Elysa Gardner — Theater Critic

“Gin Game” hasn’t stuck around this long for nothing, of course; there are flashes of insight and poignance even amid the ugliest moments. “I guess we just lived too long, Fonsia,” Weller muses, shortly after playing perhaps his cruelest trick on her. Perhaps Mr. Howard and Ms. Winger, whom I trust get along a lot better in real life than their characters do here, are finding some catharsis in this emotional torture; as a viewer, I certainly did not.

Mind you, at the performance I attended, the crowd didn’t need much prodding. The pleasures offered by “Music City” may be modest, but its unflagging energy ensures an enjoyable visit.

Music is another highlight of the production, which features excerpts of period classics by the likes of David Bowie and Marvin Gaye; David Korins’s scenic design and Brenda Abbandandolo’s costumes also evoke the era with stylish authenticity. In its general inclination for overstatement, though, this “Dog Day Afternoon” feels very contemporary.

Some of the most cutting and shocking lines in “Giant” are, like those mentioned at the beginning of this review, Dahl’s own, written or spoken decades ago, but that only makes them more relevant. You won’t see a more powerful play this season, or a more important one.

Mr. Radcliffe is a huge asset, of course: While I’ve never seen “Thing” in any of its previous incarnations, I can’t imagine a more charming, accessible player for these purposes. Since the script dutifully specifies that the play “can be performed by a person of any age, socio-economic background, ethnicity, sexuality, or gender identity,” that’s saying something.

Going Bacharach: The Songs of an Icon, a new revue that clocks in at roughly 100 minutes—including an intermission—manages to intelligently document its subject’s dazzling career and distinctive artistry while keeping the emphasis squarely where it should be, on the music itself.

Ms. Bell’s book inserts flashbacks to add drama and, at times, blur the lines between reality and reflection, while Ms. Gertler Gold’s winding, often meandering tunes and arrangements provide dissonant harmonies. The singing, accordingly, can sound purposefully shrill, as if the gifted players have been instructed to sustain a mix of tension and terror.

For a play that’s famous for the lack of progress its characters make, Waiting for Godot has succeeded in bringing an awful lot of A-list names to the New York stage. The latest to take on Samuel Beckett’s co-dependent hobos, Keanu Reeves and Alex Winter, have teamed up in the past on film—perhaps most notably, and most appropriately in this case, as the central duo in the Bill & Ted franchise. The real star of this new Broadway revival, however, is the set. British designer Soutra Gilmour, a frequent collaborator of the director, Jamie Lloyd, has fashioned a stark, stunning, semi-spherical structure that seems to take us inside a tunnel of sorts. Or is it a drainage pipe? Or, just maybe, an enormous tree—since Lloyd has opted not to physically represent that object, which is mentioned repeatedly and used symbolically in the work.

The exchanges that follow segue from effusive, bittersweet humor to shattering sadness, with Messrs. Holland and iLongwe — the latter is equally potent and can be especially funny, when he’s not breaking your heart — evince the mix of responsibility, guilt, and, above all, love that makes Ogun’s relationship to his brother so tender and tragic.

Ms. LeFrere gets to model a few of the eye-catching costumes designed by Kaye Voyce to accompany clips from McQueen’s shows. There’s nothing too garish or unsettling here, and Lee admits at one point, “All I want to do is fix ugliness.” Whether you’re a slave to fashion or, like me, a confirmed non-expert, you’ll likely find “House of McQueen” an intriguing and entertaining character study.

Toward the end, Mr. Ross proposes that people are like bananas: “The more bruised we get, the sweeter we are. And we’re mushy on the inside.” Happily, “Banana” offers enough sweetness, and spice, to make the mush forgivable.

Toward the end, Mr. Ross proposes that people are like bananas: “The more bruised we get, the sweeter we are. And we’re mushy on the inside.” Happily, “Banana” offers enough sweetness, and spice, to make the mush forgivable.

Ms. McGovern’s performance is immaculate in its detail, from her alternately slinky and strained movements, evoking Ava at different stages of life, to the way her ultra-polished, almost stilted pronunciation… can slide back into a Southern drawl when conversation turns to her youth, or when she’s piqued.

Ms. McGovern’s performance is immaculate in its detail, from her alternately slinky and strained movements, evoking Ava at different stages of life, to the way her ultra-polished, almost stilted pronunciation… can slide back into a Southern drawl when conversation turns to her youth, or when she’s piqued.

For all its mock brutality, in fact, this “Heathers” left me nostalgic for a more innocent time, before contemporary developments such as social media had expanded, exponentially, the ways in which people could be cruel to one another — and inexperienced, malleable young people in particular could be damaged by that cruelty. Happily, you needn’t consider any of this to enjoy the mischievous fun that “Heathers The Musical” provides.

For all its mock brutality, in fact, this “Heathers” left me nostalgic for a more innocent time, before contemporary developments such as social media had expanded, exponentially, the ways in which people could be cruel to one another — and inexperienced, malleable young people in particular could be damaged by that cruelty. Happily, you needn’t consider any of this to enjoy the mischievous fun that “Heathers The Musical” provides.

The playwright has an ideal messenger in Mr. Krasinski, who delivers a slow-building performance that’s ultimately as haunting as it is hilarious. Directed by Sam Gold — who wisely wields a lighter hand here than he has in various reinterpretations of Shakespeare and other classics — the actor finds humor in his character’s cluelessness and self-pity, sustaining a breezy, ironically cheerful vibe through much of the production.

Daniel J. Watts is a shinier, more buoyant presence as Sammy Davis Jr., who cajoles and haunts Nat throughout the taping, which grows more and more surreal, evolving into a sort of fever dream — or more of a nightmare, with David Bengali’s video design and Stacey Derosier’s lighting conspiring to create a hellish atmosphere. “Lights Out” nonetheless proves uplifting, delivering a message of resilience as much as defiance. And while not technically a musical, it offers some of the most delightful music, and singing, available on New York’s stages at the moment.

Daniel J. Watts is a shinier, more buoyant presence as Sammy Davis Jr., who cajoles and haunts Nat throughout the taping, which grows more and more surreal, evolving into a sort of fever dream — or more of a nightmare, with David Bengali’s video design and Stacey Derosier’s lighting conspiring to create a hellish atmosphere. “Lights Out” nonetheless proves uplifting, delivering a message of resilience as much as defiance. And while not technically a musical, it offers some of the most delightful music, and singing, available on New York’s stages at the moment.

As “Real Women” was celebrated in its earlier incarnations for promoting body positivity, the musical’s title song becomes a showcase both for the plump, pretty Ana’s comfort with her weight and for the different shapes and sizes of the company members as they strip to their undergarments. Their enthusiasm — captured with palpable affection by director/choreographer Sergio Trujillo, who serves the material as well as possible — was, at the preview I attended, received with a standing ovation.

As “Real Women” was celebrated in its earlier incarnations for promoting body positivity, the musical’s title song becomes a showcase both for the plump, pretty Ana’s comfort with her weight and for the different shapes and sizes of the company members as they strip to their undergarments. Their enthusiasm — captured with palpable affection by director/choreographer Sergio Trujillo, who serves the material as well as possible — was, at the preview I attended, received with a standing ovation.

the show is Mr. Groff’s vehicle, and he rides it splendidly, and tirelessly. I’ll admit I was never a huge fan of Darin; notwithstanding his undeniable technical prowess, his delivery could, for me, have a smarmy, lounge-lizard quality. I’ve always preferred Louis Armstong’s take on “Mack the Knife,” and Frank Sinatra’s version of the title song of “Just in Time,” for that matter. Yet in singing these tunes and others, Mr. Groff manages to channel Darin’s slickness with a rugged dynamism that lends a little more grit to the material, without ever losing sight of his subject’s eagerness to charm. The actor also charts Darin’s offstage life with sensitivity, from his troubled marriage and other personal and professional frustrations to the social consciousness he developed as Vietnam and the civil rights movement became pressing concerns.

In this magnificent staging, Ms. Landau and her collaborators chillingly underline these darker expressions of ambition and voyeurism, which since “Collins” was first staged have fed developments from reality TV to social media. The stark, vast set by a prolific design collective called dots has the feel of an eerie frontier, positioning Floyd as an inheritor to the pioneering spirit that had long fueled American aspiration while accommodating more fanciful scenes, among them stunning dream sequences.

With his latest effort, “Purpose,” the playwright does more than maintain his momentum: He secures his place as Broadway’s most incisive and scathingly entertaining chronicler of family and social dysfunction — an inheritor to American giants stretching from Eugene O’Neill to Tracy Letts, but with a voice and perspective that are distinctly of this moment.

Mr. Lombardo’s latest play, “Conversations with Mother,” was inspired by a woman who’s less widely known, though it surely required less research on the part of the playwright, her son. This one-act, semi-autobiographical play introduces us to Bobby Collavechio, also a playwright, whom we meet as an adolescent and follow into middle age, and Maria Collavechio, his aggressively loving Catholic mother.