David Finkle

Shortened and much tweaked, it eliminates, for instance, Nazi enthusiasts Herr Fahrenkopf and Frau Fahrenkopf, played broadly on stage now by Michael Leigh Cook and Alena Acker. Many other redactions crop up to tighten Williams’ solo work. Able to open up the setting, Huston occasionally leaves the veranda for ogling Gardner’s water frolicking with Pedro and Pancho, no visual letdown. Oh, well, that’s how the collaborative arts sometimes go.

What Manahatta can take pride in is the cast brought together by careful director Laurie Woolery and the Public’s casting folks, Heidi Griffiths, Jordan Thaler, and Joy Dickson. In his bio, Nassi mentions he’s an enrolled member of The Otoe-Missouria Tribe/Cherokee Nation. Great to know. How times have changed with the advent of this play and others of like origins across the populations. How finally current they are.

Arbus may not be the first to be this true to Beckett, but of the many stage revivals I’ve attended — not to mention the 60-performance initial 1956 New York City production starring Bert Lahr and E. G. Marshall — I’ve never seen one so scrupulously realized. And please note that I’ve spent so much time going on about this one aspect of Arbus’ treatment because it’s immediately representative of her entire supervision of Beckett’s comedy and accompanying tragedy — or is Waiting for Godot a genuine tragedy?

Roth devotees — and maybe readers, mostly women, who believed him more misogynistic than misanthropic — might wonder how such an immaculately stylish prose writer with a boundless gift for humor translates to the stage. Well they might. Turturro, evidently a close Roth friend, and Levy have trimmed the 451-page novel into something exploding over the footlights for around 100 minutes. The result passes muster along the lines of professionally accomplished CliffsNotes. As could be expected, the playwrights include sections of all, or most, of the important sequences, although they don’t always catch the hilarity that comes so easily to Roth. Nevertheless, they do impressively convey the mounting frustrations eventually causing Mickey to contemplate ending it all.

Bioh contrives a heart-stopping development that threatens not only Jaja but daughter Marie. She contrives it but awkwardly. As she rapidly heads into ending the play, she leaves things on — forgive this — ice. And this leaves Jaja’s African Hair Braiding as insufficiently dramatic, though never less than amusing, as acted by the 10-member cast and directed by Whitney White, who apparently knows exactly what has a braiding outfit buzzing any and every day. The play does give a reviewer a chance to nod strongly at a creative team member too often overlooked: the hair and wig designer. That individual is indisputably crucial here. Check out, especially, what eye-catchers crown Bea, Aminata, and Ndidi. Awesome work, Nikiya Mathis.

Her songs are revealed to be the equivalent of her talking. She may not be scrupulous about rhyme, which crops up when convenient, but she never ceases to write from who she is. Every thought is true to that. Audience members, most particularly those not foremost among her devotees, are likely to leave with an enhanced respect for her – and gratitude for her lyrics – for instance, a lyric as trenchant and indisputable as this: “There’s no truth in shame.” She got that right.

And so here it is, but is it the right show? To that blunt query, Bloom’s audience, whom she addressed as Boomers, would shout a resounding yes and, at curtain, would standingly ovate. As for me, not a Boomer, I have to say no. I’d go farther than declaring merely that it’s not my cup of tea. I contend that the unapologetically aggressive Bloom – an obviously intelligent and extremely proficient presence in glittering pants suit and gold high heels – has the wherewithal to put together 85 intermissionless minutes that deal more movingly with death while remaining just as risible.

Therefore, the question instantly becomes: How successful is 37-year-old Antonio Díaz, who describes himself as a life-long David Copperfield devotee? The short answer is: He’s very successful. The longer answer is that, doing any number of card tricks (more about them later), his long suit is a boyish charm combined with an ostensible love for the illusions he creates. He also shows off a quick ad-lib wit, even more admirable in a fellow who says he’s only recently become comfortable speaking English.

How Máire reacts in the remaining 70 minutes, how her religious convictions in regard to her beloved Jesus prevail – or don’t– won’t be revealed here. But Mullen’s superior performance as an aging woman holding tenaciously to the possibility of new romance is further enhanced, just as religion is kept from gaining any kind of upper hand.

In turn, the other actors all are eventually handed similar in-one speeches, indicating previous persons have apparently invaded each of the characters. Hmm. What are they meant to represent? Is Jacob-Jenkins offering some more profound observation about, say, reincarnation? If so, the message comes across as confusing, perplexing, even eventually gratuitous. Oh, well.

It may be that the challenging intricacies of Holloway’s plot – of what unappealingly unfolds in the final few moments – will result in some head-scratching and “Huh, what?” mouthings from those exiting the hushed auditorium. Spectators who get Holloway’s full intentions, who follow his incriminating sentiments about the nectar of dead men origins will not only declare themselves scarily entertained but will continue considering the charges he has incorporated about man’s cruelty throughout the ages.

The only challenge this marvelous Oliver! look-see offers a dazed—make that, dazzled—reviewer is where to start piling on the encomia. Probably makes sense to start with the focal Charles Dickens figures, 9-year-old Oliver Twist (Benjamin Pajak), here described as 11, and the larcenous Fagin (Raúl Esparza). Because their performances enhance the revival equally, the only fair way to approach this is alphabetically.

It could be that Good Night, Oscar exists as much as anything for handing Hayes an at-the-ivories tour de force. Otherwise, his Levant portrayal is strong enough. He bumbles and stumbles across Rachel Hauck‘s couple of NBC studios, constantly entrenched in Levant’s havoc, lighting up as obsessively as Levant did. Perhaps aficionados won’t be entirely watching the commanding grouse their guy was, but Hayes adulators will assume they’re getting the real thing. Could be the same for old-time Paar-tisans. Rappaport doesn’t seem to be out to impersonate the man and his assured-yet-uncertain-of-himself manner. He gets much of the Paar’s professionally charming ways when in front of television cameras. The other cast members, Bergl chief among them, respond to Peterson’s serviceable direction. As for the audience groups cited above: Good Night, Oscar has something, if not everything, for all three.

Director Rachel Chavkin (Tony for Hadestown) has the able four working like Energizer bunnies. As Finneran always does, she wrings as much humor as there is to wring; in the circumstances, maybe even more. So do the other in-for-a-penny-in-for-a-pound players.

In short, these Camelot revisers do not metaphorically pluck magic sword Excaliber from its stone. They leave it there. There’s simply not a more congenial spot for happily ever-aftering than here in Camelot; it’s just that this particular Camelot spot isn’t that Camelot spot.

Being exposed to Horn’s masterful pun demonstration comes close to equaling the price of Shucked admission, but what about the rest of it? Slightly less of a recommendation – with a caveat: Jack O’Brien’s direction. For this production, which prides itself in being as corny as Cob County, O’Brien imbues the production with rat-a-tat style that not only knocks your socks off but blows your mind. The knocking and blowing are enhanced by Scott Pask’s set of a large, slatted barn with occasional corn rows sliding on. Japhy Weideman’s lighting and John Shivers’ sound help a bushel, too.

Well, musical lovers, here’s the tuner again, now as Vanities–The Musical. It’s surely pleasant enough but not so much a revival as, according to advance word, a revisal. Again, as in 2009, it extends the years – originally 1963-74 – that a trio of small-town Texas vanity owners, Kathy, Mary, and Joanne, promise eternal friendship only to strain that promise and in 1990 acknowledge the error of their ways. (Writing in 1976, Heifner understandably had a grasp on 1974 but hadn’t bothered to imagine the future.)

Anyone attending Bob Fosse’s Dancin’ hoping to get a fresh gander at adored numbers like “Steam Heat” or “Rich Man’s Frug“ or “All That Jazz” or you-name-it – that’s to say, anyone waiting with bated breath for this supposed salute to eight-time Tony-winning choreographer Bob Fosse – is best advised to have second thoughts. Nothing like those kinds of re-creations is coming your way.

What can I say? Misty may not pay off when viewed from one angle but viewed from another – Omar Elerian directing and with contributions from Godwin and Lee as music coordinators and non-stop sound designer Elena Peña – Misty pays off like a bright orange Happy Birthday balloon.

Not too long after Pictures From Home gets underway, it turns boring and then abusive to the patrons. Then, if this is the California answer to Arthur Miller’s classic drama, it becomes a piece to which much attention need not be paid. The modicum of attention that might be paid is due to venerable actors Lane, Burstein and Wanamaker. (Lane is top-billed, but Burstein gets the last and therefore most prominent of the separate curtain bows.) Dominating as each can be, they’re hampered by Sharr’s script and Sher’s acquiescing direction.

Who else involved with Between Riverside and Crazy deserves those greatly earned kudos? How about Henderson, one of Broadway’s and off Broadway’s longtime reliable character actors? Guirgis has handed him a role that makes his abilities undeniable. As Walter, Henderson has a part that gives him wide opportunities to keep his gifts on non-stop display. There’s a persistent quality in the player, something at his core that always confirms the quiet but unquestionable truth in whomever he’s playing. And what of director Austin Pendleton, arguably the habitually busiest member of the New York City theater community? Last on Broadway stealing scenes in Tracy Letts’ The Minutes, he blithely and boldly returns as the Between Riverside and Crazy director. (Besides acting and directing, Pendleton is a playwright and acting teacher. Does he ever have any spare time? If he does, he probably spends it seeing a play.) Because Guirgis packs so much to be unpacked in his scripts—the drama, the humor, much of it intricately simultaneous—Pendleton must unleash and restrain the actors not just from minute to minute but from second to second. He doesn’t miss a beat. He doesn’t miss any of the potential nuances within a beat. Neither under his firm hand do any of the supporting actors. Perhaps Pendleton’s directorial request once he’s chosen his ensemble and has complete trust in them is to tell them to do what they do and feel confident doing it. Most likely, he says more, but knows how, as they interact, to shift focus nimbly. His is masterful directing.

Mays keeps it in his way, doing so with co-adapters Susan Lyons and Michael Arden, production conceivers Arden and scenic designer Dane Laffrey, director Arden, lighting designer Ben Stanton, sound designer Joshua D. Reid, projection designer Lucy Mackinnon, and hair, wig, and makeup designer Cookie Jordan. What the endlessly imaginative group has created is a Christmas present so big it wouldn't even fit under the storys-tall tree in Rockefeller Center. It requires much more capitalization than something like famous Christmas Carol-presenting Simon Callow standing at a lectern. Which is an observation meant to emphasize that the must-see package may not show up everywhere (or anywhere?) other than large houses where pounds and shillings flow.

It needs to be said that as the established songs of tunesmithing brilliance and others moderately serviceable emerge, they're sung by a cast of first-rate rock belters, led by the likes of Likes, Pfeiffer, and Wood. Patrons are advised not to leave before the curtain-call finale, when each of the gifted ensemble barrels forward to show his or her sizzling stuff. 'Penny Lane' is not delivered entirely or partially. So, McCartney's memorable lyric isn't heard about the Penny Lane nurse who 'though she feels as if she's in a play, she is anyway.' Crowe's Penny Lane is in a play, a musical -and not an especially powerful one, at that.

Director Patrick Marber - a reliable Stoppard collaborator these years - works wonders with his 30-plus cast members (some original London cast players, some new to the piece) as he does with costumer Brigitte Reiffenstuel, lighting designer Neal Austin, sound and clever original music designer Adam Cork, projection designer Isaac Madge, and certainly the Campbell Young Associates wig, hair and makeup designers.

This Into the Woods revival is eminently worth seeing, for perhaps an unusual additional reason. When I attended, the audience cheered every first-act song long and loud. Why such jubilation? Perhaps because the fave-rave musical is one of the most popular high schools attractions going. Could be the packed St. James auditorium is chockablock with former Into the Woods schooldays players who know the score backwards and forwards and are cheering it for old time's sake. There are worse recommendations for joining them.