David Rooney

Perhaps the most over-trafficked subject matter among contemporary American dramatists is the dysfunctional family. So one of the many wonders of the haunting musical Fun Home is the unique perspective it brings to that theme, in a deeply personal story that marries the specificity of individual experience with an emotional universality that will find echoes in many of our lives.

The mutual fascination and eternal struggle for understanding across the cultural divide between East and West is played out on a magnificent scale in Lincoln Center Theater's breathtaking revival of The King and I. As he did with the company's transcendent South Pacific seven years ago, director Bartlett Sher banishes even the faintest trace of mid-century quaintness or patronizing exoticism from the material, treating the 1951 Rodgers & Hammerstein classic with unimpeachable dramatic integrity and emotional authenticity that are equaled by this landmark production's exquisite musicianship and vocals. As for the superlative leads, Kelli O'Hara and Ken Watanabe, to say they are outstanding seems almost unfair given the uniform excellence of the massive ensemble.

Bombastic and exhausting, the show confuses childishness with an affinity for the child inside...good luck to it, if only this family-friendly musical...didn't work so strenuously for its meager ounce or two of charm...the show does have a heart-stopping death scene that's both moving and visually spectacular in its bewitching stagecraft and its elegant knitting together of imagery and theme. But the two hours-plus leading up to that moment, more often than not, are a chore...On the plus side, the expected patchwork signs of a Frankenstein's monster are not apparent. The show is fairly much of a piece, even if there's scant cohesion to the new score by Take That frontman Gary Barlow and Brit songwriter Eliot Kennedy, which weaves cloying platitudes into numbers that run from generic pop to bad theatrical pastiche...At the core of the show are sensitive, naturalistic performances from Morrison and Kelly, two accomplished musical-theater actors who sketch their characters' mutual yearnings and sorrows in delicate strokes, at times finding sincerity even in the most hackneyed lyrics...there's nonetheless no convincing argument here that a Finding Neverland musical was ever an artistically valid idea.

Now comes ballet luminary Christopher Wheeldon, taking an exhilarating leap as director-choreographer with An American in Paris, another show indelibly associated with a classic MGM movie musical. Not only is Wheeldon's nuanced command of storytelling through dance front and center, the production also foregrounds a triple-threat revelation in NYC Ballet principal Robert Fairchild, who proves himself more than capable of following in the suave footsteps of Gene Kelly.

Already a hit in London, where it transferred to the West End after bowing to much acclaim at the RSC's home base in Stratford, the production is a mighty undertaking. It's directed by Jeremy Herrin with propulsive energy; designed with commanding stagecraft by Christopher Oram and a superb team on lighting, music and sound; and performed with authority and an abundance of sly humor by a first-rate troupe of 23. If the play's two parts ultimately prove uneven -- with the vigorous, bold-strokes storytelling of Part One giving way to uneven pacing and a nagging shortage of social and political context in Part Two -- that could have something to do with the giant spoiler that even the most distracted history student knows: Anne Boleyn loses her head. As admirable as the production is, it can't compare with the exhilarating vibrancy and theatrical originality of last season's British double-bill, Twelfth Night and Richard III. But while it might fall short of the pantheon of all-time great stage events, Wolf Hall is nonetheless an impressive feat, a compelling drama played out across the canvas of a nation soaked in rain and mud and blood.

...a lazy eye roll is about the most extreme reaction likely to be provoked by this pretty but charm-deficient revival of the Lerner and Loewe musical, which plants an all-American, too-contemporary Vanessa Hudgens in a wanly unatmospheric Belle Époque Paris...Thomas downplays the issue of Gigi being trained to continue the family tradition by becoming a high-class courtesan...However, by removing almost any doubt that Gigi's fate ultimately will rest in her own hands, Thomas dulls what's most distinctive about the story, turning it into a conventional romance between a bland couple of compatible age range, interrupted by an awkward contractual negotiation...the show soars only intermittently toward the end, notably when Cott (a mini-Hugh Jackman) sings a gorgeous version of the stirring title song, and when Hudgens finally shifts beyond one-note youthful perkiness to display some romantic feeling. Both actors are perfectly sweet and vocally very capable...But the characters never come alive with even half the passion that Clark invests in 'Say a Prayer,' in which Mamita expresses her love and concern for her granddaughter.

Bold new American plays by unestablished dramatists too seldom make it to Broadway, so this commercially risky endeavor - a challenge approached head-on by producers in their amusing marketing campaign ­- is to be applauded. The show also brings a welcome breath of fresh air via a director, Moritz von Stuelpnagel, new to the commercial theater mainstream, and a talented ensemble of five actors, only one of whom, Marc Kudisch, is a Broadway regular. The sharp production has evolved over two hit off-Broadway incarnations, increasing in size with each move, and it now sits quite snugly in the still-intimate confines of the Booth Theatre...Director von Stuelpnagel and his terrific cast tackle this darkly funny material with a shrewd balance of heightened reality, warped sitcom and underlying pathos, landing all the jokes while never denying the genuine sorrow and anger driving both Jason and Margery to such erratic behavior...The five actors couldn't be better...But the real virtuoso performance is Boyer's. Whether trembling with fear as the deeply unhappy, reedy-voiced Jason or with power-crazed tyranny, wild irreverence and thundering rage as Tyrone, he creates two entirely distinct characters that give the illusion of existing independently of one another. Together, they somehow add up to one messed-up but affectingly real kid. Forgive the pun, but Boyer deserves a big hand.

...the three-decade age difference adds interesting layers to Kyra's daddy complex, and Nighy projects such unforced charm and wit that it's easy to imagine him seducing a smart, attractive girl in her twenties. The actor has a peerless way with Hare's caustic dialogue; he's magnetic in sardonic mode, when feigning indifference, in sputtering moments of rage, or letting down his guard to show his creeping desperation...Mulligan is more contained but no less commanding. She's watchful, controlled and wary, almost as if Kyra has played out this encounter many times in her head. And yet she's unable to deny a deep affection for Tom that lingers as undiminished as the hurt. If restless physicality and verbal dexterity are the signature traits of Nighy's performance, it's Mulligan's stillness and emotional transparency, battling with pride and anger, that distinguish her fine work, even navigating some of Hare's speechier passages with naturalness. Daldry has drawn three exquisite performances from his cast, and they lock together both in sharp contrast and in melancholy harmony with one another.

A collage of generational experience that's stronger on cumulative rewards than scene-to-scene conflict, the play limits access to Heidi's inner life for much of its excessive 2-hour, 40 minute running time. And Moss' opaque performance contributes to keep her at a distance. So it's a testament to theMad Men star's appeal that she's ultimately so affecting in the role - even if the emotional rush is a long time coming. She's the main reason to see director Pam MacKinnon's mixed bag of a revival, though it nonetheless reaffirms the merits of Wasserstein's Pulitzer- and Tony-winning 1988 play, which remains smart and funny, tender and big-hearted...Biggs manages to make a manipulative, self-serving philanderer oddly likeable, which is crucial to Heidi's enduring affection for him, and Pinkham (A Gentleman's Guide to Love & Murder) tosses off Peter's bon mots with genial aplomb...

Lily is a role that calls for a true coloratura, and Chenoweth's voice remains a rare instrument, effortlessly scaling the trilling peaks while the actress scampers mischievously through every bit of campy, self-worshipping comic business in the book. Gallagher proves to be almost her match by hamming up a storm as a character perhaps even more flamboyant than Lily, even if the supposedly deep-rooted connection between them is unconvincing. (There's no evidence of the recent vocal strain that caused him to miss a stretch of previews.) However, the performances remain wedded to a broad slap-shtick mode that gets very old very fast, much like the antique sight gag of a cartwheeling granny. And while both Lily's and Oscar's songs are virtuoso comedy turns, the problem is they're seldom fun; at least not for long.... People sitting near me were roaring with laughter, so the show's cornball humor was obviously working for some. But while I was as ready as the next guy to be taken on a delirious musical journey, the train never leaves the station.

Morgan's take on the Queen in these fictionalized meetings is daubed in skewed sentiment, but Mirren sells it with impeccable finesse. The playwright finds poignancy in his protagonist's indebtedness to Major for guiding her through the public's growing distance from the monarchy, as well as in her understated but evident affection for Wilson, who starts their association on the defensive but forges a relaxed camaraderie as he shares his self-doubts. McCabe and Baker take full advantage of playing the most fully drawn of the PM characters, giving relatable performances that provide an entertaining counterpoint to Mirren's poise.

...Larry David's first venture into Broadway playwriting, Fish in the Dark, is a spirited throwback to that once hugely popular gagmeister's patented specialty: classic boulevard comedy molded to fit the American Jewish family. It's also pure sitcom, energized by David's customary serrated edges and willfully abrasive characters...Director Anna D. Shapiro...stages the comedy with an unapologetic endorsement of its retro roots. She keeps her foot firmly on the accelerator without flooring it...While David adheres to an old-fashioned Broadway model, he also lards the comedy with enough of his trademark brittle edge to prevent it from becoming too quaint. His liking for uncomfortable situations and annoying characters, unskilled in diplomacy, yields steady laughs throughout...David has never been an actor so much as an exaggerated version of himself, and that's exactly what's called for in a performance played in knowing complicity with the audience. His exasperated eye rolls, appalled double-takes and broadly physicalized reactions of disbelief or mock atonement are all essential parts of shtick that fits him like a glove, and his public eats it up.

Its frothiness is initially enjoyable until it becomes silly and then tiresome, before sparking back to life toward the end. Ultimately, the show feels slight. Much of the most infectious stuff comes from composer-lyricist Jason Robert Brown, whose talent as a songsmith is sharper than his nose for a winning property. Brown's songs are more catchy than memorable, but their lyrics are clever and droll...In the leading role of Jack Singer, the excellent Rob McClure works hard and is a winning nebbish...However, as Betsy, Brynn O'Malley seems not quite a natural for this kind of screwy comedy...the costume, hair and makeup team has SJPed all over her, hardening the attractive brunette into a tough-looking blonde...Danza strikes a nice balance between suave and sleazy...The Taxi and Who's the Boss? star's sitcom timing gets put to good use, and while his vocals are on the thin side, he carries a tune with confidence...Danza tackles the role with laidback Sinatra-style panache, and it works.

A romantic two-hander spun out of string theory, in which the significant moments of a couple's life together are played out in different directions across infinite parallel paths? That sounds on paper like a cerebral exercise, designed to test audiences' concentration while actors flex their muscles. But British playwright Nick Payne's beguiling Constellations is not only a full-bodied narrative, it's a richly affecting experience. That's thanks to the sensitivity of the writing, but also to the warmth, humor and vitality invested in it by Jake Gyllenhaal and Ruth Wilson, giving two astonishing performances in a production from Michael Longhurst that's as rigorous as it is tender.

Pomerance's 1977 bio-drama calls for the central role to be performed without special makeup or prosthetics. It seems almost absurd witnessing hunky Cooper so subsumed by a character renowned for his grotesque deformities that we forget whom we're watching. But in Scott Ellis' production, directed with as much compassion as precision, the illusion becomes complete. In fact, Cooper's tremendously moving performance, along with the sensitive work of co-stars Patricia Clarkson and Alessandro Nivola, transforms this rather starchy play from patronizing edification into a haunting emotional experience.

What impresses arguably even more than the performances, however, is the structural brilliance of Albee's writing...Close's Agnes is all glacial poise, with articulate language to match. She rarely raises her voice above a genteel coo, even when speculating almost wistfully about the prospect of a retreat into madness...Despite his nominal position as patriarch, Tobias is a weaker specimen than either his wife or sister-in-law, and the key choices of his adult life have been about insulating himself from the truth. His tumble down the treacherous well of self-knowledge makes him the most affecting character, and Lithgow's performance is tremendous as Tobias releases years of pent-up anguish...There are piercing moments of pathos in all the performances...The director's blocking is impeccable, firmly delineating both the reaffirmations of power and the challenges to it...Both harsh and heartwrenching, this is a needling play that's of its time and yet still surging with post-modern vitality. Its dialogue and characters border on arch but are ineffably human.

Bill Condon's fabulous 'revisal' maximizes the material's strengths and minimizes its weaknesses, serving up mesmerizing entertainment veined throughout with haunting poignancy...Condon puts the sideshow exhibits on lurid display, starting with the intoxicating opening number, 'Come Look at the Freaks.' This has the unexpected effect, however, not of vulgarizing but humanizing not only Daisy and Violet, but their entire 'odditorium' family...Davie and Padgett simply couldn't be better...the synchronization of their movements is as remarkable as their exquisite vocal harmonization. Their performances are both symbiotic and beautifully individualized...Irrespective of any awkwardness that creeps into the plot-heavy storytelling, the flaws are never enough to take us out of the show's enveloping world or to compromise our investment in the fates of Violet and Daisy...even when it borders on kitsch, the music pulls you in. It's not a top-tier score but it's a very good one, melodic and memorable despite lyrics that can be a tad literal and emphatic...Side Show may never be a classic musical, but in this superb production it's a hypnotic spectacle that packs an emotional wallop. Step right up.

English playwright Jez Butterworth gave himself a tough act to follow with 2009's Jerusalem... The River, a lyrical chamber piece that runs just 85 minutes, shares certain elements with the earlier play, notably a ruggedly masculine protagonist, a bucolic setting and a dual fascination with nature and myth. But despite the considerable charisma and commitment of its outsize star, Hugh Jackman, this new work is a sliver of a mood piece that never tightens its grip.

Ewan McGregor makes an assured Broadway debut as Tom Stoppard's semi-autobiographical stand-in, an erudite playwright struggling to tame the slippery concept of love in his writing as well as his personal life in The Real Thing. Maggie Gyllenhaal also brings poise and sophistication to the actress who breaks up his marriage and becomes his second wife. But pretty much everything else in Sam Gold's hollow revival is a little off. That goes for a terribly miscast Cynthia Nixon, a too-literal design concept that's hard on the eyes, and sing-along scene changes that are as cloying as they are superfluous, serving mainly to yank us out of the play.

First seen in New York in a lauded 2012 run as part of Lincoln Center Theater's emerging artists program, this Broadway transfer is smart, spiky entertainment...director Kimberly Senior's production deftly modulates its way through the play's seismic mood shifts -- from complacent banter through mounting prickliness and incendiary animosity to shattered aftermath. However, to get the quibbles out of the way first, any flaws are most likely to be noticed by that small handful of the audience returning to Disgraced after seeing its superior previous incarnation...Radnor (How I Met Your Mother) is a standout among the accomplished cast, walking a fine line between relaxed charm and smug condescension as a man unaccustomed to self-examination.

So what's missing? It's easy to see the central figure of Gideon Fletcher as a romanticized alter ego of Sting (Gordon Sumner at birth). But the plodding book by John Logan and Brian Yorkey gives him too little psychological dimension to come alive. It also strands him among generic characters and clichéd situations seen in countless Brit films set in depressed industrial towns blighted by Thatcherism. What's worse is that it falls back on that old standby of using allegory as an excuse for a plot that - sorry - simply doesn't float.

John Rando, embraces both the strengths and weaknesses of the musical...Trying to modernize On the Town would make it seem hopelessly quaint. Rando (a 2002 Tony winner for Urinetown) instead is unapologetic in presenting the old-fashioned material at face value, playing even the silliest routines with a mostly light touch, and injecting the whole dizzy narrative with an air of yearning romance. He enlists the aid of choreographer Joshua Bergasse (NBC's Smash) to channel the expressive athleticism of Robbins' dances. The chief element retained from the director's earlier brush with the show is his winning lead Tony Yazbeck, a dependable Broadway yeoman who arguably has never been more ideally cast than as Gabey. Whether in dramatic scenes, songs or in his rapturous dance numbers, Yazbeck brings just the right balance of masculinity and vulnerability, unworldliness and floating-on-air grace to the openhearted farm boy dreaming of love. It's a star turn and yet seems so effortless it's almost self-effacing.

The in-jokes come thick and fast in this extensively retooled revival...it's in Lane's dynamite early scenes with gifted newcomer Micah Stock that this funny if flimsy comedy really fires on all cylinders, while Broderick underwhelms in a key role. McNally's farcical doodle starts out like gangbusters but becomes increasingly uneven. It has an annoying habit of stalling when it should accelerate, particularly in a padded second act that could use an editor...What keeps it entertaining even when the writing falters is McNally's equal-opportunity ribbing of everyone involved -- playwrights, producers, actors, directors, theater landlords, stagehands, etc. That favorite punching bag, the critic, takes a beating...But ultimately, this starts to feel less like the tight collaboration of a writer and director intent on keeping the comedy machinery humming than the product of an overcrowded writers' room full of gagmeisters trying to outdo one another...It's Only a Play begs to be done as a brisk one-act...Either way, while the vehicle is not exactly robust, McNally and O'Brien know the terrain well enough to ensure that it sparkles more often than it sags.

The technical elements alone are breathtaking - the kaleidoscopic wash of Paule Constable's lighting with its splashes of DayGlo fluorescence; the explosive cascades and geometric graphics of Finn Ross' video designs; the sensory grip of Ian Dickinson's wraparound sound; the pulsing jolts of Adrian Sutton's techno score; the bold starkness of Bunny Christie's set, a sterile white cube divided by grid lines and housing endless hatches and trapdoors that disgorge an astonishing cornucopia of props.

Timing is everything. Donald Margulies respectfully raids the Chekhovian thematic pantry in The Country House, which arrives on Broadway in an elegant production staged with customary polish by Daniel Sullivan and starring Blythe Danner in a role that overlaps with her own professional history. But coming in the wake of Christopher Durang's far more illuminating contemporary riff on the Russian master, Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike, seriously undercuts the usefulness of this engaging, if rather safe, middlebrow entertainment.