Alexis Soloski — Theater Critic

Is it funny? Of course it's funny. It's very funny. It can't help but be very funny. Even the terrible movie version is funny. But could it be funnier? Well, yes.

You won't find much actual purple in The Color Purple, John Doyle's simplified restaging of the formerly florid Broadway musical. At one point the nightclub singer Shug (Jennifer Hudson, making her Broadway debut) steps onstage in a periwinkle suit, but that's the closest the production comes to flamboyance. A restrained expansion of the production Doyle debuted at theMenier Chocolate Factory in London in 2013; this version is streamlined and stripped down. Doyle's strategy allows the fine performances, particularlyCynthia Erivo as the downtrodden Celie, to brighten it up.

Pay no attention to the title. School of Rock, the perfectly pleasant, perfectly innocuous new musical from Andrew Lloyd Webber, Glenn Slater, and Julian Fellowes, is strictly adult contemporary. An adaptation of the 2003 Jack Black flick, it centres on a schlubby manchild who transforms a gaggle of overprivileged preteens into a wickedly awesome ensemble.

It's unclear how much Pacino is enjoying the exercise. Certainly he gravitates toward roles like this and in his prowling posture, bent at the knees, but slightly stooped at the waist, you can read the depredations of old age or the crouch of a fighter, just waiting for his chance to spring. But he often seems distracted, stuttering over his sentences. And when he works himself into high dudgeon, many of the lines feel as though they have quotation marks around them -- that he is Al Pacino playing Al Pacino playing Mickey Ross, because that is what the crowd, who applaud loudly at his arrival, ostensibly want.

When Misery cooks, it is in the Grand Guignol moments, particularly the scene of hobbling, so why not go ahead and make that Guignol so much grander, sillier, more deliciously absurd? Had the violence been increased, as well as the comedy and the sense of sexual sublimation, Misery might have been a real scream.

George Takei, the original Sulu on Star Trek, was one of those interned. The experiences of his family have now inspired Allegiance, an unexceptional though often affecting new Broadway musical. Allegiance should be better served by its book, score and lyrics, most of which tend toward the generic. Stafford Arima's direction does too. Composer and lyricist Jay Kuo and book writers Marc Acito and Lorenzo Thione are striving so hard for stirring nobility that individuality or particular characterization falls by the wayside. The ballads are all sufficiently ballad-y, but none of the melodies linger once the curtain has fallen and the lyrics pile on platitude and cliché.

Is the rhythm going to get you? Very likely. But there are few other enticements in On Your Feet!...There's some dramatic conflict here -- a sick father, an ostensibly disapproving mother, a terrible accident and an arduous recovery -- though perhaps not quite enough to justify a conventional book musical...The opening, with its forceful sound and crisscrossing beams of laser lights, promises something a little different. The live band is front and center here. Then it is quickly secreted behind some scenery. Why? The music (even with some of the awful 80s guitars and keyboards intact) is easily the most compelling element...Ana Villafañe, making her Broadway debut as Gloria, is a terrific singer and perfectly adequate actress. Josh Segarra, undistinguished in a couple of earlier roles, is quite charismatic as Emilio...Andréa Burns, as Gloria's queenly mother, deserves better material.

That said, the play, under Rupert Goold's typically clever direction, feels like more than a reasonable pastiche. It is a tragic work in its own right, about a man who has too long been denied power ('My life has been a ling'ring for the throne,' Charles says, in one of Bartlett's better lines) and finds that once he gets it, he wants even more. If some of the middle feels workmanlike, the ending has poignancy and heft. There is a moment in the final scene that invites and earns audience gasps.

Emile Zola's novel Thérèse Raquin, published in 1867, portrays an adulterous couple driven to murder the woman's husband. It was, depending on your preferred critic, a success, a scandal, a triumph of scientific realism, a shambles of cheap pornography. It was not a bore. It was not a comedy. So something has gone wrong with the Roundabout's lugubrious and giggly adaptation...The actual sex shown -- no foreplay, five thrusts, breathless collapse -- is not precisely beguiling...Edmundson's adaptation is often cinematic and Cabnet seems like he would rather be directing a film. Scenes fade in and out; far too many moments show Thérèse looking on languishingly...Perhaps a camera would lend emotional variety and substance to Knightley's performance...[she] seems oddly flat here, though predictably shapely in the period costuming and somehow charismatic for all her lack of affect.

Ashford plays the title character in AR Gurney's Sylvia, a comedy as predictable as it is indestructible...But if you have ever loved a pet, it is almost impossible not to feel moved by the interspecies romance of Greg and Sylvia...The schtick of the play is that Greg and Kate, like all pet owners, anthropomorphise their animal...And [Ashford's] acting isn't particularly doggy either, although there's a way she tosses her head that does suggest the canine. But there's something sunshiny and genuinely irrepressible about her that transcends any species categories...The director Daniel Sullivan can't teach it many new tricks, but he can give it a typically adroit and able production. Broderick, who sometimes underplays his roles, is a glove-like fit for the moony, diffident Greg...But make no mistake, it's Ashford's play. There is no curbing this dog.

Jones and Tyson are actors of expertise, originality and allure, and it is pleasant to watch them disport themselves on Riccardo Hernandez's shabby set. Under Leonard Foglia's indulgent direction, Jones cavorts through Weller's frailties and rages, using his walking stick as crutch and club. Weller counts out loud when he deals the cards and you can hear the amusement Jones finds in each pedantic number. Tyson, clutching her purse like body armor, alternates primness with fervor. She can bring dignity to a terrycloth bathrobe and that is saying something. Her voice is much thinner and shriller than Jones's (everyone's is), but it carries.

The two leads have sex appeal to spare - but this Sam Shepard play only really sets sparks flying in its final 15 minutes.

In a 1971 interview, Harold Pinter spoke about his recently completed Old Times, a love triangle that is less a problem of geometry than metaphysics. 'I'll tell you one thing,' he said. 'It happens. It all happens.' It is now happening on Broadway, in a faintly compelling revival, directed by Douglas Hodge and starring Clive Owen, Eve Best and Kelly Reilly. It is happening on an extravagant set, perhaps somewhat far from Pinter's call for 'a converted farmhouse.' (His request for two sofas and an armchair have been honoured more literally.)

The pleasure in her performance and in Rees's and of Jason Danieley in the small role of the schoolmaster eclipse the blurriness of the story The Visit wants to tell. But only for a while. Though the show runs only 100 minutes, there's surely room for more plot and more emotional arc than it provides. And despite the omnipresence of a young Anton and a young Claire, sighing and swaying and occasionally screwing in the background, it can't really sell itself as a swoony weepie, however nice the ballads, particularly as it's in the more macabre numbers - 'Yellow Shoes', 'I Will Never Leave You' - that the tone seems most confident. However fine the songs and the set, it may not be visiting Broadway very long.

Something Rotten! goes over easy. Too easy. The songs are catchy, but quickly digested (though the opening number Welcome to the Renaissance lodges in the head nicely). The book, co-written with John O'Farrell of Spitting Image, and lyrics settle for the undemanding laugh and usually get it. The performers are excellent, of course, with James strutting his song-and-dance stuff and Borle channelling Mick Jagger, or maybe just Harry Styles. Casey Nicholaw directs in his usual pert and perky fashion, and the choreography is reasonably entertaining.

Something Rotten! goes over easy. Too easy. The songs are catchy, but quickly digested (though the opening number Welcome to the Renaissance lodges in the head nicely). The book, co-written with John O'Farrell of Spitting Image, and lyrics settle for the undemanding laugh and usually get it. The performers are excellent, of course, with James strutting his song-and-dance stuff and Borle channelling Mick Jagger, or maybe just Harry Styles. Casey Nicholaw directs in his usual pert and perky fashion, and the choreography is reasonably entertaining.

Doctor Zhivago...gallops across the first several decades of the 20th century. But the period it most resembles is the 1980s, with the spectacle-driven mega-musicals it birthed. Not that Doctor Zhivago, slickly directed by Des McAnuff, is especially mega...The music is big and the cast is big and the emotions are definitely outsized...And yet the impact is oddly minimal. Maybe it's the undistinguished book or Lara's ridiculous wig or those silly icicles, but Doctor Zhivago seems a lot more overblown than overpowering. The style is pure melodrama, but most of the actors don't have the stanchness or the lines to pull it off...Which is a shame, as many of the songs are skillful...many of them communicate tone and character eloquently...Kelli Barrett has a lovely voice, but can't sell Lara as the cynosure of every man's desire...And if Tam Mutu doesn't seem the poetry-writing type, he has a pleasantly romantic baritone and very handsome looks.

Director Paulus keeps throwing in magic tricks and storybook set changes, but no amount of illusionism can make the songs any better or the script and style seem any more definite. 'Don't lose faith,' Sylvia comforts Barrie. 'You'll get there.' Finding Neverland tries to find the way - second star to the right and straight on till morning - but it never quite arrives.

Where Wheeldon falters is in pacing and storytelling. Often, the songs, dances and the book all repeat the same plot points. At times, the action stalls while the actors move. And an act 2 revelation about Lise's involvement with Henri's family is lavishly unshocking. But if you can ignore the stops and starts, there's so much to enjoy in between, not least some of the Gershwins' greatest hits: You Can't Take That Away from Me, The Man I Love, But Not for Me, I Got Rhythm.

Even if you've practically memorised the books, Wolf Hall still feels incomplete. Because it is. The third part of Mantel's trilogy, which details Cromwell's downfall, hasn't yet been published. Wolf Hall is a tragedy, but right now it concludes like a comedy (well, a comedy with a lot of beheading), which the second part acknowledges. 'There are no endings,' Cromwell says. 'They are all beginnings. This is one.' And gripping enough that I suspect nearly all of us will be back in these seats in a few years time, eager to see - 500-year-old spoiler alert - the bloody conclusion.

Even if you've practically memorised the books, Wolf Hall still feels incomplete. Because it is. The third part of Mantel's trilogy, which details Cromwell's downfall, hasn't yet been published. Wolf Hall is a tragedy, but right now it concludes like a comedy (well, a comedy with a lot of beheading), which the second part acknowledges. 'There are no endings,' Cromwell says. 'They are all beginnings. This is one.' And gripping enough that I suspect nearly all of us will be back in these seats in a few years time, eager to see - 500-year-old spoiler alert - the bloody conclusion.

This is a costly production and in terms of the design, that money has been very well spent. Derek McClane's set is a Belle Époque fantasia, Natasha Katz's lighting is sumptuous, and Catherine Zuber's gorgeous, sensual costuming should sew up the Tony win nicely. Joshua Bergasse's choreography is acrobatic and playful, if perhaps somewhat overblown in The Gossips and The Night They Invented Champagne. The orchestra sounds wonderful and some of the songs are a treat.

It's not a lot more irreverent than The Book of Mormon, but it is a lot dirtier and there are no dance numbers. Askins's script, directed by Moritz von Stuelpnagel, often betrays an adolescent desire to shock and scandalise. Monologues that open and close the show spell out the religious critique too baldly. Some of the motivations are explained away tidily and a lot of the humour is puerile. But the puerile bits are particularly funny. (Though be forewarned: puppet fellatio is something you can't unsee.) Askins is smart and engaged enough that even the play's most outrageous actions seem grounded in character. Speaking of characters and those who play them, if Steven Boyer's name isn't on the best actor ballot come Tony time, then those awards are broken. Boyer, a slight and moon-faced blond who looks at least a decade younger than he is, plays both Jason and Tyrone, most often at the same time.

The play's politics seem retrograde, but maybe there's some comfort in that. In the final scene, Heidi offers some hopes for her adopted daughter, that if she ever meets a man like Scoop, 'he'll never tell her it's either/or baby. And she'll never think she's worthless unless he lets her have it all. And maybe, just maybe, things will be a little better.' And from the vantage of 2015, things do seem better. If only a little. Where's the play about that?

What's the trouble? Well, it's tough to love a musical with such unexceptional songs. Several of them are pastiche numbers - Indian Maiden's Lament, Veronique, Babette - tunes from properties that Oscar and his rival Max Jacobs (James Moye) want to produce. The latter two offer a lot of fun to the design team, but they're neither terrific nor terrible enough to really land. The overture and the opening number Saddle Up the Horse/On the 20th Century are nicely exciting and there's a quality comic tune in Sign Lily Sign, but already it's hard to remember any of the others. Without a first-class score to bolster the madcappery, even an engine as forceful as the Twentieth Century's sometimes runs out of steam.