Bob Verini

If City Center’s starpower could be supplemented with the kind of technology at work at Harry Potter and Stranger Things, High Spirits could tap into the best of both worlds, this one and the next. In any case, a fuller production would surely provide, as this version does, a refreshingly civilized and invigorating entertainment. And as they used to say, boy, do we need it now.

I can’t say enough about the seamless performances, said to be the product of years of development work with director and writer. Not only is the cast – the majority of whom are in their 30s – fully believable as high schoolers, but I swear you can track their maturing over four years in subtle alterations of voice, gesture and carriage. It’s ensemble playing at its finest, and the best argument for funding permanent companies, not to mention establishing an American national theater, I’ve encountered in a long time.

Diverted as they are, some audience members will likely wish for more closure in the play’s themes and subplots. If there’s sentiment that several of the scenes could be trimmed, I can’t disagree. Still, there’s no denying the poignancy of Monahon’s coda, which simply and delicately brings two Armenian Americans together on the most basic human level. Which is surely where we should all have been meeting Cardozians, and each other, all along.

Tveit (Moulin Rouge!) seems to be coasting a bit, not completely committed to the Bobby Fischer-inspired Freddie’s bipolar swings – just a little too composed; but Michele (Glee; Funny Girl), looking terrific, tears into her impossible role of ping-ponging (another game!) between the two champions as if it made sense. Christopher (Hamilton) comes off best, his impassive Yul Brynner affect hinting at Anatoly’s deeper layers that emerge when forced to choose among three loves: Florence, wife Svetlana (a heartfelt Hannah Cruz) and Mother Russia.

DeBose and Bakula’s welcome return to the theater isn’t the only big news down on 13th St, where the ensemble deserves the much-overused adjective “all-star.” I don’t think I’ve seen so many seasoned pros and award winners together on one stage this side of a Tony Awards audience or Equity benefit. A good thing too, for beyond the romantic triangle, this is the tale of a community ironically named “Concorde,” where petty provincials are ruled by spite until the new baker and his pretty wife arrive to create an uproar. Strong personalities are needed, top to bottom.

With little of interest characterlogically or politically, the production is hit or miss: some annoying gimmicks here (Daniel Stewart Sherman slipping into cornpone as a Southern-fried General Scroop; a final tableau from Richard that’s full-out Norma Desmond), a few stunning visuals there (kudos to lighting designer Jeanette Oi-Suk Yew, leaning into neon). A couple of performances honor the verse and suggest fully rounded people. Kathryn Meisle, always reliable, brings fire and urgency to the Duchess (usually the Duke) of York. Canada makes excellent account of Gaunt’s famous “this happy breed of men…This precious stone set in the silver sea” monologue, though most of the others fail to register at any juncture that a sceptered isle, this other Eden, hangs in the balance.

That the show seems to want to have it both ways may bother some. Director Michael Arden, who has tightened things up considerably since a 2024 Boston tryout, controls the pacing and focus with his usual confidence such that audiences may not even register the material’s ambivalence. Me, I was content to revel in Schwartz’s score, perhaps the most heartfelt, varied and robust of his career; in the variety and inventiveness of the production’s scenography; and above all in seeing a genuine Broadway star at the peak of her powers. Chenoweth embraces all her character’s contradictions as if they didn’t exist, translating her own belief in herself into Jackie’s. Unforgettable, the both of ‘em.

So here it is, the Broadway show as theme park, right down to the three-storied façade of the ebony mansion through which all patrons must pass en route to their seats and the merch, and a thrill ride not to be forgotten. The goal is an immersive experience, and to my mind not only have they achieved it, but it’s a helluva lot more fun and exciting than the average “civilized” immersive (looking at you, Sleep No More). Are there enough of the fans and the curious to make it last and pay off? Only time will tell, just as only time will determine its chances to attract a whole new generation to the joys of live theater. Stranger things have happened.

Still, there’s all that air, all that Beaumont expanse working against the claustrophobia any Floyd Collins really ought to engender. I ached for kinship with the doomed dreamer in his enforced, solitary imprisonment, the feeling of I-know-him, I-could-be-him. This time around, it was not to be... Floyd, off to the side and underlit, cannot compete with the dimensions of the Beaumont stage... The moments of interjected spectacle add nothing to theme or mood in the face of the situation’s gravity.

The proceedings, all in all, are rather schizoid. Those seeking a smart night out, with sharply-delineated themes, are likely to react with a weary ‘Boop-Boop-a-Droop.’ There’s always the danger of showstopper fatigue setting in, as if you’ve eaten eight or nine hot fudge sundaes in a row. But as a respite from present-day realities and woes, and you know the ones I mean, Boop! could just be the tonic the doctor ordered.

Well, The Last Five Years has suffered underwhelming Jamies and powerhouse Cathys before (and vice versa, cf. the 2014 film version with Jeremy Jordan and Anna Kendrick). Yet its depth of feeling and universality always manage somehow to click. This Broadway incarnation is well worth taking in, but its fulfillment – just like that of the connection between Cathy and Jamie itself – remains tantalizingly, yet undeniably, just out of reach.

In the end, the fuel that powers both show and movie is of two types. There’s the sheer joy of folks of all ages coming together to celebrate a shared musical culture; the sense of community engendered is palpable and hits you where you live, even if you don’t understand a single word of Spanish lyrics. And through the swirling choreography of Patricia Delgado and Justin Peck, the ensemble of six youngsters repeatedly echo in movement the sainted emotions of the score.

Time has passed Rev. Jasper by. Aged out of relevance, with the vigorous civil rights movement a thing of history, he sees his legacy in ashes, with one son a convicted felon and the other a divinity school dropout. This lion in winter retreats to the passions and pursuits of an earlier day, notably beekeeping (a dramatically interesting choice, as it turns out). Lennix is a marvel in this role, fires banked but still burning. Though he almost never raises his voice, we never question his authority, however disillusioned he’s become.

The show makes highminded use of The Avett Brothers’s album Mignonette – the name of that wrecked British yacht – much as Girl From the North Country wove early Bob Dylan into bleak narrative (albeit with a more complex environment and fully-realized characters). Both come out of the haut-Broadway tradition of Menotti operas and Marc Blitzstein, often as not seen as caviar to the general. The new work is obviously a labor of love executed with exemplary taste but, in the end, lacking in qualities by which an audience is likely to be swept away.

Buddy, the 30-ish human raised as an elf at the North Pole but now thrust into the real world, could be insufferable in the wrong hands. He must burst into every scene full of glee and naive wonderment, yet every bouncing ball must roll to a stop once in a while. Even more than original star Will Ferrell in the film, Grey Henson knows the value of stillness. He can warble and kick up his heels with the best of them, but just as suddenly utter a sincere sentiment to touch the heart. You’re never sure when he’ll dial things up to 11 or simply listen and react, which keeps his performance interesting from start to finish.

★★★★☆ Sutton Foster unleashes her inner clown in a torrent of hilarity, bringing new luster to a familiar property

The script, and the direction of Sam Pinkleton (erstwhile choreographer of Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812), start things off at too high a level that eventually leads to some lulls. And Mary’s character arc, while necessarily schizophrenic, could be laid out more cleanly. But with this many laughs and surprises at every juncture, who can be bothered to carp? Does the show merit multiple viewings during its limited run? And is there more than enough room and incentive for a sequel? Oh, Mary, don’t ask.

Still and all, the secret sauce of this entertainment package is choreographer Camille A. Brown. While many a show highlights athletic, exuberant street dance in all its forms, Brown is determined to tell story through dance. Her ensemble is never there just to show off, but participates to reflect and extend character. As Ali visualizes a future with Knuck, pairs of dancers express her vision; when she issues her independence manifesto through the thrilling “Girl on Fire,” the chorus provides active encouragement. The highlight of much of this Broadway season has been choreography, and Brown’s work ranks among the very best.

Playwright David Adjmi’s extensive resume has included an intimate portrait of Syrian Jews in Brooklyn (Stunning), a fanciful contempo take on Marie Antoinette, and 3C, a controversial sexed-up parody of the sitcom Three’s Company. Interesting work all around, but none of it prepares us for the hyperrealistic triumph that is Stereophonic, now at the Golden Theatre for a limited run after a similarly limited run at Playwrights Horizons.

Under Schele Williams’ direction, the story is perfunctory, just a series of disconnected scenes. Moment by moment there is little character reality to play: Dorothy’s need to get home is never felt, and there’s no urgency in her journey. Songs and dances don’t arise naturally from the action, just one big variety show. I lost count of the number of songs that shoot up to a high note designed (successfully) to elicit spontaneous applause. Of the cast, Richardson comes off best because he’s allowed most of the time to speak like a normal person. Betts is a warm, nurturing Aunt Em anyone would click their heels to come home to, but with everyone shouting like crazy, her Evillene never becomes scary. She’s just one more yeller.

Parks manages to locate touch points between the 18th and 21st centuries in ways that audiences should find provocative and even thrilling. Gently chiding TJ for hiding his intentions, Sally reminds him, “We build our castle on a foundation of your promises.” Well, isn’t that the foundation of the nation? The structure Jefferson et al so hopefully wrought has lived up to its potential for few if any of its citizens, just as Mike and Luce are far from firmly establishing their personal and professional relationship as a Good Company. The promise of full freedom is always just out of reach, yet the attempt to shape our reality to the ideal must be never-ending. We hold that truth to be self-evident.

31 years after its acclaimed Broadway debut, Des McAnuff, the original director and co-librettist with Pete Townshend, revisits The Who’s Tommy with a sharper focus on human relations, and a design team committed to creating a spectacle through scenic imagination rather than scenic bulk. As a result, the saga of little Tommy Walker, told through Townshend’s genius words and music, gains greater emotional impact than ever.

Understanding the roots of dependency starts by acknowledging that people do drugs – drink booze, take opiates, smoke, shoot up – because it feels better doing them than not doing them. So it is for Joe and Kirsten Clay, and by not shying away from the good vibrations that controlled substances promise, this new Days of Wine and Roses is a small step in the right direction toward making a difference in America’s current addiction crisis. Which is not to say that very many opioid addicts are likely to find their way to a Lucas/Guettel musical; but those who make public policy, or who simply look down their noses at “those people in the red states,” very well may. Developing sympathy for, and taking steps to help, the growing numbers of those struggling with and dying of addiction begins by recognizing that some of “those people” are no further away than the house or apartment next door.

In the end, though, the comfort that The Shark Is Broken brings, and it truly is a most enjoyable 95 minutes, stems from the canny way in which it channels Jaws itself. The play’s version of Robert Shaw, when you come right down to it, is Peter Quint, the grizzled veteran baiting and blasting the young whippersnapper whom you can call Dreyfuss or Matt Hooper, it’s all the same. Meanwhile bemused, decent Roy “Chief Brody” Scheider attempts to make peace between mercurial shipmates as he decides on the next fateful phase of his career. Watching The Shark Is Broken, then, is not unlike diving into a boatload of outtakes from a beloved classic. If you’re anything like me, you eat it up like it’s popcorn.

Many fine productions, large-scale or intimate, have sauntered their way up and down Fleet Street since Hugh Wheeler’s book and Sondheim’s score premiered in 1979 in Harold Prince’s acclaimed staging. But the current revival at the Lunt-Fontanne is a thing apart. Thomas Kail, director of that latter-day groundbreaker Hamilton, has assembled all the pieces needed for what Sondheim himself finally summed up as “a movie for the stage.” The result is something both sumptuous and terrifying, truly a Sweeney Todd for the ages.