David Rooney

Will the average Broadway matinee lady be comfortable participating in a practical demonstration of how to tell time with her ass? That's exactly what takes place in 'The Clock,' a particularly frisky sequence of 'Fela!' in which the entire audience is on its feet learning from the able-bodied dance corps what Swiss-movement booty work is all about. And it's just one of countless ways in which Bill T. Jones' wildly loose-limbed journey into the throbbing heart of Afrobeat breaks bold new ground in musical theater.

A talented cast, stirring vocals, athletic dance numbers and vigorous direction supply crowd-pleasing elements in the lively new musical, 'Memphis,' as evidenced by the waves of appreciation coming off the audience. But there's also a nagging predictability to this story of a white DJ who brings rockin' rhythm and blues from black Beale Street to the mainstream in 1950s Tennessee. The show is entertaining but synthetic, its telepic plotting restitching familiar threads from 'Hairspray' and 'Dreamgirls,' while covering fictitious ground adjacent to that of recent biopic 'Cadillac Records.'

Unlike the bipolar manic-depressive at the center of 'Next to Normal,' who draws no lasting salvation from her trials with different medications, this original new pop-rock musical has benefited unequivocally from treatment. Composer Tom Kitt, writer-lyricist Brian Yorkey and director Michael Greif have made a lot of smart changes en route to Broadway, giving the show a more assertive personality, a more consistent tone, sharper focus and greater depth to its relationships. While its weaknesses have not been entirely erased, they are outweighed by the intimate musical's ambition, sincerity and heightened emotional involvement.

Director Kristin Hanggi knows better than to loiter long between songs, and while it's overstretched for a show that waves its lack of substance like a banner, Rock of Ages keeps moving. Choreographer Kelly Devine gleefully apes the worst excesses of the era's pole-dancing, crotch-grinding, big-hair-tossing moves; costumer Gregory Gale re-creates the wardrobe crimes with flair; hair guru Tom Watson has worked overtime with the curling wand; and Jason Lyons' aggressive lighting cranks up the heat.

With its alfresco setting and the penetrating echoes of its countercultural themes during an election year in which political disenchantment became endemic, the Public Theater's revival of 'Hair' last summer in Central Park was a unique experience. So shifting it indoors could only dim the thrill, right? Wrong. The enhanced production now at the Al Hirschfeld is sharper, fuller and even more emotionally charged. Director Diane Paulus and her prodigiously talented cast connect with the material in ways that cut right to the 1967 rock musical's heart, generating tremendous energy that radiates to the rafters.'

With all the anger in the air in these dark days for the nation, there's a certain schadenfreude in watching Yasmina Reza's acid-dipped takedown of smug self-interest in 'God of Carnage.' Examining how the straitjacket of civilized society can barely contain the primitive beast within, the fanged comedy picks an easy target in the complacent bourgeoisie. But the savagery of its dissection of interpersonal politics -- marital, sexual and civic -- is played to perfection by a scorching cast in Matthew Warchus' pungent production.

The consummate craftsmanship of 'West Side Story,' with its matchless ability to weave a solemn narrative through music and dance, still dazzles after more than 50 years. Leonard Bernstein's majestic score, in particular, is undiminished, shifting fluidly between blasts of syncopated brass fueled by testosterone and rage, and some of the most achingly beautiful expressions of love ever sung. So it's rewarding to report that after nearly three decades' absence from Broadway, this masterwork has been given the revival it deserves. Under the knowing direction of Arthur Laurents, the 1957 show remains both a brilliant evocation of its period and a timeless tragedy of disharmony and hate.

Three-and-a-half years may seem a long time for an instantaneous London smash like 'Billy Elliot: The Musical' to cross the Atlantic, but the delay looks to have played serendipitously into the producers' hands. With unemployment figures soaring and the economy in the dumps, the zeitgeist could hardly be more attuned to the stirring story of a Northern England miner's son liberated from bleak reality by his passion for ballet. But even without that happy accident of timing, American audiences would have no trouble connecting with the universal sentiment of this bittersweet dual celebration of community and individuality.

Before Bartlett Sher's staging of 'South Pacific' gets under way, an excerpt splashed across a front scrim from James A. Michener's source stories characterizes the writer's time stationed in the region during WWII: 'The waiting. The waiting. The timeless, repetitive waiting.' It's been almost six decades between the 1949 opening of the Rodgers & Hammerstein classic and the show's first Broadway revival, but the Lincoln Center Theater production sure makes the waiting worthwhile. From the seductive swell of a full orchestra playing the glorious five-minute overture through the poignant final tableau of love and reconciliation, this is ravishing theater.

What makes 'In the Heights' so unique, however, is that despite the driving pulse of its Latin-American rhythms, blending hip-hop, rap, jazz, pop, salsa and merengue, this buoyant musical also nods reverently to the traditions of the show tune. From its catchy opening number, which tosses in references to Cole Porter and Billy Strayhorn while swiftly introducing a large gallery of key characters and placing them within a vividly drawn community, the musical's plucky marriage of youthful freshness and lovingly old-fashioned craft is hard to resist.

The partnership between producing powerhouses Disney and Cameron Mackintosh was bound to yield a mega-'Mary Poppins.' With the behemoth shows that led the British invasion of Broadway in the 1980s, Mackintosh made 'bigger is better' his manifesto. And Disney's ventures into musical theater can hardly be called modest in scale. So it's perhaps not surprising the lavish adaptation of P.L. Travers' beloved stories of a magical nanny is somewhat overstuffed. That quibble aside, the show is also bursting with dazzling stagecraft, stunning design, old-fashioned storytelling virtues and genuine charm.

O.K, so the book is clunky, the backstory is emotionally skeletal and the structure sticks to a generic 'VH1 Behind the Music' model, but glance around the newly rechristened August Wilson Theater during the songs in 'Jersey Boys' at the middle-age women dancing in their seats while their husbands' heads bop to the music and it's clear something is connecting. Then go dive in among the leopard-print outfits and thick 'Sopranos' accents in the lobby at intermission and it becomes even clearer. If this musical about Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons can reach its core audience of baby boomers and partisan home-staters, it could become a sizable hit.