David Finkle — Theater Critic

The true magnificence of this approach to a stage adaptation is its scrupulous inclusion of the full text. Standard stage adaptations eliminate most of an author’s descriptive prose. This one doesn’t, honoring Fitzgerald’s irresistible powers. For only one instance of innumerable heart-throbbing instances he writes: “Gatsby indicated a gorgeous orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white-palm tree.” Eternal thanks, ERS.

About this extraordinary Ragtime revival, there’s a larger observation to be made. It impresses as having been reinvigorated for this election week. Doubtless, it was intended as such. Unfortunately, Doctorow’s novel deals with American problems yet to be resolved—racism, division, disdain for immigrants(!), too many et ceteras. The reasons to see Ragtime right now couldn’t be more pressing.

As Another Shot tipples forward about the dangers and disasters of disproportionate tippling, many of its lines hang heavily in the air. There’s discussion about when and under what circumstances a first drink was taken. So much so that eventually Barb warns, “Forget the first drink, remember the last,” suggesting that a first drink may have been imbibed in pleasure, but a last drink was a bottoming episode. A wiser remark isn’t uttered during the 90 enlightening, threatening minutes.

As insightfully disturbing as We Live in Cairo reportedly was when first produced at the American Repertory Theater in Cambridge in 2019, it might be even more painfully disturbing when considered as a preview of coming attractions were the United States to become an authoritarian country any time soon. Is this on the Lazours’ minds? It would be difficult to believe it isn’t, more’s the worry.

Oh, yes, this revival does everything it can to reflect the unfortunate time in which not only the Montagues and the Capulets but we, too, are living. Somehow, it’s sad to be confronted with the news that the violence so stealthily and widely afflicting our society today has infiltrated so far as to include treating Shakespeare’s text violently.

The result—which gloriously stars Nicole Scherzinger as fading silent-screen idol Norma Desmond—is unique. In my view, nothing quite like it has ever previously been seen on a Broadway stage or, recently, a West End stage. And whether that’s unadulterated praise remains a question. The immediate answer is weighted toward the positive, since this time waving his revival wand, Lloyd is not merely reducing the film and the musical to its basics but is after a larger point about making black-and-white films.

In Hold on to Me Darling Lonergan creates a protagonist at a loss as to who he is, spending nearly three hours remaining befuddled in a work that, as it motors along, doesn’t seem to know how to ease out of a repetitive plot dilemma. It’s an eight-scene drama, often peppered with genuine humor, that holds on to tense interest for maybe five of the scenes—and luckily the final one. For the remainder of its attenuated minutes, it merely tests audience goodwill.

At Kenny Leon’s very welcome Our Town, patrons are guaranteed to appreciate Thornton Wilder’s genius every, every minute.

Smiles and laughs it elicits, true enough, because Hwang writes it as an autobiographical comedy-drama. Wittily, he puts himself, DHH—as impersonated by square-jawed Daniel Dae Kim in a crackerjack performance—at its center. In large part, he insists that in many of the ensuing mishaps the joke’s on him. Smart fellow, this on-stage (and, of course, off-stage) Hwang. He recognizes that a man who can make fun of himself will in turn have audiences laughing simultaneously at and with him.

Of the large cast, it’s necessary to stress the quality performances of all concerned. First by length and commitment to her goal is Donnelly, who tackles the potent role with both hands clenched. (She also serves eerily in another crucial bit.) Those playing the 1976 and 1955 Webbs are unfailingly strong, Lovibond possessing maybe the best pipes. Other standouts among the full ensemble standouts are Ta-Rea Campbell as seen-it-all nurse Penny, Barnes as shrewd manager St. John, Richard Lumsden as in-house piano accompanist Joe Fogg, and Bryan Dick as both Dennis and wise-cracking Jack Larkin.

Staunton, on the other deft hand – as well as on director Dominic Cooke’s deft hand – for the most part takes an unmissably different approach. Her Dolly is understated. This Dolly’s major characteristic is smiling benevolence. It’s her matchmaker’s aggressive sincerity that earns this Dolly’s exclamation point. Only in the second act, when she determines to land moneybags Horace Vandergelder (Andy Nyman), he of the vast Yonkers geld, does she throw subtlety to the wings and make like a marauding golddigger.

But even as the Empire book might well be beneficially tightened, the strong-voiced, energetic actors jauntily go about the tuneful songs and occasional songlets, as tidily directed by Cady Huffman and choreographed by Lorna Ventura in this year’s hyper-athletic trend. Stand-out numbers are “Never Say Never,” a proto-feminist pledge for Wally and cohorts, and the spirited “Moxie” for Smith, Raskob, and Kinney, as well as “Lookahee,” with the steelworkers lustily shouting at female passersby. (From as high as floor 102?) These click as well as a ballad fittingly called “Castles in the Air.” Shortly before closing, Sylvie and Wally maintain “We Were Here,” an anthem celebrating the many-races workers. No one leaving Empire will forget them soon. In that appropriately soaring manner, Sherman and Hull rivet their strong dramatic point

Democrats, be seated. Be seated with great anticipation. Playwright Mario Correa has a sizzling partisan entertainment for you, called succinctly N/A. And before any additional info is passed along, be aware that the N/A doesn’t stand for “Not Acceptable.” Certainly not unacceptable for Democrats, but then again maybe, just maybe, for Republicans. For Democrats N/A is so acceptable, it approaches cheers-level, if not reaches and surpasses it.

The canny Pre-Existing Condition result is that Ireland as much as anything else presents a clever satirical screed on how we communicate nowadays. She hears how often we’ve integrated psychological jargon into our discourse and just as often blithely — though, we think, seriously — pass it along as meaningful observation. She’s taken in how regularly we satisfy ourselves with what we have to say, assuming it has more value than it does. The outcome, she implies — maybe as regularly as not — is less broad satisfaction than self-satisfaction.

What impressed me about the hyperkinetic piece — written and directed by the Danish Tue Biering, co-directed and choreographed by Nhlanhla Mahlangu — is its recognizing the marked difference between the lessons learned by American youth of the DuMont days and the takeaways that the South Africans reaped at a later date. Put succinctly, stateside viewers were indulged in visions of what could be distilled to a Cowboys-and-Indians ethic. They (we?) were shown partial truths indelibly integrated, a template for games played in local schoolyards. In contrast, South Africans were exposed to an up-close-and-personal look at white dominance of a country where other immigrants — slaves and the Chinese imported as cheap labor to lay the cross-country railroad — were seen as second-class citizens, or worse. (Is there any need to note it’s a cock-eyed assessment too often enduring today?)

It’s no news that the best composers and lyricists are said to have style, which means that to some extent their work is recognizable for repeated hallmarks. Of lesser composers and lyricists, the assessment is that everything they come up with sounds alike. Maybe Dave Malloy fits his own intriguing category: Everything tends to sound alike and yet everything unmistakably has style.

Presented without an intermission – clearly, Kaufman wants no interruption of the mounting intensity – the documentary is an invaluable addition to Holocaust literature. It’s made even more so by the excellent ensemble, all conveying the Tectonic Theater Project’s gravity.

There’s no denying that Illinoise is effective, a large billboard on Adam Rigg’s industrial-slash-forest set announcing the title as well as other information. It may be that longtime Stevens fans need only hear the material they love now presented as dance to carry on about it. But providing the cherished songs with a connecting plot hasn’t necessarily resulted in an instantly graspable tale.

This musical take on The Great Gatsby presents Jay Gatsby and Daisy Fay Buchanan as a sympathetic couple caught in unfortunate Jazz Age circumstances. In other words, the transfiguration of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby is, sorry to report, a travesty.

The unfortunate news is that while not outrightly deficient, this Uncle Vanya — presenting figures dealing with boredom in an at-sixes-and-sevens societal climate — is somehow flat more often, surely, than director Neugebauer intends.

Pulling all this together — with Jack Knowles’ dramatic lighting, Adam Cork’s sound and original music, and Ash J. Woodward’s striking video design — is Rupert Goold. Ever since he startled Manhattan audiences with his 2008 Macbeth, he has never lowered his standards. He has only raised them. Patriots is a new high.

So, give a round of applause to Jonathan A. Abrams, who (from a story by producer Tyler Mitchell and himself) dreamed up a plot in which to lodge the Huey Lewis and the News songs so’s a talented gaggle of singers and dancers can give Great White Way life to them. For added stage heat, choreographer Lorin Latarro grabs every opportunity for her multi-talented troupe to maximize the excitement with inexhaustible energy.

With all the show-stopping singing and dancing and voluptuous acting — from most prominently Lewis, Freeman, Richardson, and Wilson — it could be said that The Wiz gives the enthusiastic audience its money’s worth. True and not so true. What about giving the audience more than its money’s worth? What about giving the ticket buyers a better tale than this backwards glance is currently providing? Or is this version of The Wiz not so much a backward glance as a flash forward? As a matter of disappointing fact, what’s on view now is not entirely Williams’ book.

Attempting to lend Lempicka a canvas broader than Lempicka’s voluptuous canvases, Kreitzer and Gould arrange a stylized look at the Russian Revolution — and its eventually sending Tamara and Tadeusz, penniless and unprepared to work for a living, to Paris. They bookend that theatrical documentation with a fascist-foreboding routine, highlighted by symbolic figure Marinetti (the hyper-active George Abud) conjuring Hitler’s rise. (Choreographer Kelly, always at the ready, has his indefatigable contingent execute gestures subtly suggesting German citizens “Heil”-ing.)

Let’s just say for a moment that McAnuff and crew on-stage and backstage have morphed into pinball wizards themselves. As such, they’re hitting record-breaking numbers on the flashing and whistling revival machine they’re playing.