Caroline Cao

If the AA storytellers actively engage, The Dinosaurs also illustrates those who exist to listen. The audience doesn't witness everyone sharing a story. Some characters offer only fragments about themselves, whether through their behavior or whispers. A novice playwright or director would act on the impulse to expand or resolve, but The Dinosaurs commits to the feeling of leaving a room with an unspoken story suspended in the air.

The Disappear bites off more it can chew, attempting to ruminate on intergenerational tensions in the film industry, the scars left by art, composing art amid climate disaster (the Los Angeles fires seem to get a nod), and more all at once, leaving me pining for a cohesive version of this play.

This Picnic At Hanging Rock staging yearns to scale a further mile, like the girls who pine from an escape from time and the inevitable doom of growing up. Though the show is imperfect, the finale “Time and Place” peaks among the many harmonies, with an entire ensemble ensnared and enchanted by the Rock.

Tutty (who wears his role like muscle memory, having originated it in London) and Pitts flex their chemistry as scene partners: Dougal is an animated, British chatterbox who views the Big Apple through a lens of pop culture, while she’s the exhausted New York native who rolls her eyes at his touristy prattling. Their adventure involves Tinder matchmaking, nods to rom-com tropes, some verbal and physical stumbles, and a spending spree with a borrowed American Express. The writers get plenty of mileage from quips about the taboo that the pair are soon to be in-laws.

Let’s Love! is a comic, microscopic introspection on sex, relationships, and love across three disparate stories — nothing more, nothing less. Perhaps the show arrives with expectations of ambition due to its playwright: Ethan Coen of the Coen Brothers, who previously penned the existential play trio Almost an Evening. If that show aimed to be the apple in Eden, the more modest Let’s Love! wants to be a box of bittersweet chocolate.

After the blistering meeting, the epilogue threatens to package the tale as an inspirational story. It doesn’t stick the landing, but it leaves one last thought: Forgiveness isn’t a clear-cut route for everyone.

But, boy, when Heathers takes flight, it punches a hole through the roof. ‘Candy Store’ still grooves as a catchy paean to cruelty, and ‘The Me Inside of Me’ is ingeniously ironic... These two ballads herald a final 30 minutes ratcheting to a nail-biting climax.

These slow-boiling dynamics build up to a raw sexual act staged, by intimacy coordinator Ann James, as coldly mechanical yet achingly balletic.

Although Birney and Emery plant the heart and humor of Lunar Eclipse, Margulies struggles to craft a momentum of highs and lows as the couple unravel their regrets. In particular, dour introspections, such as George admitting he cares for his dogs more than his late adopted son or Emery sacrificing her city upbringing for married life on the farm, feel smoothed over.

With an exuberant band, Just in Time rides easy on Groff’s waves of showman charisma while paying tribute to the era-specific music and other singers, especially the women in Darin’s life who inspired his performance, starting with Michele Pawk as a parental figure with a vaudevillian past. The book seamlessly weaves in how other stars like Connie Francis (a blazing, must-see Gracie Lawrence) and Sandra Dee (a commanding Erika Henningsen), the latter of whom witnessed his fallible humanity, were integral to his life.

While Scott Zielinski’s lighting suggests the darkness that enfolds Floyd, it’s visually silly that he is ‘trapped’ in a chair purposed for relaxation... The first act may frustrate with its lagginess and scant urgency, and yet it complements the second act’s tragic turns as Floyd’s ordeal inflames a media circus... Guettel’s folksy bluegrass score, complete with yodeling, is a remarkable one. The yodeling is its own indecipherable language, and it's also the sound of Floyd’s communion with the very forces of nature that lured and then trapped him.

Stephen Sondheim’s Old Friends, hosted by megawatt stars Bernadette Peters and Lea Salonga, is as cozy as a longtime friend’s living room. Best of all, the honeyed orchestrations (originally by Sondheim’s longtime collaborator Jonathan Tunick) and crisp sound mixing in the Old Friends setlist help remind us why the best of composer/lyricist Stephen Sondheim’s repertoire still attracts talented titans.

Operation Mincemeat is a cup of British comedy, sometimes with drawn-out humor to a fault — not for every American. But it also captures the Hollywood hagiographic, the self-deprecating, the ironic, and the tragic that will make you gasp.

Ghosts ask how deep you can bury unpleasant truths before they fester into —perhaps fatalist — despair. How much does holding back a family secret make you an accomplice to your and your loved ones’ misery? Unfortunately, Ghosts struggles to sink hooks into those questions, even as it crawls toward its chilling, inconclusive end.

Beyond nostalgia, The Jonathan Larson Project leaves Larson admirers in want — and not just for the potential of his unrealized ideas. The program explains for what or whom Larson originally wrote each song. Some numbers can speak for themselves, but others would benefit from more onstage context. For example, Larson composed ‘Love Heals,’ rapturously performed by Jones, to honor the late AIDS activist Alison Gertz. But only the program will tell you that, and the show leaves this person’s life untouched.

It’s a long, wintry walk to Theater 555 from the nearest heated subway, but it’s worth the warmth playwright Matthew Lombardo’s Conversations With Mother has to offer. Directed by Noah Himmelstein, the play is tactful, personal, and precise while hitting the sweet spots of relatability.

It’s anything but a stagnant affair, at least. As the stars pantoimine and read, their voices inhabit colorful characters. Some beats may land as treacly, but the stories contain plenty of zippy lines and outlandish, cartoon-inspired shenanigans. A short story that grabs hearty laughs is one where a talent agent (Kind) persuades the Grim Reaper (Armisen) to try acting. Projected images illustrated by Emily Flake add additional humorous imagination to the show.

Not to sound a little salty, but Elf The Musical (directed by Philip WM. McKinley) can overstuff itself with misfired quips upon quips, mistaking fluff for quality. Trading sincerity for schtick can deflate the humor (often nostalgic nods to the movie) when desperate to grab laughs. Although the musical is critical of the corporate grind of Christmas, a referential script can border into product placement. High-wattage star Sean Astin, as Santa Claus, finds his charms trapped in cloying references — ironically underlining how Astin himself effectively doubles as corporate antagonist Mr. Greenway.

The actresses' tales collide in other clever ways. When Bundy and Butler reenact their childhood glory days as models and pageant queens, an envious Winokur was not as blessed with performance opportunities. (Winokur eventually ended up the only Tony winner among them.) Other mentions of less pleasant incidents from their lives, such as Liza Minnelli making an insensitive comment on Winokur’s body, open a critique of the theatre industry’s fatphobia, but this show feels such topics are meant for another time. At Mama, I’m A Big Girl Now!, we simply bask in the women's glitter.

The semi-autobiographical Yellow Face might have stuffiness in its smart script, but Leigh Silverman’s Broadway staging unearths thoughtful questions about casting politics and Chinese American identity.

Maybe it’s not my cocktail. I say this as someone who enjoys parodies, but Merrily We Stole a Song veers into self-congratulatory smugness. It's not that I don’t disagree with its comments on the crisis of Broadway biz leaning on cushy nostalgia and high prices (criticism that isn’t new), but these complaints, seemingly lifted from theatre Twitter, can only roll out so long as lyrics before they dry out.

The play's willingness to tackle knotty contradictions feels necessary, but then these explorations don't mesh with the closing imagery, which frames Marina — inadvertently — as a symbol for war correspondents. The rapid transition between the story of a fictional, white, female journalist and the post-show memorial honoring fallen war correspondents (bearing a diversity of names) lands as a miscalculation.

I send compliments to the head chef: Morgan Green, the director of Abe Koogler’s Staff Meal at Playwrights Horizons. If you're the kind of open-minded patron who might crack a smile to the chef and say 'surprise me,' Staff Meal delivers. The play ushers audiences into a cozy restaurant space where two lovers meet and then takes us across unknown dimensions. This surreal adventure is like a Rorschach test: Whatever you make of it, its meaning is specific to you.

All in all, this Great Gatsby shies away from making us think hard of the blood spilled due to Gatsby’s dealings, which are relegated to lines of dialogue and the campy song “Shady.” Something about the production feels too spic and span by the time it ends: Missing is a mess left behind by the Roaring Twenties excess. I felt the warmth in The Great Gatsby, but it was begging to bring on the heat.

Undeniably, a real-world sequel to Russian Troll Farm is playing out in real time. Consider the fascism that runs rampant on Twitter after billionaire Elon Musk’s takeover, while Russia wages its disinformation war alongside its military assault on Ukraine. It’s an uncomfortable thought that Gancher might find material there.