter together makes this production to some extent critic-proof—and anyhow, this is a play in which “Crritic!” is the worst insult that Estragon can think up. But although Reeves and Winter are the main reason most people will go to this Godot, it is this revival’s other assets—the direction, the set and above all Dirden and Thornton—that keep it from being an exercise in meta stasis. For me, those elements make the production worth seeing, but the nice thing about Waiting for Godot is that it just keeps coming. This is the play’s third Broadway revival in the 21st century, and there have been numerous Off Broadway versions in recent years, too. If you decide to skip this one, you won’t have to wait very long for another.

Although Art is not especially deep—Reza paints her characters in broad strokes but thin layers—it is solidly built for comedy, and all three men are armed with effective one-liners as their mutual exasperation builds to a climax. With his raspy voice and commanding physical presence, Cannavale is less waspish than the usual Marc, but his bluster hides a core of hurt feelings; this plays nicely off Harris’s self-satisfied but prickly and defensive Serge. It is Corden, however, who dominates the stage and the audience’s affections. In part that’s because of how the part is written—Yvan is more emotional than the others, and Alfred Molina likewise ran off with the original—but it also demonstrates Corden’s enormous comedic talents as a stage actor. The ingratiating quality that can sometimes cloy on television is a perfect match for Yvan’s desperate eagerness to please, and Corden spins it into comic gold.

“Stuff in your life you think you’ll never get over, you will get over,” he says. “You might even laugh about it someday.” Here, though, laughs are not the final goal. Vicious comedy may be Ross’s superpower, but this show aims to reveal his secret identity as the nicest of guys: an über-mensch.

If last week’s box-office tallies are any indication, Broadway audiences really want their mommy. The national tour of Mamma Mia! has just set up camp (or at least kitsch) at the Winter Garden Theatre, where the show’s original production ran for 14 years, and in the first week of its scheduled sixth-month engagement it outgrossed every other show except fellow marathon runners The Lion King, Wicked and Hamilton. This show, the mother of all jukebox musicals, is nothing if not familiar—and in this case, familiarity breeds contentment.

Ruhl's riff leans into surrealism, symbolism, dark humor and poetry as the title character is torn between husband and father, romance and grief, the living and the dead. The production includes moving moments and breathtaking visuals... Her Eurydice is a reimagined remembrance of a story we feel compelled to revisit over and over, even once we’ve learned the dangers of looking back.

For all its flaws, there's a lot to cherish about Goddess. Arnulfo Maldonado's lush set brilliantly bridges the secular and celestial worlds. Dede Ayite decks out the cast in African-influenced streetwear complemented by Nikiya Mathis's luxurious hairdos. Bradley King's purple and blue lighting gives off an ethereal glow, and choreographer Darrell Grand Moultrie's athletic moves are impressive. And best of all, there's Iman, every inch a deity, beguiling us with her smoky, honeyed timbre and delivering an emotional epiphany through music that the dialogue can’t match.

The writing is piquant and sly, the songs have verve and resonance, and every element of Cromer’s production seems to fit exactly in place. The show premiered last year as part of Audible Theater’s Off Broadway programming, which is apt: The whole project has the spirit of a serial podcast, branching off whenever it likes to explore some fascinating tangent with help from Cromer’s protean supporting players: Knitel, Eddie Cooper, Dashiell Eaves, Ken Marks, Trent Saunders and crowd favorite Thom Sesma (as a Tinseltown coroner turned crooner). These very fine performers, along with Brown and the onstage band, revolve around Durand’s extremely stable center. The 2024–25 season has been strangely full of cadavers; things to do on Broadway when you’re dead this year include faking out Nazis in Operation Mincemeat, narrating yourself in Sunset Blvd., getting a makeover in Death Becomes Her and feeding your friends in Swept Away. But Durand takes rigor mortis to new levels of morbid rigor. He’s the hardest-working stiff on Broadway.

First things first: Just in Time is a helluva good time at the theater. It’s not just that, but that’s the baseline. Staged in a dazzling rush by Alex Timbers, the show summons the spirit of a 1960s concert at the Copacabana by the pop crooner Bobby Darin—as reincarnated by one of Broadway’s most winsome leading men, the radiant sweetie Jonathan Groff, who gives the performance his considerable all. You laugh, you smile, your heart breaks a little, you swing along with the brassy band, and you’re so well diverted and amused that you may not even notice when the ride you’re on takes a few unconventional turns.