David Cote

Adapting novels for the stage is a noble endeavor; a healthy culture should be eager to translate its new (or classic) narratives into other media. I've seen revelatory theatrical versions of Dostoyevsky's Demons (twice), Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby (verbatim in the marathon masterpiece by Elevator Repair Service) and others-many at New YorkTheatre Workshop. While popular fiction generally gravitates to movies or streaming series, there is an argument to be made for transforming novels into live performance. The Kite Runner, long on talking and short on showing, does not make that argument very strongly.

Judging by the waves of screaming and applause that greeted every character entrance, and which followed every number, people who encountered Into the Woods as young adults are already flocking to the St. James Theatre to unite their inner child with their outer show queen. I'm right there with them. A Sondheim revival with vocally superior, perfectly cast performers, intelligent direction and design, and a sizable orchestra? Sometimes wishes do come true.

Judging by the waves of screaming and applause that greeted every character entrance, and which followed every number, people who encountered Into the Woods as young adults are already flocking to the St. James Theatre to unite their inner child with their outer show queen. I'm right there with them. A Sondheim revival with vocally superior, perfectly cast performers, intelligent direction and design, and a sizable orchestra? Sometimes wishes do come true.

Personally I have no desire for Macbeth set during the Civil War, or in space, or the Trump Administration. I won't say I felt completely satisfied (for that, give me a truly kickass Macbeth-Macduff fight). But I was entertained, and heard some great language spoken by legends of my time. And evil, in the end, was defeated. I think. What was the soup? Whatever you want it to be.

A Strange Loop is profanely funny and courageously raw, but on a second viewing (I reviewed its world premiere Off Broadway in 2019), it's also claustrophobically fixated on the wounds of youth, a howl of rage at gay lookism, white gatekeepers, and toxic Christianity. All those targets deserve to be howled down to hell. But Jackson is 41 years old; his avatar is identified as 26. That's a telling gap, one that permits a rebel's outrage rather than a middle-aged artist's mellower view. The lack of self-awareness combined with merciless self-examination comes to a bathetic head when Thought #1 says, '[it's not about] Tyler or your parents or anybody else. And as scary as this world might seem, all of this ugliness ... this pain and anger...is about you. So how about you focus on yourself?' Which is rich after 90 minutes of Usher running screaming around his hall of mirrors.

Looking at the big picture, this gorgeous monster of a production brings together two urgent trends in theatrical discourse today: casting reparations by creating Black space in the white canon and also, embracing a sprawling meta-drama that feeds a hunger for stories that are not merely sociological but cosmological. We know that patriarchy, greed, and white supremacy have spawned misery across ages; without pretending they have the solution, theater artists can find deep bass strings of commonality to pluck. For me, The Skin of Our Teeth is a boisterous hymn to humanity, the most moving and inspiring work of the season. Even so, Skin won't be to everyone's taste. There are tonal fumbles in the second act-the French accent laid on a bit thick, Priscilla Lopez's Fortune Teller too wispy, the chaos before the flood overly manic-but I think a certain degree of failure has always been baked into this idiosyncratic classic. Yes, It's long and taxing on the brain, but the exhaustion you feel while leaving has the afterglow of exhilaration. We survived this speeding glacier, this world-drowning deluge of a play; we're spent and dazed; but isn't life a miracle, and aren't you glad for tomorrow?

It's such a bonanza of great tunes and comic bits, what Broadway dreamer could resist? I wish the gamble had paid off. Feldstein comes across as too sensible, too sane, too body positive to incarnate the cauldron of self-mocking, self-aggrandizing, and self-doubt that drives Fanny to success in the Ziegfeld Follies and then into the arms of handsome Nicky Arnstein (Ramin Karimloo, suavely solid). The latter, a debonair professional gambler, was supposed to be the love of her life, but he becomes an emotional and financial weight around her neck. In the end, Fanny has but one paramour: the spotlight.

What keeps you focused on Hangmen is the retro mood and the superb ensemble, not innovative storytelling or genuine insight into character. His plays are tightly constructed, with dialogue that uses repetition and profanity to musical effect, but they are woefully mechanical. Once you realize that McDonagh's M.O. is crudely to undermine expectations, you expect the undermining, and boredom sets in. After nearly 30 years, his view of humanity has barely evolved: men are brutal bastards, women aren't much better, law and justice are a farce, and I'm rather handsome.

Director Mark Brokaw returns to the production 25 years later with a big heart and clear eyes on a neutral set of cool blue walls and linoleum floor by Rachel Hauck, warmly lit by Mark McCullough. In the choric roles, Day, Gold and Myers expertly generate the comic froth at the edges of the drama, keeping it from foundering in lurid scenes of exploitation. Much as the play makes a contemporary audience cringe, it is full of deliberate laughs and notes of sympathy for the doomed Peck that deliberately fuzz our moral sensors.

The current revival at the Hayes, produced by Second Stage Theatre and ably directed by Scott Ellis, is quite good - well-acted, smart in tone and pace, handsomely designed, with some reservations. (The Hayes is tad too small for a show of this amplitude, and David Rockwell's set feels pinched and flat. The shower scenes, for example, seem squashed downstage in a monotonous row.)

For both actors, Plaza Suite ought to be a wonderful workout, a chance to show off versatility while nailing Simon's well-crafted yuks. Instead, it feels like community theater for rich people, amateurish despite the deluxe sets and costumes (by John Lee Beatty and Jane Greenwood, respectively). When you leave Neil Simon feeling protective of his literary reputation, you know something's gone terribly wrong.

Should directors flip gender on other Sondheim classics? I don't know how much we'd gain from a Ms. Sweeney Todd or a male-model Dot. In Company, human properties of trust, love, and loneliness are transitive across male, female, straight, and gay lines. One thing I am certain of: Company is the most sophisticated fun I've had in a theater in ages. It's sexy, hilarious, and hits home in a way that's honest and shockingly resonant. Sondheim fanatics already know what a genius score it is, an explosion of wit and insight and addictive melodies. I can't wait to go again and tear up as Lenk bares her soul in 'Being Alive' or the phenomenal ensemble slays the house in the maniacal razzle-dazzle of 'Side By Side by Side.' The great man passed away two weeks ago; there is no more fitting tribute than a breakthrough work given a whole new life.

Childress's witty, insightful play-in which an interracial group of theater makers chafes against stereotypes in their anti-lynching melodrama-makes that awakening painful and real. I wonder if the discussions in the past two years have been as sharp and complex as those in this backstage satire.

I'm ignorant as to whether or not Jeanna de Waal intends to live in the States, the German-born yet English-raised actress who stars in Diana: The Musical, but she may want to weigh options. If any of her countrymen catch her in this tedious tuner about the trials of Diana Spencer, Princess of Wales, she could be denied reentry. Actually, too late! Last year during lockdown, this Platonic ideal of a Broadway faceplant did an onstage video capture for Netflix. The tacky, bewildering result is there for all to stream, very useful for reviewers who suffered dissociative amnesia during the live event.

When Tony Kushner and Jeanine Tesori's Caroline, or Change opened at the Public Theater in December 2003, later moving to Broadway for a paltry four-month run, we weren't worthy of it. In 1963 Louisiana, an embittered Black maid's ambivalent relationship with her employer's child is poisoned by money. Reviews were mixed, audiences thin. Ticket buyers shied from a multilayered morality tale about broken, grieving people divided by race and class, triggered by charity, who prized resentment over empathy. Today, thanks to an outstanding revival starring the majestic Sharon D. Clarke, we're not just worthy of Caroline, or Change; we are it.

Such basic storytelling, a collection of vignettes peppered with musical passages, could have been presented quite minimally, but MTC wraps Santiago-Hudson's colorful yarns in a handsome package. Michael Carnahan's grandly dilapidated proscenium arcs over the stage; Jen Schriever's lights evoke the ghosts and shadows of yesteryear; Darron L. West's sound design balances speech and music - of which there's an abundance. Santiago-Hudson isn't alone on stage: He's backed by accomplished guitarist Junior Mack, who strums and frets the original blues score by Bill Simms, Jr. Santiago-Hudson jams along on harmonica, wailing and keening into the air when words just aren't enough.

Such basic storytelling, a collection of vignettes peppered with musical passages, could have been presented quite minimally, but MTC wraps Santiago-Hudson's colorful yarns in a handsome package. Michael Carnahan's grandly dilapidated proscenium arcs over the stage; Jen Schriever's lights evoke the ghosts and shadows of yesteryear; Darron L. West's sound design balances speech and music - of which there's an abundance. Santiago-Hudson isn't alone on stage: He's backed by accomplished guitarist Junior Mack, who strums and frets the original blues score by Bill Simms, Jr. Santiago-Hudson jams along on harmonica, wailing and keening into the air when words just aren't enough.

The six actresses are tremendous talents, equally skilled at scaling the high notes (solo numbers and beaucoup backup) and executing Carrie-Anne Ingrouille's slinky dance moves. Gabriella Slade's glam outfits are sparkling, jewel-encrusted multi-signifiers: both midriff-baring sexy, but also sharp and stiff like armor; these doomed damsels are going to war. Tim Deiling's stadium-raking lights set the perfect rock concert vibe, and Paul Gatehouse's ace sound design makes sure we get every funky bass lick, as well as each goofy pun. Co-directed by Moss and Jamie Armitage, Six is a glossy, well-engineered Fringe stunt made good.

The six actresses are tremendous talents, equally skilled at scaling the high notes (solo numbers and beaucoup backup) and executing Carrie-Anne Ingrouille's slinky dance moves. Gabriella Slade's glam outfits are sparkling, jewel-encrusted multi-signifiers: both midriff-baring sexy, but also sharp and stiff like armor; these doomed damsels are going to war. Tim Deiling's stadium-raking lights set the perfect rock concert vibe, and Paul Gatehouse's ace sound design makes sure we get every funky bass lick, as well as each goofy pun. Co-directed by Moss and Jamie Armitage, Six is a glossy, well-engineered Fringe stunt made good.

My takeaway when Girl From the North Country opened at the Public Theater last fall: 'An American musical by people who hate musicals and don't know America.' Sounds harsh, but I stand by it. Although I've adored Irish writer-director Conor McPherson's work for years, I found his book for this Bob Dylan jukebox musical to be a pile of Depression-era clichés one might amass from a week of binging TCM or skimming Steinbeck. As for the integration of Dylan songs, the tracks don't illuminate character or plot so much as pause the narrative so everyone can enjoy a folksy singalong (cast members even climb into the drum kit). The result - which began as a hit on London's West End with a non-American cast - seemed to me a creaky period play wrapped around a tribute concert, all imbued with a gothic, melancholic vibe because everyone onstage is broke, unloved, addicted, mad or running from the past.

Roundabout Theatre Company's lean, suspenseful and entertaining revival of Charles Fuller's A Soldier's Play, while it unfolds during World War II, feels quite relevant. Fuller's murder mystery won the Pulitzer in 1982, was turned into a successful film in 1984, and now makes a belated but momentous Broadway debut thanks to an appealing cast and Kenny Leon's firm directing hand. Why such staying power? Easy: American racism is evergreen.

This being a holiday show for all ages, there's a broadly acted, crowd-pleasing vibe and frequent bits of audience interaction, especially after Scrooge's conversion. Carolers warble from every corner of the balconies; long sheets are unfurled to the stage to sluice apples, oranges and other treats into baskets for the Christmas feast; and stage snow drifts onto the audience. The kids at the matinee I attended squealed at the low-tech but delightful stage effects.

About 35 minutes into Tina: The Tina Turner Musical, I began to feel very protective toward the title subject. I battled the urge to jump onto the Lunt-Fontanne stage and angrily defend Tina from all the torture and humiliation going on. Call it patriarchal, call it white saviorism, but I found the great singer's treatment despicable. And I don't mean the years of physical and emotional abuse Tina suffered at the hands of husband and bandmate Ike Turner. No, the comeback queen of rock and the phenomenal actress playing her-Adrienne Warren-were trapped in a needlessly shoddy, demoralizing dud.

I must admit I found the mix of ecstatic music-making and aesthetic constraint similarly joyful and puzzling. Is this coolly mechanized realm the utopia referred to by the title, a place we want to be, a monochromatic escape from the overstimulating particularities of life? Or are we witnessing what it's like inside the prison of being David Byrne? Of being ourselves? You know the etymology of utopia, right? Fittingly, Byrne chooses Little Creatures' nihilist frontier anthem, 'Road to Nowhere,' for the encore. If the road ends here, I'm totally OK with that.

Unimpressed viewers could say that The Sound Inside is a gnomic short story pretending to be theater, but it's too liquid and rhetorical, too performative, to deserve that designation. (I've used it with other plays before.) Our presence in the room is essential to puzzling out of the facts presented to us, and Cromer's hushed, perfectly modulated staging unfolds with terrifying clarity, yet forces no conclusions on us. Hochman's Christopher, ardent but still the blank page of youth, brings off his swaggering lines with grace and humor. I didn't think I could revere Mary-Louise Parker more than I did, but arch, awkward Bella is one of her sharpest, funniest, most lived-in performances ever. Acerbic, detached, and monumentally sad, her Bella reminds any writer or lover of books why literature is the consolation of a lifetime, and sometimes a prison. The Sound Inside is a brilliant and unsettling portrait of a person who may escape death, but never the compulsion to transcribe that sentence that won't quit your head.