Frank Scheck — Theater Critic

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.

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.

That’s thankfully not the case with The Unknown, receiving its world premiere at Off-Broadway’s Studio Seaview. Starring Sean Hayes, this endlessly tricky solo drama by David Cale is less a confessional monologue than a scarily gothic tale of shifting identities. It’s the rare one-person play that you can imagine as a fully fleshed-out film, perhaps directed by Brian De Palma.

You can feel playwright Alexander Zeldin’s struggling with his new play “inspired by” by Sophocles’ Antigone. Yes, The Other Place borrows an important plot element from that ancient Greek tragedy, namely a conflict revolving around the conflict over where to place someone’s remains. And just to keep us on our toes, it throws in another significant narrative device from Sophocles, one that won’t be revealed here. Ultimately, however, The Other Place feels like yet another dysfunctional family drama, albeit one blown up to semi-mystical proportions. None of it feels particularly convincing, but thanks to the superb performances and the playwright’s riveting staging you’re mesmerized for every one of its concise 80 minutes.

Scott Pask’s minimal set design serves the abstract narrative well, while Stacey Derosier’s lighting and Brian Hickey’s sound design and music are integral to the proceedings. Blackout Songs proves a bit repetitive at times and probably would benefit from some paring of its 95-minute running time. But there’s no denying that it packs a powerful punch.

Ultimately the play, directed by Sarah Frankcom, proves more serviceable than profound, but it works effectively in the unique format. First, for no apparent reason, you’re asked to take off your shoes (the venue had the same requirement for their recent immersive production Viola’s Room, making you think that someone there has a foot fetish). Then you take a chair in a large, carpeted space adorned with a huge white orb on the ceiling, and are outfitted with the headset that fits snugly on your noggin. Wearing glasses with it on would prove virtually impossible, but not to worry; corrective lenses can be inserted. It’s like a trip to the optometrist!

It’s frustrating trying to get a handle on the new play by Erica Schmidt at the Minetta Lane Theatre. And there’s good reason for that: the playwright doesn’t seem to a handle on it herself. The work deals with serious themes, almost more than it can handle, while attempting to be the sort of broad comedy that Charles Busch might come up with. Not much of it makes sense, either narratively or thematically, but it’s a lot of fun along the way thanks to the clever writing and terrific performances.

When Bug was first seen Off-Broadway in 2004, it seemed prescient in its portrayal of mental illness and conspiracy theories. Now — after the world has gone collectively crazy with wacky notions about COVID, pedophile rings, vaccines, and 5G, among countless other things — Tracy Letts’ play practically feels quaint. Receiving its Broadway premiere in a Manhattan Theatre Club production in association with Steppenwolf Theatre Company, it nonetheless remains a grippingly unnerving thriller that feels like a waking nightmare.

More problematically, Williams doesn’t bring the necessary intensity to the role of a young, hard-edged prostitute who falls in love with Mat Burke (Tom Sturridge), a shipwrecked Irish stoker who literally emerges from the sea. In her opening scene, when she walks into a waterfront saloon and utters the immortal lines “Gimme a whiskey, ginger ale on the side…and don’t be stingy, baby!” she might as well be a teenager ordering an ice cream soda. Although she’s done fine work onstage in Cabaret and Blackbird (she received a Tony Award nomination for the latter), her performance here feels tenuous, lacking the magnetism that would draw us into her character.

It also seems sharper, more resonant, and more deeply poignant in the current Broadway revival once again directed by Anne Kaufman. Partly this is due to its first-rate cast including June Squibb, miraculously still treading the boards at age 96. And on a personal note, perhaps it’s also due to my having experienced personal losses in the last decade that made the play hit home in a more profound way.