David Finkle — Theater Critic

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.

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.'

It's undoubtedly coincidence that Cats arrives on cats' feet just after the national political conventions have concluded. Patrons seeing it this week and in the weeks to come may find themselves reminded of those congregations. Truth to tell, they're more likely to see the Democrat Convention echoed rather than the Republican Convention. The diversity of the former outshines the divisiveness of the latter-the many unison dance routines being a visual metaphor for cohesion and promise. And it may be that when Grizabella, a woman, is selected to rise to new heights, more than a few spectators will flash on the Democrat's 2016 nominee ascending to her next vaunted level.

That depends on what you're in the mood for. If topping your list of requirements is a stunning enterprise, you're advised to speed yourself-not necessarily on speed-to the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre, where Es Devlin has constructed a sleek white-and-grey set that instantly announces the film-noirish treatment director Rupert Goold has committed to make of Bret Easton Ellis's 1991 American Psychonovel.

They're in modern dress for all but the final scenes when John Proctor (Ben Whishaw) and wife Elizabeth (Sophie Okonedo) are brought from the jail where they've been mistreated and he's been tortured. They're in rags to confront each other before possibly going to the gallows for denying they've dealt in witchcraft. Moreover, most of the women in the troupe appear in long, straight and usually blond hair, which is today's prominent Jennifer Aniston-popularized coiffeur of choice.

Oh, yes, musical comedy aficionados, it's the non-voting-age players, including the adorably proficient Isabella Russo as the band manager, who steal this undertaking while the bigger names above and below the title hit wonky notes on their figurative Fender guitars. Now, [Lloyd Webber]'s more likely to be called out for trying to prove he's as contemporary as can be, though his newest melodies and riffs, which he orchestrated, conjure only Broadway-rock of the '70s. If just about all the numbers swiftly begin to sound alike, that's because they are--as is JoAnn M. Hunter's choreography.

Van Hove knows what he's doing, all right. Where I've often thought the playwrights he's toyed with would greatly disapprove of the toying, I suspect that were Miller to have seen this treatment, he would've applauded. As the actors aren't being asked to underline subtexts along with the text, they're free to play Miller's script to the utmost.

Let it immediately be said, audiences will certainly get their money's worth at On Your Feet! if they're enamored of the hot-hot music spread around the globe in tandem by Gloria (Ana Villafane, standing in for the real thing and with energy to spare) and hubby Emilio (Josh Segarra, soigné and sexy as hell in this incarnation). Director Jerry Mitchell helps deliver what's called for in jukebox endeavors like this one. Providing even more oomph is choreographer Sergio Trujillo, who brings on his dancers at the first high-decibel sound blast from the large band Lon Hoyt conducts. Then Trujillo carries on with great regularity from big start to even bigger finish and then right into the curtain call. He hardly stops sending his indefatigable terpers into routines characterized by much shoulder manipulation, hand-clapping and hip swiveling.

Everyone connected with Therese Raquin seems to know what a powerhouse it is as a portrait of 19th-century middle-class French malaise. It's a shame that Cabnet hasn't quite propelled that past the footlights.

If you think you're about to hear anything critical of the two old pros James Earl Jones and Cicely Tyson in director Leonard Foglia's revival of D. L. Coburn's 1977 comedy, The Gin Game, at the Golden Theatre, you better think again. As two lonely residents at a home for the aged who find comfort playing cards with each other in a rundown backyard, they're well nigh perfect -- which is what you already knew they would be.

It may be that the lure for actors of such pungent roles explains the frequent Fool for Love sightings. Indeed, it may be that Shepard's demanding work-out is more entertaining for the performers who get to take on Eddie and May than it is for anyone who gets to watch them.

In for big praise, considering the size of the cast--all of whom are full of the right kind of personality crochets--is director Joe Mantello, who also helmed Sting's large-crewThe Last Ship earlier this season. Aided by designer Japhy Weideman's lighting, he directs the constant Airline Highway traffic with immeasurable facility, maximizing the downbeat, while frantic, motel life.

..two hours and 40 minutes of tireless earnestness...The industriousness expended by all those creators has been, it's a true pity to relate, in the service of a Wikipedia go at Pasternak's brilliant, if occasionally turgid, take on the physician-poet Yuri Zhivago...Yes, it's a couple mouthfuls of love story...Battles rage, conflagrations torture the sky, explosions split the air, rifles spit...Mutu...has a rich baritone he puts to good use. Barrett...has a clear soprano she also employs well. Actually, the singing by everyone--certainly by Gayer, Nolan and Hewitt--is at a praise-worthy level. The catch is that as persuasive as they sound, they'd fare better were they given persuasive songs to sing. Instead, Simon's melodies are unrelentingly derivative. More than anything, they give the impression of being one extremely long song written for Les Miserables...Perhaps worse even than the music are the Michael Korie-Amy Powers lyrics.

Another way to look at it has to do with snow globes. Raquel and Vito collect them. A few dozen are displayed on a series of shelves. Some are even hurled before final fade-out. But what do you usually do with snow globes? You turn them upside down, shake them and then watch the fake snow fall through the water enclosed for a perhaps a minute of bland prettiness. What you get when you cross this crossed Private Livesand Kiss Me, Kate are a few moments of bland silliness.

...it would be a pleasure to say that all the difficulties stirred up as impresario Weinstein piloted this one in has resulted in a whopper of show. Not to be...it's at best a treasure chest of only mixed delights...Morrison as a successful playwright dry of ideas but thick with Scottish accent is earnest and sturdy...Laura Michelle Kelly is appealing as a widow trying to raise her sons to the best of her ability. The Llewelyn Davies boys...have charm to spare...To gussy up the proceedings, Graham, Barlow, Kennedy and director Diane Paulus, relying on her Pippin-like circus instincts, turn to all sorts of diversions. One of the fussiest is Frohman's acting troupe. They behave like something from Charles Dickens but diluted and cheapened in the transition...Since this is a musical, the score is the biggest disappointment...Off-rhymes have become increasingly acceptable in Top 40 realms, but only come across as lazy in a period piece such as Finding Neverland...They can organize '90s power ballads but not imbue them with anything that clings to the memory once the last full notes fade.

Christopher Wheeldon's choreography for An American in Paris, at the Palace, is so spectacular that you have to forgive anything else wrong with the production--and believe you me, there's plenty to forgive... Featuring New York City Ballet soloist Robert Fairchild and the Royal Ballet's Leanne Cope in a thrilling pas de deux that you wish could go on forever, it's one of the highest lights of a 2014-2015 season notable for more and better dancing than has been seen for years.

...Thomas has gone about jiggling Colette's story of a young girl being trained as a courtesan and a rich family friend who grow over time into lovers. But the misguided Thomas only succeeds in denaturing Colette so that Gigi (Vanessa Hudgens), now older, and eventual swain Gaston Lachaille (Corey Cott), now younger, progress to a happy ending with any number of destructive changes to the story...The damage that politically correctness has done to the arts only worsens as time goes on...Clark shows off her clarion voice and otherwise does okay as Madame Alvarez, or Mamita...McGillin smiles well as the compering Honoré Lachaille. His duet with Clarke on 'I Remember It Well' is the one musical highlight. Cott does passably as Gaston...Firstly, congratulations to [Hudgens] for taking on a role associated in the mind of many a Gigi fan with Audrey Hepburn and Leslie Caron. She sings perfectly well and dances nicely. She does everything competently, but as Gigi she doesn't have the essential ingredient: charm. If it comes to that, this whole Gigi is lacking in charm, if not nerve.

Tyrone is a puppet with sharp teeth that lives at the end of the right arm belonging to timid Jason (Steven Boyer). The fabric creature struts his considerable stuff in Hand to God, Robert Askins's career-making play that has now and for all the best reasons been transferred from off-off-Broadway to off-Broadway to Broadway, at the Booth...Boyer -- who resembles Irving Penn's photographs of the young Truman Capote -- is giving a career-making performance every bit equal to Askins's work. He's utterly captivating, utterly heart-breaking in his transition from a shy boy with a puppeteering inclination to a terrified young man in possibly unbreakable thrall to a virtually autonomous bully who's not reluctant to declare himself the Devil...The truth is, that the Hand to God assault on religion as irrevocable healer both tickles the ribs and gives them a powerful punch.

It occurs to me that because it's now 2015, some theatergoers will think Wasserstein's vision of a particular past quarter-century is now dated. If so, they're confusing the concept of 'dated' with the concept of indelibly recreating a specific date, time and place. The late and very much missed Wasserstein has impeccably done the latter.

There's no gainsaying that the beloved Chenoweth -- seemingly born to play the role (whereas she wasn't nearly right for Fran Kubelik in Promises Promises, her last B'way stint) -- and Gallagher carry off as much of the yuk-hunting love-hate relationship as they can. It's also undeniable that somehow what the book writers kept of the comically combustible give-and-take for this treatment doesn't provide the performers enough to sink their honed teeth into. Comden and Green never supply a sense of what Jaffee did to alienate Lily to the extent he apparently has. Nor do they suggest what her rise to fame might have contributed to her side of the rift.

As Stoppard hints in his title, he wants to raise questions about the connections and disconnections between reality and imagination. The beauty of The Real Thing is the wit and pathos with which he achieves his end, and Stoppard achieves them despite a less than satisfying production. The ubiquitous Sam Gold directs, and perhaps it's his crowded schedule that explains what goes wrong with this Real Thing when things do go wrong. The chief problem is that he has the actors present their characters as terribly, teddibly arch. It's an off-putting approach that somehow renders banter of an amusing slant not very amusing at all. It's just tedious--with the result being that none of the four central figures are very likable.