David Sheward

'This place is lousy with ghosts, and the new ones are irritating,' says Robin Williams as the titular beast at the top of Act 2 in 'Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo,' Rajiv Joseph's weird and whacked-out, Pulitzer-nominated play. Unfortunately, that line describes the work itself, as well as the bizarre afterlife in which it is partially set. The fact that one of those annoying phantoms is played by a comic genius helps somewhat, but not enough.

The sharp-edged book and fun score by Parker, Stone, and Lopez offer a screamingly funny yet sharply insightful full-length take on religion in general and Mormonism in particular. There are also pointed but loving tributes to musical comedy conventions, shockingly vulgar humor, and that rarity on Broadway these days: topical and effective satire.

At the top of the show, Leguizamo jokes that his story should be a lesson in what not to do. He's wrong. 'Ghetto Klown' and his previous works are worthy examples of turning the ups and downs of your life into art.

In the second act of the musical version of 'The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert,' the 1994 cult film comedy about a trio of drag queens crossing the Australian outback in the titular vehicle, a chorus of singers, called Divas, descends from the flies and erupts into Cyndi Lauper's anthem of carefree abandon 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.' As the song says, that's all they really want—and so do the creative team and cast. They just wanna tell a simple story, give us a few laughs, work in a little message about tolerance, and dazzle us with spectacular outfits. The show succeeds brilliantly on its own terms and will probably be keeping a lot of chorus boys in sequins and feather boas for many a season.

For a lesson in playing brittle and brilliant farce, head to the American Airlines Theatre for a near-perfect staging of 'The Importance of Being Earnest,' Oscar Wilde's whimsical 1895 classic. Director Brian Bedford, who is also starring in drag as Lady Bracknell, remembers that Wilde originally subtitled his play 'A Serious Comedy for Trivial People.' Bedford has his company play the shallow objectives of the upper-crust Victorian characters with complete seriousness, rather than going for the obvious laughs. Highly stylized and sleekly staged, this is probably the funniest and sharpest production of the comedy, a favorite on regional and community stages, I've ever seen.

Now that Mark Wendland's revolving wrought-iron set has been fitted into a smaller indoor space, with the black-painted theater wall serving as a backdrop, the emphasis has shifted to the darker story of Shylock (Pacino), the revenge-hungry Jewish moneylender bent on exacting a pound of flesh from Antonio (Byron Jennings), the merchant of the title and bosom friend of Bassanio. When the two tales converge in the blistering trial scene, theatrical fireworks explode as two heavyweights at the top of their game—Pacino and Rabe—clash.

Spanger and the rest of the cast do their level best to nake up for the deficiencies of the script and score. Arcelus is an ideal Buddy. He doesn't attempt to imitate Ferrell but provides his own winning and sunny presence, without going overboard into sugary sweetness. George Wendt plays Santa with the understated dryness he gave to Norm on 'Cheers.' Mark Jacoby can't do very much with the one-dimensional role of Walter, Buddy's all-business father, but he turns in his usual professional job. As Walter's wry wife, Emily, Beth Leavel deserves a medal for lending much-needed depth and spark to the bland proceedings. In supporting roles, Michael Mandell as a grumpy store manager and Valerie Wright as a sarcastic secretary stand out. But even the most fantastic cast possible couldn't rescue this mediocre show.

Seemingly unchanged in 30 years, Reubens' Pee-wee is as dangerously uncontrollable as ever, representing the fun-loving yet wild little kid in all of us. The performer skillfully combines a child's enthusiasm with an adult edginess. Whether quoting Bette Davis, making rude noises with a balloon, dancing with his favorite chair, or appearing to fly, Pee-wee is a spiky ball of fun. Reubens also offers a lesson to Back Stage readers in creating and, after a big mistake, re-creating your own career. The rest of the cast play clever parodies of childhood archetypes. Lynne Marie Stewart is particularly sharp as the beauty-obsessed Miss Yvonne. Paragon makes for a delightfully witty, bodiless Jambi.

I found myself laughing through 80 percent of the show. It's also one of the most erudite acts I've ever encountered. How many comics would include references to the Holy Roman Empire, the Silk Road, and the difference in speech habits of East and West Africans? In the cleverest bit, Quinn compares the state of the world to a bar at 3:30 a.m. Everybody's drunk and ready for a fight, and America's acting like 'the alcoholic, drug-addict brother of Canada. He's even spilling his drink in the Gulf of Mexico.'

As to whether 'Rain' has a right to be on Broadway, the answer is yes. Whatever attracts enough of an audience to fill the seats deserves a chance on the Main Stem. It's just a pity that a production more suited to Atlantic City or Las Vegas is crowding out shows with stories and characters, even for a few weeks.

There is one scene that offers a genuine clash of ideas and personalities. Star running back Jim Taylor wants to have his agent represent him in salary negotiations. Taylor legitimately demands a piece of the game's ever-increasing profits, while the tradition-bound Lombardi bristles at the notion of a 'goddamn gutter-crawling' middleman getting between him and his players. Two worthy opponents who believe in their positions are locked in a dramatic conflict. It's strongly played by Dan Lauria, as the coach, and Chris Sullivan, as Taylor. But it's a rare highly charged moment in the middle of a Biography Channel–like documentary. Director Thomas Kail does little to increase the action, save for having David Korins' set revolve as a substitute for theatrical movement.

Miraculously, David Hyde Pierce holds his own as the besieged Elomire. His well-timed reactions to Valere's excesses are just as funny as the outrages that cause them. Elomire is also persuasive and passionate when defending his literary integrity. Joanna Lumley gives us a princess who is a somewhat classier version of the self-centered Patsy she portrayed on the cult British series 'Absolutely Fabulous.' It's a surprisingly restrained performance and fits the regal nature of the character, which, incidentally, was originally written as a man.

In its transfer to Broadway, 'Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson' has gotten even wilder since its incarnations at Off-Broadway's Public Theater last season. This raucous combination political cartoon, rock concert, and extended 'Saturday Night Live' sketch now fills the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre with irreverent wit, in-your-face satire, and lots of sweaty sex appeal. Alex Timbers' off-the-wall book and direction and Michael Friedman's pulse-pounding score provide the first two elements, and Benjamin Walker in the lead delivers the third.

In 90 minutes of short vignettes, two actors run through every backstage story you've ever heard-missed cues, wardrobe malfunctions, dropped lines, broken props-all staged with comic dexterity by Mamet's frequent collaborator Neil Pepe in this fast-paced and fun revival, the show's first production on Broadway.

In addition, there are too many easy laughs at the expense of Mandy, the somewhat ditsy young girlfriend of Richard, Sarah and James' editor. Margulies also pokes glib fun at guilty liberals who alleviate their concern over problems abroad by attending plays about them. Will enough Broadway theatergoers pay more than $100 to laugh at themselves?

This cabaret-style show, which fills in the end-of-season slot at Roundabout Theatre Company after the revival of 'Lips Together, Teeth Apart' was indefinitely postponed, breaks all the one-person-show rules. There's more than one actor in the cast; the witty script, by Scott and Dick Scanlan, doesn't follow a clear chronological line; and Scott wisely avoids playing all the other characters in her story. That tale traces Scott's journey from a repressive Mennonite upbringing in Topeka, Kan. to 'numerous second leads in Broadway musicals.' Employing a dry, ironic tone, Scott is not afraid to include herself among her satiric targets as she skewers the narrow fundamentalism of her hometown, the pain of being a misfit in high school, and the obsessions of musical theater fanatics.

Lavin is the raison d'être for the play's Broadway debut, an offering from Manhattan Theatre Club, which also presented the first New York outing. While director Lynne Meadow has not found anything new in the play—her production is quite close to the previous two—set designer Santo Loquasto's Greenwich Village apartment set is more spacious. But as the tough-minded Steiner, Lavin gives a master class in acting you miss at your peril. Her every intention is visible on her expressive face and in her daggerlike eyes. Many of her flavorful line readings are followed by exactly the right small gesture or shrug to underline the subtext.

The book fails to develop these characters beyond their initial conflicts, and it wouldn't hurt to have more than a few diary entries from Johnny to guide us. Nevertheless, the dynamic score—the jagged lyrics are by Armstrong, who also composed the driving music, with Mike Dirnt and Trè Cool—leads us into the frazzled psyches of an aimless portion of America's Generation Y. Tom Kitt, credited with musical supervision, arrangements, and orchestrations, builds a bridge between the worlds of rock and Broadway by making the songs accessible to general audiences without losing the chest-slamming intensity.

Despite scaled-down production values and a smaller cast and orchestra—a trademark of the tiny Menier Chocolate Factory, where this edition started—Johnson creates a credible and entertaining drag show presented by Georges, the owner of the titular Riviera establishment, and headlined by his lover, Albin. (Set designer Tim Shortall even extends the showroom atmosphere into the audience by replacing the first few rows of seats with cabaret tables and chairs.) You could take the onstage numbers out, plunk them down in any gay-themed nightclub, and rake in the cash. There are only six Cagelles this time out, but each is a gorgeous vision and expert dancer, performing Lynne Page’s campy choreography with abandon and pizzazz. Kudos to Matthew Wright’s dazzling costumes and Richard Mawbey’s wig and makeup design.

When the curtain call is the most exciting part of a show, it’s definitely a problem. Such is the case with “Million Dollar Quartet,” the latest attempt to turn pop nostalgia into Broadway box-office gold. Not unlike “Looped,” the now-closed comedy derived from a Tallulah Bankhead story, this jukebox musical attempts to spin a showbiz anecdote about larger-than-life figures at a recording session into a full-blown theatrical experience.

Despite a serious case of miscasting, Stanley Tucci's riotous staging of Ken Ludwig's 'Lend Me a Tenor' provides an evening full of belly laughs, slapstick action, and projectiles aimed into the orchestra seats. If you want to laugh yourself silly and you're willing to duck fruit, champagne corks, and flung roses, this is the show for you. But you're going to have to suspend a huge chunk of your disbelief, and I suspect the main audience for this 1989 farce will be more than willing to do so.

After hitting a home run with Billy Joel ('Movin' Out') and striking out with Bob Dylan ('The Times They Are A-Changin' '), Twyla Tharp is back on her A game, this time with Frank Sinatra as a collaborator. 'Come Fly Away,' her tribute to the classic romanticism of one of the 20th century's greatest pop stylists, is a jazz, a gas, a cuckoo-cuckoo, ring-a-ding fling, man! There's not much of a plot, but I didn't miss one as 15 sexy, athletic dancers coupled and uncoupled to the Chairman of the Board's recorded voice combined with a rich live orchestra and augmented by the sweet crooning of featured vocalist Hilary Gardner. Kudos to sound designer Peter McBoyle for making it seem as if Sinatra were still alive and duetting with Gardner.

There's not much to Martin McDonagh's 'A Behanding in Spokane.' While this 90-minute exercise in hilarious terror shares the brutality and pitch-black humor of the Irish playwright's previous works, it doesn't have anything to say about the country of its setting (as his Gaelic-centric plays, such as 'The Beauty Queen of Leenane' and 'The Lieutenant of Inishmore,' do) or the nature of storytelling (the theme of 'The Pillowman'). It just seems as if McDonagh picked a spot on a map of the U.S. that sounded intriguing for the title, then put a psycho in a hotel room with two incredibly stupid crooks and an equally dim-bulb night clerk. Then he stirred in some Tarantino/Coen brothers–style gore, a dash of existential angst, a smattering of pop-culture references (heavy on 'The Night of the Hunter'), and hoped for a box-office hit.

There are plenty of pointed and thought-provoking exchanges, and the play's structure is sound. Several casually mentioned details later take on great significance. But Mamet, who also directs with a sure hand, fails to get beyond the editorializing to create characters with whom we can identify. Such identification may not be his intention, but it makes 'Race' more a political tract than a compelling drama.

Though its brain may be a bit simple, 'Memphis' has its heart and soul in the right place. The new musical features a rock-solid score by Bon Jovi keyboardist David Bryan, dynamic singing, and athletic dancing. On the debit side, Joe DiPietro's book reduces a traumatic period in American cultural and musical history to a bland 'Behind the Music' special, and director Christopher Ashley encourages his cast to limn broadly, blunting the impact of several potentially heart-wrenching moments.