Adam Feldman — Theater Critic

In the end, A Beautiful Noise can’t overcome the central challenge of being a Neil Diamond biomusical, which is that Diamond’s life has not been, in and of itself, especially dramatic. (The Gloria Estefan musical On Your Feet! had the same problem.) His first two marriages failed, but in drifts and not crashes; an association with mob-linked record executives (Michael McCormick and Tom Alan Robbins) is quickly overcome. The therapeutic framing notwithstanding, what we get here is less a story than a retrospective sequence of events, or perhaps events of sequins.

KPOP doesn't stint on concert-style numbers, and that's where this production shines. Directed by Teddy Bergman, the well-drilled young cast performs Helen Park and Max Vernon's exuberant pastiche songs (several of which are new to this version of the show) with panache, executing Jennifer Weber's rigorous choreography with zippy synchronized swagger and verve. Their costumes, by Clint Ramos and Sophia Choi, are spectacular-wild hybrids of patterns, fabrics, textures and international influences-and the performances are appropriately heightened by the show's lighting (by Jiyoun Chang), sound (by Peter Fitzgerald and Andrew Keister) and multipaneled set (by Gabriel Hainer Evansohn).

Every year at holiday time, theater goes to the Dickens. So many Christmas Carols ring out annually on the stages of New York that the sheer volume can be confounding: Can anyone manage to make this Victorian chestnut seem fresh again? I confess that I went to the new Broadway production with a touch of trepidation, prepared to roll my jaded eyes and mutter “humbug!” under my breath. Instead, my breath was plumb taken away. This splendid production is a Christmas miracle: The most theatrically fulfilling account of A Christmas Carol that I have ever seen.

Every year at holiday time, theater goes to the Dickens. So many Christmas Carols ring out annually on the stages of New York that the sheer volume can be confounding: Can anyone manage to make this Victorian chestnut seem fresh again? I confess that I went to the new Broadway production with a touch of trepidation, prepared to roll my jaded eyes and mutter “humbug!” under my breath. Instead, my breath was plumb taken away. This splendid production is a Christmas miracle: The most theatrically fulfilling account of A Christmas Carol that I have ever seen.

That may be why & Juliet, though often entertaining, also feels pretty disposable. The show-within-a-show framework doesn’t make a lot of sense if you think about it too much (or at all); aside from a plot strand involving the proto-trans May, who sings “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman,” the stakes are not sharp enough to drive the story into solid ground. Directed by Luke Sheppard, the musical exists in an elaborately unreal world: Soutra Gilmour’s scenic design and Paloma Young’s costumes are delightfully creative transhistorical mix-and-matches that float the show in a swirl of unfixed fantasy. It all feels comfortingly familiar and indistinct—there’s not much narrative thrust to Jennifer Weber’s synchronized hip-hop choreography, which mostly suggests energetic background dancing at a concert—and the ideal place for it might be the high school auditoriums where it will surely enjoy a rich afterlife someday. But there’s no denying the relentless effectiveness of Martin’s earworm craftsmanship. & Juliet gives audiences what they want from it: all those hits, baby, one more time.

'Dives' is perhaps the wrong word for Birbiglia's approach; he's more of a wader. His new yarn centers on visits to doctors-to address troubling breathing issues and his family history of cardiac arrest-but also includes long and enjoyable digressions about his childhood experiences with public swimming. Birbiglia doesn't wallow in his suffering, but he doesn't go that deep; part of his great charm as a performer is in the way he deflects pity with stoic geniality, mentioning potentially grave issues (such as what sound like anxiety attacks) lightly and fleetingly, almost in passing. He's in the pool, but you never worry that he's really going to drown. He's having too much fun in there, splashing around.

'Dives' is perhaps the wrong word for Birbiglia's approach; he's more of a wader. His new yarn centers on visits to doctors-to address troubling breathing issues and his family history of cardiac arrest-but also includes long and enjoyable digressions about his childhood experiences with public swimming. Birbiglia doesn't wallow in his suffering, but he doesn't go that deep; part of his great charm as a performer is in the way he deflects pity with stoic geniality, mentioning potentially grave issues (such as what sound like anxiety attacks) lightly and fleetingly, almost in passing. He's in the pool, but you never worry that he's really going to drown. He's having too much fun in there, splashing around.

Clever, touching and idiosyncratic, Kimberly Akimbo was the best new musical of 2021, when it premiered Off Broadway at the Atlantic. The dark absurdist comedy of Lindsay-Abaire's original play-reminiscent of Christopher Durang, John Guare and the playwright's own Fuddy Meers-remains, but it is tempered by the addition of Tesori's winding, agile melodies and a geek chorus of four students (Olivia Elease Hardy, Fernell Hogan, Nina White and Michael Iskander) twined in a daisy chain of frustrated romance. In the hands of these gifted writers, material that might have been rendered as merely zany has human and forgiving dimensions, and the score finds sneaky ways to break your heart even as it maintains a general air of cheer. (Kimberly's establishing number, known in showtune lingo as her 'I Want' song, is literally a letter to the Make-a-Wish Foundation.)

Once more unto the breeches, dear friends, once more! The American-history musical 1776 is not, in itself, unfamiliar: Sherman Edwards and Peter Stone’s tunefully educational account of the process leading up to the Declaration of Independence was a hit in 1969, and its 1972 film adaptation soon became a television staple; it has since returned in major productions on Broadway (in 1997) and in the Encores! concert series (in 2016). Yet the Roundabout’s latest revival of the show doesn’t feel stiff: It infuses this august body of show with a rush of fresh blood.

I had a different reaction to the Broadway production, which feels deeper and more fully realized to me. In part, that may reflect the added resonance its themes have acquired over the past few years, when we all became more alert to questions of health, responsibility and isolation that Cost of Living touches on. But this version also benefits from new cast members Young and Zayas, who bring marvelous warmth and personality to their performances. The two original cast members remain strong-Sullivan's voice cuts through the theater like a serrated knife-but the balance of the play has shifted for the better. Majok's tender, tough-loving care for her characters shines out with new life.

DeBessonet hits these serious points movingly and gracefully at the end of the show, without sacrificing the many pleasures that the musical offers along the way. Into the Woods's legion fans are well-served by this revival, and at both the Encores! performance and the Broadway press performance that I attended, the audience response was overwhelming. The show, for all its thorniness, engenders the bliss of re-encountering an old friend who is holding up great. What more, in the end, could you wish?

Broadway's 2021-22 comeback season goes out with a shrug in Sam Gold's production of Macbeth, the kind of passive-aggressive theater party that invites two big stars to attend-Daniel Craig and Ruth Negga as the regicidal title couple-and then makes a point of ignoring them. Short, eloquent, violent and packed with sensational business (murder! witches! madness! ghosts! a decapitated head!), Macbeth is usually one of Shakespeare's most exciting plays. Not so here: Deliberately murky, this anemic modern-dress production creeps at a petty pace from scene to scene, to the last syllable of the tragedy's verse and beyond into a wistful folk-song coda.

Thirty years ago, Crystal wore aging makeup to play this role on film. He doesn't need it anymore, but he never really did: He has Buddy in his bones. Crystal has been playing this alter kocker alter ego since at least Saturday Night Live in 1985, and Buddy's type of Catskills-and-Friars-Club cut-up is embedded in his comic style: He has deep affection and respect for the generation of comedians that Buddy represents, and he keeps their spirit alive in his timing, his rhythms, his soulful aggression. ('Happy anniversary. Forty-five years!' Buddy tells his wife. 'Eleven of the best years of my life.') In Mr. Saturday Night he honors their history with a sweet, slight, nostalgic musical comedy.

Thirty years ago, Crystal wore aging makeup to play this role on film. He doesn't need it anymore, but he never really did: He has Buddy in his bones. Crystal has been playing this alter kocker alter ego since at least Saturday Night Live in 1985, and Buddy's type of Catskills-and-Friars-Club cut-up is embedded in his comic style: He has deep affection and respect for the generation of comedians that Buddy represents, and he keeps their spirit alive in his timing, his rhythms, his soulful aggression. ('Happy anniversary. Forty-five years!' Buddy tells his wife. 'Eleven of the best years of my life.') In Mr. Saturday Night he honors their history with a sweet, slight, nostalgic musical comedy.

Mostly, the jokes in POTUS are less pointed. The White House setting is an excuse for a broad, zany, old-school comedy, which is a rarity on Broadway nowadays-especially in the form of a world premiere by a twentysomething woman. You can feel how hungry the spectators are to laugh together, and they get to do it often in this silly, fast-paced lark. It helps enormously that the production, directed by Susan Stroman (The Producers), is so well-cast. This ensemble makes an implicit argument of its own for female accomplishment: Even when their characters are floundering hopelessly, these ladies are pros.

Mostly, the jokes in POTUS are less pointed. The White House setting is an excuse for a broad, zany, old-school comedy, which is a rarity on Broadway nowadays-especially in the form of a world premiere by a twentysomething woman. You can feel how hungry the spectators are to laugh together, and they get to do it often in this silly, fast-paced lark. It helps enormously that the production, directed by Susan Stroman (The Producers), is so well-cast. This ensemble makes an implicit argument of its own for female accomplishment: Even when their characters are floundering hopelessly, these ladies are pros.

Jackson has made minor edits to the show since its Off Broadway run, but the biggest change is in the central casting: Originated by Larry Owens, Usher is now played by Jaquel Spivey in a strong Broadway debut. Although he doesn't have Owens's prickly self-assurance or his sometimes scary rawness-his Usher seems younger, less sure, less fully formed-he has a sensitive presence and a beautiful voice. And all six original Thoughts remain the same, and provide terrific support for Spivey even as they undermine his character. All deserve mention by name: They are Antwayn Hopper, L Morgan Lee, John-Michael Lyles, James Jackson Jr., John-Andrew Morrison and Jason Veasey. 'I'm into entertainment that's undercover art,' sings Usher of his ambitions for A Strange Loop. Jackson's musical delivers on that promise. The COVID shutdown had a lot of us holding our breaths that Broadway would dare to offer something bold and new when it came back. This is the musical we've been waiting for.

Based on the number of empty seats at the Vivian Beaumont Theater after the intermission between Act II and Act III-there is also a pause between the first and second acts-many people share her mixture of confusion and dismay. The Skin of Our Teeth was ahead of its time in 1942 but is not ahead of ours; although the text has been tweaked by Branden Jacobs-Jenkins-a quote from Aristotle, for instance, has been replaced with one from bell hooks-it often seems dated, even when the material is startlingly applicable to our particular moment in time. (When a stage manager steps forward to announce that the company has been ravaged by illness and understudies will be stepping into their roles, you may think that's a new addition to the text. It is not.) The repetition gets numbing, and the conceit wears out; by the third act, you acutely feel the nearly three-hour length.

The rain clouds gather early over the misplaced-pride parade that is the Broadway revival of Funny Girl. The audience is primed for a boffo old-fashioned musical comedy, which this production promises. Even before the curtain-which itself depicts a curtain!-goes up, the audience claps at the overture's most famous songs; when Beanie Feldstein makes her first appearance as Ziegfeld Follies comedian Fanny Brice, stares into an invisible mirror and delivers her famous opening self-affirmation ('Hello, gorgeous!'), the crowd goes wild. But then she starts to sing. It is unfair, but unavoidable, to compare Feldstein to Funny Girl's original leading lady, Barbra Streisand, who was not only a fresh comic talent at the time but also one of the greatest vocalists in Broadway history.

After his success in film, including Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, McDonagh seems to relish the chance to work in a less realistic medium (though that movie was hardly cinéma vérité). But rather than pushing that potential into new territory-as in his 2003 masterwork, The Pillowman-McDonagh winks at conventions even as he uses them to cover up a thin and implausible story. Dunster's staging adds to the sense of artifice, with lurching shifts of mood lights, Taratino-esque music cues and a physical space that works directly against the would-be suspense of the play's denouement. For a while, yes, it seems cool: Hangmen has plenty of twists. But the twists wind up forming a sloppy noose that is strong enough only to leave the play dangling, without a lethal snap, when the bottom falls out in the end.

Most good theater lives on, if it's lucky, only in the memory of those who saw it. Manhattan Theatre Club's revival of Paula Vogel's How I Learned to Drive, one of the signal plays of the 1990s, represents an exception. With a firm eye on the rearview mirror, this production reunites director Mark Brokaw, who helmed the show's premiere at the Vineyard in 1997, with its two exceptional original stars, Mary-Louise Parker and David Morse; also along for the ride is Johanna Day as the principal soloist in the show's Greek Chorus of three, plus lighting designer Mark McCullough and sound designer David Van Tieghem. After more than a quarter of a century, they all move assuredly in old roles as the play shifts back into gear.

Directed by Neil Pepe with the expert eye for appraisal that the characters lack, this production is vastly superior to American Buffalo's last Broadway incarnation, which ran briefly back in 2008. The play itself, which marked Mamet's breakthrough, is as thin as a dime, but it's got great atmospherics. Scott Pask's set and Dede Ayite's costumes plunge us into the shabby world of the action; seated around the thrust stage at Circle in the Square, the audience can almost smell the mix of dirt and desperation. Although not much happens in the play, which is less a thriller than a loiterer, it somehow seems fast-paced, thanks in large part to the three crack performers who bring it to life. They stride the stage with the game confidence of actors who know exactly how to make Mamet's monte look full.

On the night I saw the show, the crowd was not pleased. 'What the hell was that?' said a friendly-faced lady to her husband and children as the four of them stood outside giggling during intermission at The Little Prince, having decided not to return for the second half. 'Are you guys leaving, too?' asked a nearby woman. 'Oh good! Now I know I'm not crazy!' (She wasn't crazy.) As another couple put it as they crossed the street as fast as they could, 'We could've stayed home and watched Tammy Faye Bakker!' In these troubled times, it is heartening to see so many people agree about at least one thing: The Little Prince is quite confoundingly bad.

In Noah Haidle's thin and drippy Birthday Candles, the earnest Ernestine (Debra Messing) prepares and bakes a cake in 90 minutes of real time, as 90 years of her life pass by. A smell of baking thus wafts through the theatre, providing one of the production's few whiffs of reality. Haidle means to suggest that the specific is universal- Christine Jones's set is a kitchen that floats in the vastness of the cosmos, with household objects hanging over it like stars- but he forgets to be specific. It's Thornton Wilder without the wildness or the thorns.

Ellis's ensemble cast-which also includes Julian Chi as a Japanese pitcher, Hiram Delgado and Eduardo Ramos as macho Empires, and Ken Marks as their manager-is a model of teamwork, with the main cast leading the charge. The role of Darren is challenging because the character is such a cipher ('I don't have a secret, Kippy. I am a secret'), but Williams balances believable swagger with lovely shades of growing self-awareness. Oberholtzer brings high low-life intensity to his performance as the foolish Shane, and Dirden is a pillar of testy rectitude as the pious Davey. But Mason is by far the play's best role, and Ferguson-warm, sweet and infectiously enthusiastic-is the show's most valuable player. In every moment he spends onstage, with every perfectly timed aperçu, he wears the audience like a glove.