Elysa Gardner

Overall, Ms. Scherzinger doesn’t suffer for the scrutiny. Her performance is one of remarkable, and at times ludicrous, intensity. This Norma is forever mugging for the camera, scrunching up her face or tossing her hair; I found her antics — surely encouraged, or at least approved, by Mr. Lloyd — a little excessive, though many in the audience ate them up during the preview I attended.

It should still be impossible to leave a production of “Our Town” not feeling shaken and a little wonder-struck, grateful for all the seemingly small treasures that life can offer. Mr. Leon’s aim, clearly, is to also make us wish for a better world, and as it’s relayed here, that goal doesn’t seem at all incongruous with Wilder’s vision.

What follows resembles a TED talk as much as a play, as Mr. Finnigan, armed with a laptop computer (his credits mention that he’s a game designer as well) and abetted by Hayley Egan’s video design, uses his father’s template to take us on a journey that stretches back 75,000 years, using a female protagonist who is “reincarnated in different bodies” as she travels through Asia, Africa, America, Europe, and, naturally, Australia.

Happily, the playwright has an ideal partner in Mr. Cromer, whose flair for mining emotional depth through intimacy has helped make him one of theater’s most sought-out directors. If Ms. Kennedy’s short, melancholy slice of life would seem to offer less grist than other works he has helmed, he deftly handles the new play’s pathos and its bleak wit, and culls nuanced, moving performances from the actors.

The four actresses cast as the young sisters — Nancy Allsop, Sophia Ally, Lara McDonnell, and Nicola Turner — are likewise excellent, though I doubt their character arcs will leave any aspiring performers with stars in their eyes. Both in spite of that and in part because of it, “The Hills of California” is essential viewing for anyone who loves theater.

Happily, Ms. Foster’s newest Broadway role not only encourages but demands an over-the-top quality. Princess Winnifred, the boisterous, brawny, moat-swimming heroine of “Once Upon A Mattress,” is nothing if not overwhelming, and the part also accommodates the sly wit that has made Ms. Foster a successor to Moore as much as her million-dollar smile.

While Ireland has proven herself capable of great nuance as an actress, her writing here can seem ham-fisted, or too neatly tailored to confront stereotypes or stoke outrage. Watching Marin Ireland’s new play, “Pre-Existing Condition,” I couldn’t help but think of those Feeding America ads that have popped up everywhere in recent years, flashing AI-generated faces representing everyday folks to remind us that, according to its statistics, one in eight people suffer from hunger. The protagonist of “Condition,” referred to simply as A, is not starving, at least not for food, but she’s having trouble finding empathy and support in the aftermath of a different ordeal.

Few things are more frustrating than watching a potentially marvelous play (or film, for that matter) either run too long or veer off course. “The Welkin,” the latest effort from acclaimed playwright Lucy Kirkwood to arrive in New York, is guilty on both counts — which is not, by any means, to say you should miss it.

At first blush, Titanic might seem less ripe for either homage or re-exploration. Neither a cherished classic like Woods nor a spunky cult favorite like Mattress, this musical account of the great disaster of 1912—with music and lyrics by Maury Yeston and a book by Peter Stone—enjoyed a respectable run on Broadway back in the late 1990s, when the kind of pseudo-operatic pomp that had made The Phantom of the Opera and Les Misérables hits in the previous decade was still being mistaken for depth by many theatergoers. Titanic is certainly not unmarked by the self-seriousness and bombast its subject matter would seem to invite. But for those who missed its stint in Times Square, and haven’t spent much time with its score since (I’m guilty on both counts, I’ll admit), this new staging—which teams a sprawling, starry cast with a 30-piece orchestra—will prove nothing short of a revelation.

Alexis Scheer’s new play, “Breaking the Story,” begins with a bang, literally, and features several more before its roughly 80 minutes have expired. The central character, Marina, is a veteran foreign correspondent who clearly suffers from PTSD. We meet her in an unnamed war zone as she tries to report between missile strikes; yet the explosions continue intermittently, as flashbacks, even after she has moved to more peaceful surroundings — a house with a garden at Wellesley, Massachusetts — to ponder early retirement. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of figurative whimpering between the blasts. Ms. Scheer earned acclaim several years ago with “Our Dear Dead Drug Lord,” another play that carries into an idyllic suburban setting ghosts of terror from abroad; in that work, a group of seemingly privileged teenage girls gathers in a treehouse to summon the ghost of a notorious Colombian cartel leader, Pablo Escobar.

For many, though, the main attraction of this new “Vanya” will be Steve Carell, the TV and film star who is making his Broadway debut as Chekhov’s forlorn protagonist. Like other works by the playwright, “Vanya” boasts often underexploited comedic elements, so it shouldn’t be too surprising that an actor whose high-profile credits include “The Office,” “The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” and the animated classic “Despicable Me” would be drawn to it.

“Mary Jane” nonetheless remains a work of remarkable courage, and far more than that: Ms. Herzog captures, with dialogue that feels bracingly, fearlessly authentic — and that is often very funny besides — how powerful love can be in the face of pain and loss and, just as significantly, the limits of that power. Under Anne Kauffman’s vigorous, compassionate direction, the screen star Rachel McAdams steps into the title role, and acquits herself nicely. Where Ms. Coon brought more of a wry quality and a sense of latent, perhaps worn ferocity to Mary Jane, Ms. McAdams plays her very credibly, and movingly, as a fundamentally gentle woman who is overwhelmed by her lot.

Strangely, these shortcomings become assets of a sort in “The Heart of Rock and Roll,” the new show now bringing the group’s repertoire to Broadway. Jukebox musicals, for all their contemptible elements, can be most irritating when they try too hard either to deify an artist or to find fresh wit and relevance in a popular repertoire. One of the reasons “Mamma Mia” became an enduring hit is that it steered clear of both these strategies, choosing instead to have giddy fun with what happens to be one of the most inviting catalogs in pop music.

The show has nonetheless arrived at the Shubert Theatre, with its excellent principal cast (lovingly directed by Michael Greif) and its buoyant book and score intact — and, for the most part, the transition feels seamless. The company is led by the bubbly Maleah Joi Moon, who made her professional debut in the Public staging as 17-year-old Ali, a character brd on the young Ms. Keys, though there are striking differences: At Ali’s age, Ms. Keys had already graduated the Professional Performing Arts School at the top of her class and was securing the record contract that would make her a sensation three years later.

Ms. Parks knows what you’re thinking: Oy, another play (it could just as well be a movie, or a book) reducing a dead white man who did undeniably great things to his worst transgressions and judging him by standards vastly different than our current ones. “Sally & Tom” acknowledges this dilemma, openly and cleverly, by studying its central duo in a transparently modern context, thus allowing its playwright to nod to — and even have fun with — contemporary mores and hangups without letting historical demons off the hook.

It could be argued that “The Wiz” is, in its humble way, a message musical — the message being that while there’s no place like home, the key lies in establishing a sense of community wherever we are. Then again, if you’re just up for a good time, you can ease on down here in comfort and confidence.

As Tamara, Eden Espinosa gets to once again use the siren-like belt and the mix of might and vulnerability she deployed during several stints as Elphaba in “Wicked” — this time while sporting a platinum-blonde bob that makes her look like 1990s-era Madonna (a noted Lempicka fan, naturally). Granted, the vocal showcases she is provided by composer Matt Gould and lyricist Carson Kreitzer — who collaborated on the book, brd on Ms. Kreitzer’s concept — are seldom as tuneful as they are flamboyant.

In Irish Rep’s new staging, masterfully helmed by producing director Ciarán O’Reilly, that voice is relayed by a young musical theater veteran, A.J. Shively, whose formidable footwork was a high point of Broadway’s overstuffed “Paradise Square.” As Private Gar, Mr. Shively gets a more modest but wittier showcase for his song-and-dance skills — both Gars sing, and here they also jump and prance about nimbly — as well as a vehicle for his considerable gift with accents. His Gar, in dialogue with his public self, imagines himself in roles ranging from a posh British radio announcer to an old-school Hollywood screen siren.

Yet however moved you may be by the social commentary or softer moments contained in “Dead Outlaw,” the show’s boisterous, irrepressible irreverence toward that bleakest of subjects is its main selling point. In a catchy romp titled simply “Dead,” Messrs. Brown and Della Penna giddily sing, “Your mama’s dead/Your daddy’s dead/Whole family’s dead/And so are you” — and then proceed, in their first round and in reprises sprinkled through the show, to cite famous figures ranging from Balzac to Abe Lincoln to Glenn Gould and Tupac Shakur, eventually nodding to living celebrities, just for the heck of it.

The little girl, who will emerge as a significant character, was played at a recent preview by the extraordinary child actress Aerina DeBoer (Kay Winard alternates in the role), who never lets us forget how the lies of the very young, particularly the more fanciful and confused, can differ from those told by their elders. Other standouts amid an excellent cast include Raphael Casey, touching as Lucas’s fiercely loyal teenage son; Alex Hassell, at once raw and nuanced as Lucas’s conflicted best friend; and MyAnna Buring, witty and haunting as the friend’s wife, for whom the play’s twists have deep personal relevance.

Yet it’s Ms. Foster who truly carries the show, albeit with sparkling assistance from Mr. Urie in their scenes together. All of this leading lady’s leading assets are on display here, from her sometimes underused capacity for dry, sly humor to that Energizer Bunny-like exuberance. The latter fuels rollicking and very funny production numbers, starting with a show-stopping “Shy” — performed upon Winnifred’s entrance after swimming a moat, as she’s still pulling leeches and other small animals from her body and hair.

There are certain actors worth catching in any project they take on, even if, to borrow a now quite dated cliché, it’s reading the phone book. Then there are times when such actors find roles that fit like perfectly tailored suits, and it’s nothing short of cause for celebration. Well, break out the champagne and the party favors, because a new match has been made in heaven, between a two-time Oscar-winning stage and screen veteran, Dianne Wiest, and a rising playwright, John J. Caswell, Jr.

Yet Ms. Plaza’s work in this maiden voyage is deeply impressive — so impressive that were I to have seen this “Danny” knowing nothing about its stars and been asked which one had no prior theater experience, I’d have been stumped. That’s in no way a negative reflection on Mr. Abbott; what’s most striking about the staging, in fact, is the seemingly effortless rapport between the performers, even as they’re playing characters to whom little has come easily.

Mr. Manilow, who has always shown a flair for infusing melody with drama (or melodrama, at times), and who’s better educated in the music of this period than most of his peers, let alone more contemporary pop artists, has provided the company with both haunting romantic ballads and snazzy production numbers. Mr. Carlyle serves the latter with predictable buoyancy and wit; one romp catches the Harmonists without their pants, while a more darkly comic sequence casts them as marionettes, mocking the servile behavior their fellow Germans have been forced to adopt.

Mr. Greenberg and his designers — notable among them Tijana Bjelajac, who crafted the spare set and minimalist puppets, and Victoria Deiorio, who provides both flamboyant sound and mock-spooky original music — maintain a freewheeling, let’s-put-on-a-show vibe that makes these highly skilled performances seem effortless. The script, similarly, throws goofball pitches with a speed and dexterity plainly born of sophistication.