Elysa Gardner — Theater Critic

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.