Elysa Gardner — Theater Critic

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The resilience demonstrated by Kalukango’s character and others in Paradise Square seems fitting in a show that might have been prematurely written off as the latest big musical that couldn’t. Instead, at a time when original stories and scores are becoming increasingly rare in such Broadway fare, the production delivers both a surge of energy and a flicker of hope.

Wisely, though, MJ neither defends its subject from the most serious charges against him nor urges us to distinguish between the artist and his art. Like most jukebox fare, it's at its most winning when song and dance are in progress-and since Jackson's hits always lent themselves to theatrical presentation, and theater and film giants were among his biggest influences, Wheeldon and his company have plenty of room to fly. In one sequence, the ballet-bred choreographer and director pays cool, glistening homage to Fred Astaire, Bob Fosse and the seminal duo the Nicholas Brothers, offering a bit of historical perspective on the restless brilliance captured in other routines.

It's the 1950s, and after taking LSD for the first time, the movie legend and one-time vaudevillian is getting psychically re-acquainted with his much younger self through song and tap dance. The tune is impressively catchy, and the routine, as choreographed by Michelle Dorrance and executed by Yazbeck and Ware, is so exhilarating that you may feel chemically enhanced just watching it. I'd love to report that Sunset sustains that high for its roughly two and a half hours, but this long, strange trip-featuring a book by James Lapine, who also directs, music by Tom Kitt and lyrics by Michael Korie-is ultimately an uneven one.

'Company's other commitment-phobe, Amy, has been reborn as Jamie, a man, still terrified to marry the adoring Paul, played by the adorable Etai Benson. After managing to calm Matt Doyle's adroitly hysterical Jamie, Bobbie sings 'Marry Me A Little,' one of numerous Sondheim fan favorites cut from productions of his shows through the years. 'Keep a tender distance/So we'll both be free...I'm ready,' she announces. She isn't, quite yet, but she's getting there, just as Bobby was, and Elliott and her own company trace that journey with a mix of intuition, invention and heart worthy of its creators.