Frank Scheck — Theater Critic

The three performers mesh together beautifully, with Harris providing just the right haughty snobbishness, Cannavale making comic exasperation into an art form, and Corden so lovable and vulnerable you can almost forget how nasty he can be to waiters in real life. Ellis keeps the proceedings moving like a Swiss watch, the precision of his staging well matched by David Rockwell chic set, Linda Cho’s casually elegant costumes, Jen Schriever’s modernistic lighting design, and Kid Harpoon’s subtle music score.

The large ensemble handle their versatile chores expertly, and generally look fabulous. And Newton anchors the proceedings with his obviously deeply felt performance in which he makes clear McQueen’s inner demons. “Money isn’t important,” the fashion designer insists early in the play. “All I want to do is fix ugliness.” House of McQueen makes clear, however imperfectly, how he couldn’t fix himself.

Late in the show, Ross wanders out into the audience, cracking hilariously insulting jokes to good-natured audience members who eat it all up. It reminded us why he made it to Broadway in the first place. We came to see his inner Don Rickles, not to hear the sort of maudlin confessional of which far too many bestselling memoirs are made.

Late in the show, Ross wanders out into the audience, cracking hilariously insulting jokes to good-natured audience members who eat it all up. It reminded us why he made it to Broadway in the first place. We came to see his inner Don Rickles, not to hear the sort of maudlin confessional of which far too many bestselling memoirs are made.

McGovern delivers a capable performance, laced with dark humor, with Gardner flirting provocatively with her interviewer and reflecting ruefully on the failed relationships in her life… But she’s never quite convincing as the legendary beauty, and the writing… fails to provide much depth or illumination.

McGovern delivers a capable performance, laced with dark humor, with Gardner flirting provocatively with her interviewer and reflecting ruefully on the failed relationships in her life… But she’s never quite convincing as the legendary beauty, and the writing… fails to provide much depth or illumination.

Dramatically, the show feels comparatively undernourished as we’re introduced to soldiers Johnny (Drew Becker), Thomas (Justin Matthew Sargent), Andy (Daniel Yearwood) and Mike (Deon’te Goodman, who also plays several other roles). The characters, who speak via monologues and readings from letters, are defined in the thinnest of terms.

Unfortunately, the show isn’t just one act but rather two, its second half completely squandering its theatrical momentum with a descent into narrative hokiness. Despite a terrific performance by Betsy Wolfe in the title role, the awkwardly titled Joy: A New True Musical needs some serious mopping up.

Unfortunately, the show isn’t just one act but rather two, its second half completely squandering its theatrical momentum with a descent into narrative hokiness. Despite a terrific performance by Betsy Wolfe in the title role, the awkwardly titled Joy: A New True Musical needs some serious mopping up.

The play, originally presented at the 2018 Edinburgh Festival Fringe, skewers and satirizes the ideas that Roger is parroting, and the manner in which he absorbed them, with copious amounts of humor. Most cannily, Skinner makes Roger sympathetic, even likable, rather than obviously loathsome. The casting of Krasinski is a masterstroke, with the actor’s inherent charm and warm appeal fascinatingly contrasting with the frequently loathsome ideas his character is expressing. Addressing us in the same folky, self-deprecating manner as he did playing Jim Halpert in The Office, the actor instantly has the audience on his side, providing an uncomfortable tension to the proceedings.

Neither the play’s characterizations nor dialogue achieve the complexity of Margulies’ best works, and it all feels a little too neat in its set-up. But despite its schematic elements, Lunar Eclipse proves poignantly moving nonetheless thanks to its dramatic restraint and Kate Whoriskey’s pitch-perfect direction. Birney and Emery, who have long graced our stages, deliver impeccable work, never hitting a wrong emotional note and making us fully empathize with their characters — especially in a heartbreaking coda that depicts them at a very early stage in their relationship, getting together in the same field to witness a blood moon. Their superb work is abetted by the wonderful design elements including Grace McLean’s affecting music, Walt Spangler’s evocative set design, and Amith Chandrashaker’s lighting that gorgeously conveys every stage of that lunar eclipse.

That blunt messaging proves endemic throughout the 90-minute show, resulting in a serious bummer of an evening. Which is why, when Cole and Sammy Davis Jr. (a tremendous Daniel J. Watts) engage in a fabulous tap-dancing duet, choreographed by Jared Grimes, on “Me and My Shadow,” the joy of their terpsichorean skills provides a badly needed lift and becomes the highlight of the show. (It doesn’t help that the Davis character, who acts as a sort of Greek chorus, is so dynamic compared to the glum Cole that you wish you were watching an entire show about him instead.)

That blunt messaging proves endemic throughout the 90-minute show, resulting in a serious bummer of an evening. Which is why, when Cole and Sammy Davis Jr. (a tremendous Daniel J. Watts) engage in a fabulous tap-dancing duet, choreographed by Jared Grimes, on “Me and My Shadow,” the joy of their terpsichorean skills provides a badly needed lift and becomes the highlight of the show. (It doesn’t help that the Davis character, who acts as a sort of Greek chorus, is so dynamic compared to the glum Cole that you wish you were watching an entire show about him instead.)

The ensuing affair, complete with liaisons in cheap hotel rooms and the inside of Jon’s car, proves predictable in its complications, feeling very much like any number of dramas revolving around imbalanced sexual relationships. It’s only as the play progresses that it becomes something more original and interesting, with the power dynamics and eventually even the perspective shifting. That the playwright is a woman telling the tale from a man’s point of view provides a clue as to what makes Sexual Misconduct of the Middle Classes so distinctive, if not particularly weighty.

It’s the staging and the star’s performance that truly elevate the evening, however. Alex Timbers’ limber, imaginative direction uses the space fantastically, with a large stage at one end of the theater providing enough room for a terrific big band, another smaller one at the opposite side for more intimate interludes, and cabaret tables in the middle. Groff works the room like nobody’s business, going from one end to the other, wandering into the aisles, and, at one point, standing atop one of the small tables which magically starts spinning. It’s no wonder that he apologizes in advance for the profusion of his sweat and saliva that frequently soaks audience members in the best seats, bringing an all too literal meaning to “Splish Splash.”

Providing just around two hours of silly joy, Pirates! The Penzance Musical would make Gilbert and Sullivan proud. They might object to some of the changes, but they would surely approve of the pleasure it’s providing to modern-day audiences.

Providing just around two hours of silly joy, Pirates! The Penzance Musical would make Gilbert and Sullivan proud. They might object to some of the changes, but they would surely approve of the pleasure it’s providing to modern-day audiences.

Grief Camp proves so elliptical and amorphous in its writing that it seems to drift along without providing anything to hold your attention, unless you’re riveted by the sight of young people fighting to get into their cabin’s sole bathroom.

The Playbill cover for John Proctor Is the Villain conveys it perfectly. It features several of the young characters in a circle while appearing to be screaming their heads off. That’s exactly how you’ll feel after enduring this well-meaning but exhausting play.

What was galvanizing onscreen is curiously lifeless onstage, its airless quality not helped by the lackluster staging from the normally superb David Cromer. Despite running a mere 90 intermission-less minutes, the play feels much longer...

What was galvanizing onscreen is curiously lifeless onstage, its airless quality not helped by the lackluster staging from the normally superb David Cromer. Despite running a mere 90 intermission-less minutes, the play feels much longer...

They certainly do so here, although this rendition features one significant miscasting that robs the play of some of its impact. Odenkirk and Burr fare the best, with the former playing the older salesman Shelley “The Machine” Levene like a sadder, tired-out version of Saul Goodman. If he doesn’t quite convey the pathos of previous actors who’ve played the role such as Robert Prosky or Jack Lemmon, his sharp comedic instincts garner laughs that weren’t there before.

Leon’s staging has its predictably silly touches, such as frequently having actors march through the aisles to the stage as if they’d wandered out of the theater for a smoke break only to find the stage door locked. A key scene is played in the dark, illuminated only by flashlights, which is more annoying than ominous. And the climactic scene set in Desdemona’s bedchamber is prefaced by florid background music that Douglas Sirk would have dismissed as too kitschy for one of his ‘50s melodramas. Lacking an overriding concept or strong directorial vision, this Othello fulfills its basic goal of putting its two stars onstage and letting them rip. But it’s hard not to wish that it had strived for something more.

For all its affectionately nostalgic, piquant details, however, the play never quite coheres dramatically. Its episodic, non-linear structure frequently proves confusing, and such tangents as an account of Renee’s solo trip to Paris when she was 35 feel like minor anecdotes barely explored. For every powerful moment— as when Ellen informs us that she had told her mother that if she ever drank in front of her grandson, she would never be able to see him again — there are more that feel like filler.

The revival has been directed by Rebecca Frecknall, whose production of Cabaret, excuse me, Cabaret at the Kit Kat Club, was a sensation in London but has proved more than a little divisive on Broadway. Here, she not so much stages Williams’ play but comments on it. It feels less like an actual production than a series of annotations scribbled in her copy of the text.