Charles Isherwood

In the two decades since John Patrick Shanley’s “Doubt” premiered—winning a best play Tony and a Pulitzer Prize—the mystery at its core, whether a priest has molested a child, has hardly grown less grave. But cultural changes now cast their own shadows over Mr. Shanley’s taut, gripping drama. The excellent Broadway revival, directed by Scott Ellis for the Roundabout Theatre Company, starring Amy Ryan and Liev Schreiber, presents the play without any intentional new slant on its ideas, but it gives audiences a chance to consider them in an altered context.

While on the level of character depiction “Jonah” holds our attention, its episodic nature, stretches of mundane dialogue and the disjointed narrative lead to a certain frustration: Where we are in Ana’s life is impossible to pin down, and the jumpy story is more confusing than illuminating.

Always a composer of intricacy, Mr. Guettel mostly eschews traditional musical-theater forms and simplified melodies; his lyrics here are sometimes conversational, sometimes fragmentary, reflecting the characters’ muddled psyches and their conflicting desires: for the high and the happy blur of booze, but also stable ground upon which their marriage can right itself. Music and lyrics reflect both aspects in the duet “Evanesce,” as Kirsten sings, “I’m leaning out the window, I’m running with a knife,” to which Joe ripostes, “I’m riding on an arrow, I’m running for my life.” Then, together, “I have you now, you are all I need.” In a single song, we see the dynamic that runs throughout the show: abiding love at war with destructive impulses.

“Prayer for the French Republic” addresses, with nuance, detail and understated passion, the tensions and the connections between history and current events. While it tells of a particular family, it illuminates the troubles of all people caught up in the turbulent tides of history—as everyone in a sense is—even if some face graver danger than others.

The thought caromed around my mind in between heady bouts of pure glee as I watched the new Broadway revival of the musical, directed and choreographed by Josh Rhodes, a rising star now fully risen. In prospect the notion of a revival struck me as premature. “Spamalot” again, already? The show closed on Broadway in 2009 after a run of almost four years. But within just a few blissful minutes any reservations were vanquished. In fact the arrival of this production, blazing like a burst of summer sunshine as winter draws near, seems perfectly timed. Who could resist the impulse to bask in a couple of hours of deliriously funny escapism at a time when the world seems to be getting grimmer by the day? Among other things, this joyously juvenile and sublimely funny travesty of legend reminds us that people in the Middle Ages were probably as buffoonish—and bloodthirsty-as they are today.

Timely it may sadly be, but a theatrical triumph it still isn’t. I reviewed the show back in 1997, and while it is changed and improved, it rarely rises above a level of admirable, hard-working professionalism. The score, with music by Mr. Manilow and lyrics by Mr. Sussman, is appealingly various—influences range from Gilbert and Sullivan to cantorial melodies to Kurt Weill to standard contemporary Broadway balladry. (There is even a salsa-flavored song that seems to consciously evoke “Copacabana.”) But it lacks any truly singular or gut-grabbing songs. And the book by Mr. Sussman is hamstrung by both the breadth of the history it seeks to depict and a need to leaven the increasingly dark proceedings with generous dollops of Borscht Beltish humor.

Absent high drama, the director, Moritz von Stuelpnagel (“Hand to God”), massages the play’s turning points effectively. An affecting and surprisingly funny passage finds Sam engaging in a solo game of Sorry!, with Mr. DeVito mustering his considerable arsenal of comic effects to depict a fiercely fought combat. A story about the provenance of an old guitar, formerly the property of a black Vietnam War veteran traumatized by his experience whom Sam once worked with, strikes another moving note.

The contours of Kate’s evolution, as sharp edges are softened by the awakening of feelings new to her, dates back at least to Shakespeare’s Beatrice and Katherina. But Baker renews the theme for the early 20th century with perspicacity and humor. And the cast, under the brisk direction of Jackson Grace Gay, brings lively coloring to all the characters, with the bracingly cynical, or perhaps just realistic, Maisie bringing a crisply funny snap to the play’s nicely turned denouement.

With Mr. Gad and Mr. Rannells pinballing around the stage under the direction of Alex Timbers (“Here Lies Love,” “Moulin Rouge!”), working up visible sweat as they dash between characters, “Gutenberg!” proffers much comic ingenuity. The silly accents are a delight. Cockney in 15th-century Germany? Why not? Still, even at a fairly pacey two hours the fun eventually turns to wheel-spinning, since the central gag—the ludicrous mismatch between content and form—is established from the start and then merely elaborated. The show will probably best please those who know the difference between a charm song, an “I Want” song and an 11 o’clock number, all of which are mentioned here. Which is to say besotted lovers of musical theater.

As Ryan, Mr. Weiler gives a similarly nuanced performance. The jittery young man remains traumatized from his time in prison, and is prone to panic attacks. But Mr. Weiler also underscores how deeply grateful Ryan is to Peg underneath his truculent exterior, and how the sudden death of Jim has left a hole in his heart, too. In the role of Dani, Ms. Thompson, looking like a slightly awkward, overgrown girl, brings some leavening humor to the play when she proves to be an unusually sensitive “good cop,” despite being new to the force. And while she has the least complex role, Ms. Fitzgerald fills out the sometimes harsh contours of Sheriff Kris forcefully.

Slender though it may be, at a crisp 95 minutes it holds one’s attention in no small part because the actors playing their more famous counterparts are so superb, giving performances that perfectly capture the personas, mannerisms and idiosyncrasies of Shaw, Dreyfuss and Scheider, at least as documented in various books and movies about the making of “Jaws.” Yet none of the actors is indulging in mere comic mimicry. All give fully rounded, nuanced performances that give the play a layer of verisimilitude in its more serious moments, as the movie actors—each at a different stage in his career—turn to self-examination and reveal their doubts and demons.

In the unlikely event that I find myself inside a plutonium-fueled DeLorean—I suppose today it would be a Tesla—capable of transporting me to the past, and thus enabling me to alter my future, fairly high on the list of life changes I’d consider would be somehow avoiding having to view the sluggish slog that is the stage adaptation of “Back to the Future.”

The irresistible score is similarly like nothing else on Broadway, to use an exhausted phrase that is in this case the simple truth. Mr. Byrne has always been a musical magpie, and here he proffers a dizzyingly eclectic range of songs. There is melodic balladry for the numbers that explore Imelda’s rise from poverty on a provincial island in the Philippines to her fairy-tale marriage to a political up-and-comer. Once Imelda, played with radiant seductiveness by Arielle Jacobs, and her husband, Ferdinand (Jose Llana, exuding cool ambition), have secured the presidency and become beloved public figures, the party proper begins, with powerful basslines surging forth and the audience encouraged to join in the happy melee, even to the point of being given choreographic instructions.

Under the wire-taut direction of Louise Lowe, the confrontation that follows rises in emotional temperature with disorienting speed. Máire refuses to believe what Mel tells her, scorning the idea of looking at the evidence Mel flourishes on his phone. Ms. Mullen reveals through Máire’s increasing physical agitation and scorching voice her rising anger and outrage at having her private life spied upon. Making bold denials, she justifies herself by saying that at least Martin brought “a little happiness into the loneliness of this house.”

In any case, “Once Upon a One More Time” is a dizzy but enjoyable goof, similar in many ways to “& Juliet.” That show offers an upbeat feminist rewrite of Shakespeare’s tragedy, set to songs (mostly) by Max Martin, who wrote some of Ms. Spears’s big hits. Broadway doom-watchers can now decry the fact that not one, not two, but three musicals on the boards feature songs made famous by Ms. Spears. (The third is “Moulin Rouge!,” although it contains only a smidgen.)

Directed with his customary sensitivity by the veteran Daniel Sullivan (who also helmed, among many distinguished productions, Mr. Auburn’s Pulitzer Prize winner “Proof”), the play does in fact have the languorous but appealing vibe of a sleepy summer, initially uneventful, but with accumulating undercurrents of emotional complexity as Diana (Ms. Linney) and Alice (Ms. Hecht) gradually open up to one another. Not incidentally, Mr. Auburn’s play gives Ms. Linney and Ms. Hecht—two of our finest stage actors—an opportunity to display, without a moment of histrionics, or even conventionally structured drama, their admirably honed gifts.

Ms. Miller’s drama—the title is Latin legalese for “on the face of it”—arrives in New York trailing accolades, including Olivier Awards for best play and best actress, for its London run. High expectations can occasionally lead to disappointment, particularly as “Prima Facie” is opening in the fray of a busy Broadway spring season. Not so here. This urgent drama about the legal and emotional brutalities women often endure when they file charges of rape, particularly against a friend, lover or even husband, strikes home with scalding power.

Beautiful as the staging is, there are some bald bits of dialogue, including some obvious exposition in the opening scene; Father’s portentous observation that “man is the most dangerous animal in this zoo”; and a line that could be interpreted as making leaden parallels to contemporary issues: “This government show us bad behavior has no consequences. People are looting, fighting, vandalizing property and no one is held accountable.” Hmm.

With his boyish good looks, and despite a burly beard,Mr. Groban appears young for the role, looking scarcely older than Anthony ( Jordan Fisher), the sailor who rescued Sweeney when their ship heading to England foundered. More problematically, Mr. Groban has not yet reached deeply enough into the tortured soul of the character, who was separated from his wife and daughter when the corrupt Judge Turpin (Jamie Jackson) had him transported. Returned at last, the former Benjamin Barker, now Sweeney Todd, takes up his erstwhile job as a barber, and is soon dispatching any available victims with his razor, abiding until he can lure his nemesis into his fatal tonsorial parlor.

Even a first-rate “Parade” cannot disguise the conceptual problems I have with the show. It is puzzling that Mr. Brown, a gifted melodist, seems to give just as many moments of musical beauty or buoyant vigor to Leo’s enemies as to Leo himself, as if music and character are unconnected. (The show opens with a Confederate soldier going off to war paying pretty homage to “The Old Red Hills of Home.”) More problematic is the focus on the glaringly corrupt mechanics of Leo’s trial. We watch numbly as witness after witness spreads obvious lies, including scurrilous tales of Leo’s sex life. His martyrdom at the hands of iniquitous tormentors resounds like a recurring, unsubtle dirge. “Parade” does, in a sense, resemble the event of its title. The route is mapped out. We know where it will lead, and how it will end.

When contemplating the talent involved in Broadway’s “Pictures From Home”—a cast comprising Nathan Lane, Danny Burstein and Zoë Wanamaker, under the direction of Bartlett Sher—managing expectations is hard. But necessary. For while the production is impeccable and the performances polished and funny, the play, adapted by Sharr White from Larry Sultan’s memoir-cum-photography book, feels like a snapshot that hasn’t been fully developed, to borrow the handiest simile. Diffuse and sometimes repetitive, it uncomfortably resembles the scrapbook of sorts on which it is based.

Racing to its farcical climax, the new musical “Some Like It Hot” works up a sizzling head of steam, as its principal characters dash around attempting to secure their romantic fates and dodge the gangsters who have invaded their sunny refuge in a seaside hotel. This dizzying passage is pure pleasure. Unhappily, by the time it arrives audiences may be too dazed to notice, since this adaptation of the classic movie, while buoyantly performed, is also exhaustingly labored.

I spent a restless, almost sleepless night after seeing the play, haunted by its peculiar, unsettling power. Encountering a great work of art can be as disorienting as it is rewarding. “Ohio State Murders” leaves a lasting imprint—I picture a bloody handprint—on what for lack of a better term I’ll call the soul.

Mr. Swenson credibly evokes Mr. Diamond’s gravel-scraped baritone, but while his singing is excellent, he cannot quite find a distinctive persona in the character as articulated by Mr. McCarten. As Neil goes through divorces and the self-questioning that any neurotic Jewish boy would undergo upon reaching unfathomable success, the character remains steadfastly stuck in lonely-sad mode. (A flashback to his childhood illustrates its roots: “What kind of boy never has a friend over to play?” his mother laments.)

Tony-winner Victoria Clark stars as a teenage girl with a genetic disorder that causes her to age rapidly in a wondrous new musical by David Lindsay-Abaire and Jeanine Tesori.