Caroline Cao — Theater Critic

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

From a musical standpoint, actor Max Crumm (as a Scrabble champ) knocks out the song 'Success' just as actor Fergie Philippe (as a hooded whistleblower) seizes his showstopper, “Wind in the Sails.” The show also boasts an intoxicating prayer number, which highlights the violinist Todd Reynolds as well as the thought-provoking link between stories and faith. In an intermission-free 105 minutes, these numbers – career gold for Brown – overcome the sleepiness in the musical’s first hour, when the Ethan/Robin dynamic almost stales.

In its current incarnation, surface-level sentimentality prevents White Rose from plunging more deeply into the complexity of its story and characters. The sacred act of tossing leaflets to the audience should hit as a cathartic feat, yet it feels decorative. If you're a lucky audience member who catches a leaflet - inscribed with anti-war excerpts from the real White Rose - its call to action is urgent. These words are meant to be taken outside of the theatre, even after the action on the stage fades.

In its current incarnation, surface-level sentimentality prevents White Rose from plunging more deeply into the complexity of its story and characters. The sacred act of tossing leaflets to the audience should hit as a cathartic feat, yet it feels decorative. If you're a lucky audience member who catches a leaflet - inscribed with anti-war excerpts from the real White Rose - its call to action is urgent. These words are meant to be taken outside of the theatre, even after the action on the stage fades.

Yet, this idealistic sunbeam is eclipsed by the finale of noise, gesturing toward grander world affairs that threaten to crumble down their insular comforts. Even though few, like Marianne, may emerge slightly different than before, their epiphanies may get swallowed by the world. This is a show about a bourgeoisie bubble that — for now — can afford distractions and sweep aside the questions some other time. Here they are, re-seeking pleasures, with their grins and anticipation melting like wax from the candle. Although 'Here We Are' leaves you hungry for completion, it's a slow-crawling nightmare that plink-pla-plink in your consciousness long after you leave the theatre.