Amelia Merrill

A few instances of more heavy-handed literalism are sprinkled through the piece, with gimmicks that work at first appearance but dull as they recur. A song about how our country’s founders and leaders haunt us, for example, doesn’t need accompanying identification signs to make its sociopolitical point; choices like this from director/choreographer Peck put too fine a point on an otherwise gorgeously crafted show. Peck’s choreography, however, leaves a lasting impression: Sped-up sequences of mimed movement and intricate tap dancing from Byron Tittle are both highlights of the contemporary dance piece. The duet “Decatur” is refreshing both for its evocation of childhood through play as dance, with characters balancing on unseen logs, and for its exploration of the ballet duet through two men, protagonist Henry (Ricky Ubeda) and his best friend Carl (Ben Cook), whose obliviousness to Henry’s feelings endears us to him all the more. The ensemble of Illinoise is strong and often moves as if one unit, but Ubeda and Cook’s performances stand out for their ingenuity.

The characters ponder the political interconnectedness of these heavy topics – police brutality, Israel and Palestine, gentrification in college towns, Jewish identity – but never does Moses take a step back to consider the dramatic interconnectedness or lack of it. These concepts are connected, as Baron learns over the course of one scene, but they are packed into the script with no breathing room, preventing the characters from authentic self-reflection (and the actors from a moment’s rest). Everyone is passionate, but no one is sincere.

The crux of Oh, Mary! is Todd’s realization that the men in her life seek to undermine her, even when they claim to have her best interests at heart. It is this understanding that grounds director Sam Pinkleton’s production, ridiculous as it may be, in a certain pathos.

Though its quality is not consistent throughout, Harmony has its high points. Julie Benko as Ruth, a daring young Jewish communist, is a firecracker, while Steven Telsey as the Bulgarian tenor Ari Leschnikoff is a comic delight. Sierra Boggess maintains her lovely voice as Mary, though neither the character nor her performance are interesting.

The show instead leaves the impression that Bloom is rushing to process grief, joy, and the last decade of her career before the pop culture moment moves on. Perhaps with more room for reflection, her next show will strike a different chord.

Jacobs-Jenkins’s characters employ an ironic device when one believes another is “harshing the buzz” or “rambling”: They pretend to kill each other, snapping their necks and stabbing one another when someone’s joke gets old or they’re too stoned to know how long they’ve been talking. No one took this approach to Jacobs-Jenkins’s script, though director Eric Ting cut at least 10 minutes of runtime before press performances. Though its dialogue is sharp and its characters memorable, The Comeuppance tries to hold down too many conversations at once, stretching an arm into every pot.

The beauty of Hansberry’s play almost makes up for Anne Kauffman’s production, which feels too unsure of itself to linger or make demands. Both Brosnahan and Isaac emit one-note performances that start high and strong but gradually deflate. Isaac, who is onstage almost the whole show, is at times charming and at times funny, but does not differentiate his performance enough through the first two acts. It is only in the third act’s devastation that Isaac finds something worth holding onto.

If it were more cohesive, New York, New York could be a great show for tourists (if they can stomach the disparagement of living anywhere else), complete with classic, tap-dancing tunes that employ a large number of dancers, designers, and musicians. But would it not serve both the company and audience more if the musical was a better-crafted tribute to Kander and Ebb and the city that made them? The show concludes with the long-awaited title number, delivered by Uzele (with a delightful orchestral surprise) in unearned triumph. Perhaps the performance best summarizes the story’s message: to march on against the odds, whether they be societal or a result of misdirected efforts.

With a less compelling performance from its lead, Good Night, Oscar would fall flat. Its first half suffers from a lack of urgency; its second is burdened by hacky late-night antics. Almost everyone but Hayes’s Levant is forgettable in both performance and characterizations. Hayes is a marvel, embodying Levant in voice, spirit, physicality, and, eventually, music. He shakes like he’s davening prayer, fidgets like he's inebriated, and yells like his mind has left him without a choice. Carolina Ortiz Herrera and Ben Stanton’s lighting design closes in on Levant as he hallucinates, fantasizes, and opines; these shifts, some subtle and some overt, call to mind the Brian Wilson biopic Love & Mercy, another exploration of both songwriting and schizophrenia. Rachel Hauck’s set serves as both recording studio and padded cell, further insulating Levant. Though the supporting personae fall flat, these design elements fuse with Hayes’s performance for a powerful and cohesive character study.

Spring doesn't seem the most logical season for the show's Broadway bow, but Rachel Chavkin’s tight production arrives with panache. Costume designer Lux Haac invokes the quintessential drama teacher vibe in Logan’s corduroy wardrobe, while scenic designer Riccardo Hernandez delights in the play’s Bacchanalian twist. Logan mines theatricality from the group with her demands to dig deeper and to be more honest with themselves, then shuts down the bloody spectacle, screeching her fears of the school board. The scene is a moment of triumph for the designers, but it doesn’t move the characters forward, perhaps on purpose. They will always be stuck in a circle of white guilt and trip over themselves while they debate how to escape. The damage is real, both on stages across the nation and off, but FastHorse's exploration of it is for everyone’s benefit, striking the balance between educational and entertaining without hammering home the reminder.

Despite McLean’s humorous victories, Bad Cinderella is a flimsy, uninspired shadow that invests no confidence in its characters and chugs along without a thesis. It takes a familiar story and a veteran Broadway composer, hoping this will be enough, but at what cost? What is the musical trying to do, if even the possibility of spectacle or entertainment is hampered by its misogyny?