David Finkle

Daniel Craig and Ruth Negga assumed the roles of, respectively, the title figure and Lady Macbeth. Intermittently, they appeared to be trying out some of the more tense emotions they would display in a finished production-Negga more so than Craig. Twelve actors completed the ensemble, several of them emoting somewhat-Paul Lazar as Duncan and the Porter, Grantham Coleman as MacDuff, Amber Gray as Banquo (addressed with the use of she-her-hers pronouns). The rest delivered Shakespeare's dialog as if still learning their assigned lines. Some seemed amused to be mouthing Shakespeare's words. More than one of the male performers spoke Shakespeare's grave iambic pentameters with their hands in their trouser pockets.

To underline Crystal's powers the colorful Brown and Green have written 'Any Man But Me.' Though more than vocally acceptable throughout. the show's star (no understudy listed) brings this eleven o'clock number off with expanding fortitude. He delivers it as if this final quarter of the musical is the one he's truly pleased to be headlining. Is it going too far to suggest Crystal might someday make a terrific Uncle Vanya? It would be unfair to suggest that Mr. Saturday Night is any less than amiable start to finish, not only for a focal figure who has the audience eating out of his hand but for the other seven-and for Ellenore Scott's jaunty choreography. Paymer has Stan well in hand. Graff, always marvelous, is present much of the time as a likable foil but shows her strength in the 'Until Now' duet with Crystal and in the mock-sultry 'Tahiti.' Though Bean is given ditties as if she's there and so ought to have a song or two, she makes them count. Harmon shows off in the Buddy Young Jr.-taunting 'What If I Said?'

What has indisputably been established throughout both acts is that the seven cast members are each worth whatever salary they're getting and more. Each, as cleverly dressed by Linda Cho, deserves a separate order-of-appearance rave: White for her unmitigated fury, Nakamura for her dignified uppityness, Dratch for her vague otherworldliness (especially when calling attention to her covered nipples), Williams for her dignified but no-nonsense great lady, Cooper for her sneakiness, Hough for her unabashed cheer, DeLaria for her never-abating brazenness. Susan Stroman, apparently on leave from musicals, directs. She's so creative at this song-and-dance-less assignment that the leave is likely to be extended. She never falters at keeping the stage lively. That goes for the stretches where the Fillinger script stalls. Yes, Stroman lovers, she does slip in a brief dance routine or two.

For the length of this review, I'm plunking down in Feldstein's corner. She strides on stage with full confidence to sit at a dressing table where Brice is about to reflect on her life. In no time flat, she's back in Brooklyn as the young Great White Way wannabe. She's already convinced her name should be in lights, and in a tearing hurry it is-in the Ziegfeld Follies, no less. Feldstein remains in tight control-director Michael Mayer certainly helps greatly-as Brice is romanced by Nick Arnstein (Ramin Karimloo) and spends the rest of the several years this tuner covers (approximately 1910-1921) raising daughter Francis Arnstein and dealing with the on-again-mostly-off-again luck her businessman-gambler hubby faces.

Yes, but Shange's 90-minute collection of poems performed by seven women, each in a designated color (Shange undoubtedly means the pun) returns the adjective to its high-wattage definition. Director-choreographer Camille A. Brown's production stuns the daylights out of you.

Vogel and producers also know on what side of the acting and directing their bread is buttered. Twenty-five years later and on Rachel Hauck's attractively economical set, Parker remains the 17-year-old (and then some) she was then. Remarkable! Her version of innocence assailed and fighting back is acting at a zenith. Morse's driven Peck, woefully at odds with a man's instincts for civility, matches Parker. In their many appearances, Gold, Myers, and especially Day during her imbibing moments prove their worth.

All the same, if American Buffalo doesn’t pack the wallop it did then (there is at least one actual unpulled punch), the third Broadway revival of the play contains sufficient deliberately grubby thrills to qualify as a must-see.

The tuner (using the term loosely) has two elements going for it: 1) its realistic view of one bittersweet consequence that families may face when divorce intervenes; and 2) the always remarkable Rob McClure pulling out multitudinous stops as the title character.

Maybe not the first observation to make about Dana H., playwright Lucas Hnath's new piece, is that it contains an unforgettable feat. All the same, I'm going to observe it. Throughout, Deirdre O'Connell, a New York City actress not nearly as celebrated as she deserves to be, pulls off an unusually astounding accomplishment. (The awards she's already amassed during her career must be near to collapsing a home shelf.) For the overwhelming part of 80 minutes, O'Connell lip-syncs a testimony that playwright Hnath's mother gave some time ago about her life, a life marked dramatically by a terrifying episode from which she still hasn't recovered. For that matter, she isn't entirely convinced it happened.

Speaking, as I was above, of political correctness, I'm about to give the currently prevailing policy a tug of my own. I reiterate that Scott's Thought of a Colored Man is for all audiences, but I submit that there are really only two audiences and that both will profit deeply from it. The BiPOC audience members will recognize and appreciate Scott's understanding of who they are and what continuing indignities they experience daily. The white audience, realizing more in the last few BLM years than it historically has, will be taking in even newer revelations about a country so long and still too recalcitrantly the major societal and cultural influence. For his perspicacity and for his well-honed insistence on perceiving and respecting the life of the Other, playwright Scott is to be profoundly thanked.

On the one hand-perhaps the upper hand-Is This A House is effective in illuminating the process by which the sometimes reassuring, sometimes intimidating FBI agents elicited Winner's less-than-winning admissions. On the other hand, adhering strictly to the word-for-word declaration introduces several questions. Okay, it's word-for-word, but after a while, doesn't the actors so assiduously replicating every verbal hiccup begin to feel like a stunt? Doesn't this representation prompt a thought about what is the more efficacious manner of representing theatrical reality (no pun intended)?

We all know-don't we?-the phrase Goin' to Church, which means letting religious fervor flow no matter what the context. Dramatist Lyons has written a play about literally goin' to church. He's gotten the church bells reverberantly chiming. If theater lovers are smart, they'll heed the call and go straight to Chicken & Biscuits church.

Perhaps it's because I've just been reading Charles Dickens-The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit-that I took in Ruben Santiago-Hudson's current Lackawanna Blues revival as stunningly Dickensian. Dealing, as it does, with a young boy brought up in near poverty who encounters any number of memorable characters, Santiago-Hudson's early travels magically echo those of the prolific 19th-century author.

Leon's demands of the cast are met in full. It's as if every member is a stick of just-lighted dynamite. Grier and Underwood detonate the brightest and account for the most emotional damage inflicted, but everyone is outstanding. The same goes for Derek McLane's set, Dede Ayite's costumes, the Allen Lee Hughes lighting and the Dan Moses Schreier sound.

Saying that Adam Rapp's The Sound Inside has an unusual meta-literary quality may seem off-putting, but it's meant to be a compliment, a heartfelt encouragement aimed at anyone eager to attend a play with subtly deep rewards.

But with Tomei, the Williams heartbreak is elusive. She looks the neighborhood scourge in costume designer Clint Ramos's slips and robes and Tom Watson's wigs, but the debilitating weight of her loss and the fear that it won't be regained is not in her eyes or in the effortful way she carries herself. Tomei is effective as far as she goes, and it's likely she has it in her to go much farther. But she hasn't been guided that way.

Luke Halls provides a late projection subtly implying that Alex and Abe are stand-ins for any number of men everywhere trying to make sense of life as we live it and only having the flimsiest success in their daily groping. That finale lifts a already exceptional production to an even higher plane.

So with the adjusted book, audiences are now treated to this watered down, gussied up Beetlejuice. The production seesaws somewhat precariously between the dead Adam and Barbara, and the spots-the-dead Lydia. Adam and Barbara, sometimes throwing sheets over themselves to appear as traditional ghosts, seem to be fighting for attention with Lydia's wanting to resurrect her mother. All the while, the comically desperate Beetlejuice contrives to do his handwringing worst.

In a season where straight plays-often relegated to second-class Broadway status-have been in unusual number, this All My Sons goes a far way, or further, to reminding audiences what perceptive, inspired, engaged playwriting is. If anyone is leaving the Roundabout's American Airlines with a blithe ho-hum, I'll turn in my critic's spurs. If anyone is exiting the auditorium having seen the drama for the first time and wondering what all the fuss over Miller is about, I'm here to recommend a psychotherapist expert in healing emotional blockage.

Daunno, who plays his guitar a good bit, and Jones sing out with gusto and swap insults not far from the level of Benedick and Beatrice in William Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing. Testa has fun with Aunt Eller's orneriness and adds to the evening's singing (in a traditionally non-singing role). Special praise has to be aimed the way of Ali Stroker, who's taken on the prairie-promiscuous Ado Annie. She bounds about with fervor in a wheel chair. It may be that her countrified version of 'I Cain't Say No' is the highest of the highlights on display. James Davis comes purty close with his sung and danced 'Everything's Up to Date in Kansas City.' Will Brill doesn't lift his voice in song much, but he nails down the meddling peddler well enough, particularly on his 'mind your own business' line.

It's no news that Metcalf is a superlative actress. Looking elegant and completely self-possessed, she presents a Nora who has changed greatly from the 'little bird' she was to Torvald. Metcalf's Nora is very much a modern woman-an obviously calculated manifestation of how Ibsen's implied message about future equality of the sexes has materialized.

Bandstand is being promoted as 'a swing musical,' and that's what it joyfully is, as director-choreographer Andy (Hamilton) Blankenbuehler deploys a cast headed by the sparkling and tough Laura Osnes and Corey Cott and boasting some of the most spectacular dancers on Broadway this minute. The brilliant Blankenbuehler keeps his stageful of remarkable performers moving just about constantly in ways that make spectators watch what each of them is doing individually and what all of them are doing as a lithe, athletic team. For that, abundant bravos.

There's enough on-stage pizzazz to keep the pre-teens charged and cheering at the story of chocolate-loving Charlie hoping to tour Willy Wonka's mysterious factory on a hard-to-come-by golden ticket. This recommendation is in large part due to Dahl's understanding that the under-12 contingent gets a big kick out of seeing their fictional peers behaving badly. It's also in large part due to Mark Thompson's imaginative sets that include all sorts of comically menacing apparatus and comically menacing out-sized animals.

The Frankel-Korie score has its pluses and minuses. Korie's words cleverly reveal the convictions as well as the doubts Rubinstein and Arden have about themselves, often simultaneously-the point being made that though the two industry monarchs disliked each other with fervor, they both regularly encountered the same obstacles.

How does Falsettos look nearly 25 years on? Just great--with only the merest reservations that certainly don't have anything to do with the several brilliant Finn songs. They begin with the outrageous (particularly in Jennifer Caprio's Biblical costumes) opening number, 'Four Jews in a Room Bitching' and include Trina's 'I'm Breaking Down,' Marvin's 'What More Can I Say?' and Whizzer's 'The Games I Play.'