David Finkle — Theater Critic

The sketches are good, clean — uh, mostly clean — fun, but it’s likely that audience members on exiting (a large percentage are fans, it’s to be presumed) will remember having spent the past hours with a man whose honesty about his achievements and shortcomings won’t soon be dismissed and may even serve as a model for living a life free of secrets and lies. Nice work if you can get it, and you can get it here.

The actors distinguish themselves under Sarah Benson’s direction and Raja Feather Kelly’s abundant choreography. Jacobs and Jackson provide a strong score, a bounce back for Michael “A Strange Loop” Jackson from his White Girl in Danger follow-up. Yes, the occasional lyric may elicit the wrong kind of chuckle. But even if patrons don’t exit Teeth clamoring for the score on an original cast album, many will appreciate it most of the time, as it hurtles along under Patrick Sulken’s conducting. The same can most likely be said for the avenging-women vs. rapacious-men enterprise.

Is there anything wrong with Corruption? Putting aside the title as one handy for numberless other dramas throughout the ages, there is the above-mentioned cast list. From time to time, many of them appear as one person and reappear shortly as someone else. Observers may find themselves spending a few distracted seconds recognizing the differences. There is another element with which Rogers has had to reckon. Seemingly concerned that American audiences might not be as familiar as English audiences with the Brooks scandal, he’s gone about weighting — and said so — his important work as relevant to today’s stateside political climate. He inserts references like “above the law” occasionally and actually ends with a cry for preserving democracy, a condition that does not quite jibe with Corruption’s probe. Never mind. Rogers and Sher can take responsibility and credit for one of the season’s few must-sees.

Perhaps it’s shamelessly obvious to end a review of this Doubt: A Parable by declaring it succeeds without a doubt, but, okay, a few doubts aside, that’s still exactly what it does.

Reviewer’s recollection: I’ve only seen two previous Pericles productions, the first out of curiosity, the second out of duty. Subsequently, I intended to forego future opportunities. I was definitely reluctant to attend this one, until I reminded myself that the Fiasco bunch were likely to offer something appealingly off-kilter. Now I’d like to think that if I ever see another Pericles, it’s a revival of this nifty Fiasco rigmarole.

Not able completely to keep all Seavey’s twists clear, Scott Elliott nonetheless directs with style. He’s greatly helped by lighting director Jeff Croiter, sound designers Rob Milburn and Michael Bodeen, and perhaps most of all by projection designer Narun. Despite Seavey’s many distracting features, they all contribute to an unusually elegant production, maybe elegant in spite of itself.

During the lengthy first act and the short second act, Morton’s biography is sketchy in large part to keep the Morton-Birkenhead songs coming—Birkenhead’s clever, often effectively boisterous lyrics neatly enhancing Morton’s irresistible melodies. One title—“That’s How You Jazz”—stands for the triumph of the others. The jazzing that prevails is infectious, especially in the ensemble numbers, although Birkenhead’s words are often lost in the exhilarating shuffle.

Morisseau is one of those rare playwrights who never lets an audience down. She doesn’t mar her record here. Listening to Kenyatta’s free-association outpouring as it introduces a character in barely contained quiet desperation, I was hooked — and stayed that way, or even more so, for the rest of the 100 intermissionless Sunset Baby minutes.

A few final questions about a production trimmed but not extensively by Mark Izzard: Might Eddie Izzard’s impressive achievement now as well as Cumming’s nine years back trigger a trend? For over four centuries, actors (male and females) have sought to prove themselves by putting on some version of Hamlet’s doublet. Is it possible that in the future actors will decide that electrifying as Hamlet only isn’t sufficient? Will playing Hamlet and everyone else become the supreme acting test?

Did I and the others in that gleeful crowd receive the enormous treat? That won’t be blabbed here. It may be, however, that Escola has already primed themselves an Oh, Mary! sequel: 80 minutes of a giddy ooh-la-la Mary turn, complete with cabaret favorites. How about Mary on Sam Cooke’s “A Change is Gonna Come,” Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now,” and, maybe more pertinent, “Drinking Again”? I cannot wait.

One strength of the 90-minute intermissionless piece is its refusal to offer any easy explanation of addiction’s origins, on the assumption that explanations don’t carry much meaning when the alcoholic’s throes are what need to be immediately addressed. When Kirsten and Joe first spend time together at a waterfront, she tells him that she prefers to watch the water farther out. The water immediately below her, she insists, is too dirty. That’s all the rationale needed to set the parameters for this bold, unflinching musical gaze at drinking to cruel excess.

To little avail. The story still awkwardly jumps from sequence to sequence with spare logic, jokes landing with pea-sized humor. Plenty registers as forced, Queen Aggravain’s character probably the most forced. Tiresome time is given to Prince Harry and Lady Larken with the result that Winnifred disappears for long stretches. Myriad shenanigans serve as time fillers before Winnifred, nickname Fred, finally gets to bed down over the miniscule pea.

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.