Elysa Gardner

Then there are shows like Back to the Future: The Musical, whose title is something of a misnomer: This adaptation of the Universal Pictures/Amblin Entertainment hit about a teenager who finds himself bounced back from 1985 to 1955 is less a musical than a two-and-a-half-hour theme park ride with songs, offering as much sensory overload as an afternoon at Magic Kingdom. Indeed, the warnings that can accompany splashily high-tech productions, to pregnant women and theatergoers prone to migraines and seizures, should have been emblazoned on the playbill cover in this case. Strobe lights and other visual shenanigans, from Finn Ross’s dizzying video design to a flying car, are just the beginning; for me, the auditory assaults leveled by sound designer Gareth Owen (in conjunction with musical supervisor Nick Finlow and music director Ted Arthur, I assume) hit the hardest. Before the first act was even half over, I had crafted makeshift earplugs out of tissue paper, a trick I typically reserve for the loudest rock concerts.

The result is that you may well feel more personally involved in the historical proceedings than you did if you attended, say, “Hamilton,” or even earlier efforts by Mr. Timbers such as the stirring “Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson” or “Joan of Arc: Into the Fire,” for which Mr. Byrne wrote the book, music, and lyrics. (Mr. Byrne is the sole lyricist for “Love” as well; Tom Gandey and José Luis Pardo are credited with additional music.)

I’ll admit I found the tonal shifts that accompany this development a bit jarring. When Mullen’s Máire is alone with her invisible Son of God, her confessions and revelations tickle and sting; once her own son, played by an adroit and appealing Jamie O’Neill, enters the picture, their increasingly heated conversation is less tempered by levity, or wit. And those twists, while dramatically engaging, seem a bit contrived—the first in its sheer awfulness, the other in its conspicuous topicality. Aoife Kavanagh’s sound design, likewise, can be aggressively ominous, particularly as the play reaches its chilling conclusion.

It’s a compelling argument, and Comer, under Justin Martin’s vigorous but sensitive direction, makes it soar and sting. Best known for her witty, searing portrayal of a sociopathic Russian assassin on the television series “Killing Eve,” the actress captures both Tessa’s manic energy—which dominates the first half of the play, as the character documents her whirlwind rise from a working-class upbringing to law school at Cambridge and a bright career, with a breakneck pace that she clearly relishes—and the vulnerability and self-doubt that consume her after the incident.

Mr. Maggido's entire ensemble, similarly, proves as facile as Cornley's is hopeless. Messrs. Shields and Lewis respectively imbue Chris and Robert with a droll haughtiness that only makes the characters' incompetence funnier. Greg Tannahill and Charlie Russell make spry mischief as the energetic dude and coquettish ingenue who play Peter Pan and Wendy Darling, and frolic offstage, and Nancy Zamit nimbly plays a character actress who juggles two more mature roles with that of Tinker Bell - and comes closest to meeting the kind of fate that befell those 'Lord of the Flies' actors.

With Pomerantz and his winning company on board, Vanities-The Musical nonetheless remains not only diverting but endearing, right up to the feel-good conclusion that Heifner and Kirshenbaum have provided. Heifner’s play was never a searing piece of social commentary to begin with, and by continuing to brighten both the presentation and the resolution of this spinoff, he’s giving his nearly 50-year-old baby room to grow.

Mostly, though, “Bad Cinderella” delivers as a tonic, fueled by Mr. Lloyd Webber’s diverting-enough score — infused, predictably, with rock bombast and a couple of earworm melodies — and brisk, sometimes bawdy comedy, with the latter particularly well served by the cast. For this 75-year-old musical theater veteran’s latest creative journey, it’s as happy an ending as anyone could have expected.

Dance may well be the most demanding and all-consuming of the performing arts. Those who pursue it seriously must be both actors and athletes, and the best have as keen an affinity for musical expression as any singer or instrumentalist. The difference is that, for dancers, the entire body becomes the instrument, so that no part of it — from the toes to the hips to the eyeballs to the top of the head — is inconsequential.

Under Barry Edelstein’s adroit, sensitive direction, “Wanderers” sparkles not only as a study of these engaging characters, but as one of a heritage, and its different cultural variations and generational shifts. As a thoroughly secular Jew, I was deeply moved watching Esther and Schmuli grapple — through different perspectives, and with different outcomes — with the requirements of tradition, and then observing as Sophie and Abe try to thrive on their own terms, albeit with their parents’ examples and burdens never far from their hearts.

Thankfully, Mr. Lane gets to complement, rather than compete with, the scenery in Bartlett Sher’s witty, moving production of “Pictures From Home,” a new play by Sharr White that was adapted from and titled after the late photographer Larry Sultan’s 1992 visual memoir of his aging parents.

The production’s most valuable player is Mr. Nicholaw, whose affinity for gleeful musical-comedy hijinks has benefited hits such as “The Book of Mormon,” “Mean Girls,” and “The Prom.” In addition to keeping the performances buoyant, he furnishes a string of exhilarating production numbers, with dance routines as crisp and sparkling as champagne cocktails.

As is always the case with such efforts, some familiar songs are inserted with painfully obvious setups. It’s hard not to cringe when Neil and Marcia, recognizing that their marriage is doomed, segue into the sappy duet, “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.” On the other hand, while you can see “Sweet Caroline” coming from a mile away, it still lifts your heart instantly, an impeccably structured burst of pure joy.

If Mr. Byrne's relatively quiet, raspy voice isn't the ideal instrument to carry a show that runs more than two hours, he's a charming raconteur, recounting his youthful foibles with equal parts wistfulness and dry wit. There are occasions when he tries rather too hard to wax lyrical; recalling an especially idyllic carnival outing, he quips that aiming to prolong the day would have been 'like trying to empty the Irish Sea with a fork.' Not all Irishmen, alas, are poets.

As wrenching as this 'Topdog' ultimately is, in fact, you would be hard-pressed to find a better time inside a Broadway theater this fall. And that's no hustle.

If they don't all conjure the play's majestic rhythmicity with equal force and fluidity, they are able, under Ms. Richardson Jackson's robust and unapologetically reverent guidance, to do justice to the sheer beauty of Wilson's language and to his uncompromising humaneness.

New shades of friction and menace also emerge between characters played by black and white actors. I have never found the scene in which Howard humiliates a desperate, pleading Willy, or the one where a teenage Biff discovers his father's infidelity, more excruciating than I did here. Even Loman's interaction with Charley, the mensch of a neighbor who repeatedly tries in vain to help him - movingly played by Delaney Williams, a white actor (and another 'Wire' alum) - seems a little more fraught

For starters, '1776' was, and remains, kinder to Adams than Lin-Manuel Miranda's blockbuster, which pretty much reduced our second president and this show's protagonist to a punchline. Like Mr. Miranda, though, co-directors Mr. Page and Ms. Paulus promote inclusivity not through finger-wagging but with a generous, uplifting spirit, and Stone and Edwards have left them the perfect vehicle for that mission.

For starters, '1776' was, and remains, kinder to Adams than Lin-Manuel Miranda's blockbuster, which pretty much reduced our second president and this show's protagonist to a punchline. Like Mr. Miranda, though, co-directors Mr. Page and Ms. Paulus promote inclusivity not through finger-wagging but with a generous, uplifting spirit, and Stone and Edwards have left them the perfect vehicle for that mission.

xAs anyone who listened with honest ears to her renditions of 'Don't Rain On My Parade' and 'People' on 'Glee' could attest, Ms. Michele is not the vocal superpower Ms. Streisand was in her prime; very few non-classical singers have possessed that mix of bel canto clarity, dazzling polish, and sheer might. What Ms. Michele does have, aside from lovely tone and an impressive belt, is a natural singer's instinctive musicality. In Ms. Feldstein's resourceful, endearing performance, you could sense the sweat that went into each note and phrase; that effort was, perhaps ironically, part of what made her Fanny convincing - and made the audience's support palpable and contagious.

The idea that at least a few of these fictional women could do a better job leading a country than the title character comes up repeatedly in 'POTUS,' and Ms. Fillinger makes a case for this while also making us shudder at the thought. Ms. Stroman, meanwhile, proves once again that her own leadership abilities should be held in no doubt.

Mr. Jackson's scorn is mitigated, fortunately, by his self-awareness, and by a gift for channeling both his frustration and his own insecurity into lyrical songs and trenchant, exhilarating comedy.

This 'Funny Girl' has much else to recommend it, from a piquant but faithful revised book by Harvey Fierstein to the performances of Ms. Feldstein's co-stars, directed with great warmth and wit by Michael Mayer. The handsome bari-tenor Ramin Karimloo, after suffering through stiff, joyless roles in 'Anastasia' and 'Les Misérables,' finally gets a Broadway showcase for his comedic and dramatic prowess as Nicky Arnstein, the inveterate gambler who captures Fanny's heart.

Is Mooney a pervert? A murderer? Or just a really strange chap who likes to wind people up? We'll never know. On all of those subjects, the clever McDonagh leaves the audience, you'll pardon the pun, hanging.

'Hangmen,' Mr. McDonagh's first play to open on Broadway in eight years, easily ranks with his best work. Hilarious, searing, and poignant, the play presents a savage indictment of capital punishment without ever stooping to preach - a practice foreign to Mr. McDonagh.

While there is no excuse for the lasting damage that Peck wreaks on Li'l Bit, Vogel points out that such men seldom appear in the world as they do in news articles; it's precisely by fitting in that they're able to do such irreparable harm. It's a valuable reminder, and however familiar the subject matter of How I Learned To Drive may now seem, the play and this production will haunt you.