Frank Scheck — Theater Critic

Theatergoers hoping for a sophisticated ghost story like The Weir or The Woman in Black will probably find the evening hopelessly lowbrow. But if you’re simply looking for a scary good time and can endure the frequently deafening sound level, Paranormal Activity is the show for you.

It doesn’t help that the play has received a sluggish staging by director Sarna Lapine (Call Me Izzy) that makes the evening feel longer than its already stretched-out two-and-a-half hours. Or that the performances are wildly uneven. The younger actors generally don’t come across well, although they’re admittedly hamstrung by their underwritten roles. Leonard is relaxed and appealing as the husband, although his presence often feels extraneous. The standouts are Glover, vibrant and affecting in the role that won Lynne Thigpen a Tony for the original production, and old pros Matthews and Peil, who are delightful every moment they’re onstage.

Director Alex Timbers (Moulin Rouge, Beetlejuice) infuses the hilarious proceedings with clever doses of theatricality, while a crack three-piece band, whom Cohen dramatically unveils from behind a curtain several minutes into the show, accentuate her jokes with musical flourishes. Cohen infuses her energetic performance with exaggerated physicality and vocal mannerisms that are best appreciated in short doses. It’s smart, then, that Broad Strokes runs a mere 65 minutes. Too much longer and you’d start worrying about the performer’s health.

The venue is not really ideal for theatrical presentations, featuring a tiny stage, uncomfortable seats, and bad sightlines. But it does provide the opportunity for this indelible experience of watching two terrific, well-known actors performing their hearts out practically within arm’s reach. It’s a treat.

But while The Whoopi Monologues serves as a showcase for its five performers much as it did for its creator, the divvying up reduces rather than enhances its impact. The evening ultimately feels like less than the sum of its parts.

It would be thrilling to report that The Emporium is a newly discovered masterpiece by the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Our Town and The Skin of Our Teeth. But while the play is distinctly Wilderian in its style and themes, it comes across today like a rambling, disjointed mess that only periodically sparks to life. Of course, it’s hard to know exactly how much Lynn contributed, but from what’s on display here it seems evident that the play, which at one point was supposed to be headed for Broadway in a production starring Montgomery Clift, was best left in the drawer.

Rickson’s staging for the three portions is once again simple but effective, featuring few embellishments, scenic or otherwise, other than the tall ladder that Jackman climbs to suggest his character at work on a tree. Running 110 minutes without an intermission, the evening adds up to less than the sum of its parts. But as a showcase for its trio of talented actors, it works beautifully.

Finneran, essaying the role played so memorably by Jayne Houdyshell in the original Manhattan Theater Club production, proves typically engaging, mining the play’s humor while subtly conveying that the chirpy Beverly knows more than she lets on. Her fellow performers handle their chores capably but are ultimately unable to give much depth to their underwritten characters. Lacking the stylistic finesse to give depth to its surface banalities, The Receptionist mostly makes you feel as if you’ve been put on a lengthy hold.

The Lost Boys ultimately feels more redolent of a theme park attraction than theater. But it at least has the courage of its lack of convictions. This is the type of show so gimmicky that it even emulates the current craze of cinematic post-credits scenes with a post-curtain call scene (not that it amounts to much). But, hey, if a movie can do it, why not Broadway?

Joe Turner’s Come and Gone has landed on Broadway for the third time since its 1989 New York City premiere. A critical success but commercial failure upon its original Broadway production, August Wilson’s rich and complex play has received a generally laudable revival, directed by Debbie Allen and featuring a superb cast, that captures the play’s emotional and stylistic nuances even while suffering from occasional missteps.

MTC has afforded the play its typically expert production, with Derek McLane’s gorgeous set and Emilio Sosa’s incisive costuming making important contributions. The Balusters ultimately doesn’t have enough thematic heft to feel like much more than an entertaining diversion. But like the object that gives the play its title, it provides sturdy support for an evening of solid laughs.

But despite its good intentions and powerful true-life story, The Fear of 13 fails to galvanize. It’s surprising, considering Cromer’s directorial talents and the top-notch production values including Arnulfo Maldonado’s multi-level set design and Heather Gilbert’s piercing lighting. Perhaps the play had more impact in the intimate Donmar Warehouse where the claustrophobic physical proximity would have made Nick’s plight more palpable. Here, it feels more like sociology than fleshed-out drama.

But despite its good intentions and powerful true-life story, The Fear of 13 fails to galvanize. It’s surprising, considering Cromer’s directorial talents and the top-notch production values including Arnulfo Maldonado’s multi-level set design and Heather Gilbert’s piercing lighting. Perhaps the play had more impact in the intimate Donmar Warehouse where the claustrophobic physical proximity would have made Nick’s plight more palpable. Here, it feels more like sociology than fleshed-out drama.

But despite its good intentions and powerful true-life story, The Fear of 13 fails to galvanize. It’s surprising, considering Cromer’s directorial talents and the top-notch production values including Arnulfo Maldonado’s multi-level set design and Heather Gilbert’s piercing lighting. Perhaps the play had more impact in the intimate Donmar Warehouse where the claustrophobic physical proximity would have made Nick’s plight more palpable. Here, it feels more like sociology than fleshed-out drama.

Mantello’s staging is largely traditional and respectful, but it gives the play a more dreamlike, cinematic feel than usual. More than any previous Salesman I’ve seen, this rendition truly seems to be taking place in Willy’s fragmented mind, with Chloe Lamford’s set design suggesting a massive, dilapidated garage (the numerous pillars, though, seem unnecessary). Besides a few pieces of furniture here and there, the main scenic element is the full-size car that Willy drives on in the opening scene and drives off for his final fateful excursion.

Mantello’s staging is largely traditional and respectful, but it gives the play a more dreamlike, cinematic feel than usual. More than any previous Salesman I’ve seen, this rendition truly seems to be taking place in Willy’s fragmented mind, with Chloe Lamford’s set design suggesting a massive, dilapidated garage (the numerous pillars, though, seem unnecessary). Besides a few pieces of furniture here and there, the main scenic element is the full-size car that Willy drives on in the opening scene and drives off for his final fateful excursion.

Gina Gionfriddo’s 2008 class-conscious satire receives a pitch-perfect revival in the new Broadway production directed by Trip Cullman for Second Stage Theater. With its expert cast firing on all cylinders, the Pulitzer Prize-nominated Becky Shaw sends laughter rocketing throughout the audience with its scathing portrayal of social mores being blown to smithereens.

Director Rupert Goold (Tammy Faye, Patriots, Ink) strains to infuse the proceedings with theatricality via such devices as having policeman stride down the theater’s aisles aiming guns at the stage. The high point, as you might expect, is the iconic scene in which Sonny exits the bank and screams “Attica! Attica!” at the crowd. In this case, the audience serves as the onlookers, even shouting back at Bernthal as if they were at a Mamma Mia! Sing-along.

The play’s depiction of Capote doesn’t dig particularly deep, not offering much to those unfamiliar with the author’s literary output other than a colorful portrait of an eccentric figure in tragic decline. But it remains an engaging theatrical experience thanks to the vivid writing, much of it taken directly from Capote himself, and for the opportunity it provides for its performer. Ferguson makes the most of it, delivering a wonderfully entertaining portrayal that benefits greatly from the close proximity of the audience numbering less than a hundred. Restlessly wandering around the large room and often addressing people directly, the actor makes you feel as if you’re a treasured houseguest, even if he does take care to remove a supposedly valuable knickknack that might prove too tempting.

But the quibbles hardly matter considering Lithgow’s towering performance, which blends warmth and ugliness in fascinating fashion. The veteran actor, now 80 years old, has never been better, providing such a compelling central figure that, despite the fine performances by the rest of the ensemble, Giant sometimes has the feel of a one-person play.

By the end of the funny and moving evening, you’ll probably be thinking of your own ideas to add to the list of things for which life is worth living. And right near the top should be Every Brilliant Thing.

It’s all a bit much, honestly, with the playwright not fully successful in getting all of her fantastical, Boris & Natasha-style plot elements across. But thanks in large part to the inventive direction by Knud Adams (English), the witty, farcical play proves consistently amusing even while making serious points about such things as 80’s-era Cold War politics and divisions within the Black community.

What We Did Before Our Moth Days would probably benefit from some cutting of its overlong running time. And it’s hard to imagine it having the same effectiveness if performed by lesser actors or presented in a less intimate theater. The play certainly doesn’t have the thematic heft of such Shawn classics as The Designated Mourner or Aunt Dan and Lemon. But even minor Shawn is of major interest.

The Reservoir suffers from both its excessive jokiness and overfamiliarity, redeemed mainly by Shelley Butler’s clever staging and the performances of its ensemble. Galvin expertly handles both the comedic and tragic aspects of his character and Armbruster and Saldivar do fine work in numerous roles. But it’s the four old pros onstage who truly shine, with Aaron stealing the show as the sardonic Beverly who’s younger than her years. Unfortunately, those veteran performers are not playing characters so much as archetypes in a play that purports to deal with serious issues but never gets beneath the surface.

It’s a shame, because Kauffman has provided a first-rate staging that easily handles the play’s stylistic diversions, and Shawkat, so amusing in such sitcoms as Arrested Development and Search Party, makes us acutely aware of her character’s emotional pain while mining laughs in the process. It’s not enough to prevent the evening from succumbing to its ambitions. By the time You Get Older ends, you’ll feel older.