Frank Scheck — Theater Critic

Still, it’s a pleasure to once again hear new music from him, and deeply sad to realize it will be the last (except for the trunk numbers that will inevitably turn up). On first listen, it’s hard to imagine that any of the songs will become the sort of cabaret staples that prove unavoidable, but those sorts of expectations have been defied before.

Many years later, the show has now arrived on Broadway, where its thin charms and relentless meta-humor don’t prove quite as accessible in the large James Earl Jones Theatre with its commensurately extravagant ticket prices. Since the show is not widely known despite its many regional theater productions, the main selling point is its stars Josh Gad and Andrew Rannells, reuniting after their breakout turns in The Book of Mormon and seemingly aspiring to become the next hot Broadway comedy team after Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick. How much you’ll enjoy the results will depend greatly on your tolerance for very silly jokes and your fondness for the two stars. The pair appear to be having a fine old time onstage, displaying the sort of chemistry that seems the result of their well-meshed comedic styles and warm rapport. They work beautifully together, garnering laughs not only from the wittier dialogue and bits of business but also from their jovial presences.

Satire doesn’t always age particularly well. Fortunately, the new production of Ossie Davis’ 1961 play Purlie Victorious has sidestepped any issues about its being dated for two reasons, one good and one bad. The good is that director Kenny Leon has provided such a breakneck, well-staged rendition, superbly performed by its terrific ensemble, that the fun never lags. The bad is that the issues depicted in the play have lost little of their resonance even in these supposedly “post-racial” times. For evidence of the latter, simply look to the hysterical reaction from the audience to one character swinging a metal folding chair in menacing fashion (look up the meme online). That’s not to say that the production entirely succeeds in its wildly farcical depiction of a traveling preacher, the elegantly named Purlie Victorious Judson (Leslie Odom, Jr.), who attempts to claim a $500 inheritance by duplicitous means in order to fund his dream of starting his own church. The humor leaps from broad to wildly over-the-top to mixed results, with not all of the gags landing. And some may have trouble with the “white savior” trope with which the proceedings are resolved, although it’s here employed so charmingly that it’s hard to resist.

Veteran director Robert Falls has staged the piece with his usual impeccable professionalism, with Todd Rosenthal’s homey set design and Evelyn Danner’s on-the-nose costuming providing heartland verisimilitude. But the top-notch production is not enough to compensate for the fact that Swing State — even the title feels overly calculated — feels like a sociology paper in search of a play.

His heart, though, is in the large-scale illusions, including one in which he suddenly makes a helicopter appear onstage (someone should have told him that Miss Saigon beat him to the punch decades ago). He does some impressive aerial work with wires, flying around the stage as if auditioning for the next Peter Pan revival (he’s certainly got the boyish charm for it). But his principal trick, one which he performs in several variations, is to have one or more people, including himself, appear one moment in a large transparent cube and then suddenly reappear in another one across the stage. It’s a spectacular illusion, but one that wears thin with repetition.

It’s a terrifically fun and amusing story that works nearly as well onstage as it did on film, although the original songs, as is so often the case with these adaptations, mainly come across as superfluous. Not that they’re all that bad, mind you. Some of them are quite catchy, such as the 1950s girl group homage “Something About That Boy,” the inspirational “Gotta Start Somewhere” and the amusing “21st Century,” the last performed by Doc and the ensemble with a sort of Devo-like thing happening. The musical numbers, featuring lively choreography by Chris Bailey, are generally rousing but, as you can probably tell by the song titles, the lyrics are strictly of the generic variety.

But the humor is so devoid of reality that the laughs become increasingly strained. The plot twists have little impact since we’re so little invested in the characters or situations, and with its two-hour running time the evening has the feel of an elongated Carol Burnett Show sketch (Harvey Korman and Burnett would have made a great Beau and Sylvia, with Tim Conway as Clarke and Vicki Lawrence as the pregnant Marjorie. But it would have been 8-10 minutes, tops). It’s hard to see exactly who The Cottage is for, since even a first-class Coward revival would have a tough go of it on Broadway without major star power. It’s a play whose ideal audiences have by now passed on to become blithe spirits themselves.

Just for Us proves extremely well crafted, as one hopes it would be after being performed on and off for nearly five years. He begins the evening with an anecdote about how Koko the Gorilla related sadness upon hearing of the death of Robin Williams after having met the comedian only once. If you’re wondering how that connects with the rest of the piece, Edelman provides the answer toward the end of the show, followed by the sort of mic-drop capper that brings it to a triumphant conclusion.

I’ll leave it to the theater historians and pundits to debate the ramifications of this turn of events in Broadway musical theater. My job, such as it is, is to report on how well the show’s creators succeed in fulfilling their artistic aspirations. Of course, that’s assuming they have any. Based on the fact that it distributes free glowing bracelets to every audience member to wave in the air for the inevitable megamix during the curtain call, they’re not exactly straining for Sondheim-level depth. Rather, they simply want their target audience to have a good time; not, as the characters in Seinfeld used to sheepishly say, that there’s anything wrong with that. The problem is that this latest revisionist exhumation of fairy tales arrives shortly after such superior examples of the burgeoning genre as the recent revival of Into the Woods and & Juliet (not a fairy tale, I know, but it feels like one) and such far worse examples as Bad Cinderella. It’s beginning to seem as if Broadway is less a destination for the tired businessman than the tired tyke who didn’t get in their nap. Not that they’d be able to sleep through this show if they tried, since the volume is pumped up to the sort of deafening levels you’d expect at, well, a Britney Spears concert.

A first-rate cast and creative team have been assembled for the play which premiered at Chicago’s A Red Orchid Theatre in 2019. Director Joe Mantello’s production features contributions from scenic designer Scott Pask, costume designer Rudy Monce, lighting designer Natasha Katz and sound designer Tom Gibbons, all working at the top of their game. And the sterling ensemble includes Laurie Metcalf, Tatiana Maslany (who missed critics’ performances after being sidelined with Covid), Paul Sparks, and Sophia Anne Caruso. It’s hard to avoid the feeling, however, that the play, which depends highly on a tightly controlled, ominous atmosphere, might have been more impactful when presented in the Chicago theater’s much smaller space.

The play nonetheless proves affecting, thanks to its sensitive insights about the vagaries of friendships and the way they can evolve, or not, with the passage of time and the impact of external forces. Under the uncluttered direction of Daniel Sullivan, the two actresses deliver sterling performances, displaying an authentic-seeming chemistry and making the closeness between their very different characters fully believable. You come away from Summer, 1976 feeling like you wish you’d been able to spend more time with Diana and Alice, and that they’d been able to spend more time with each other.

You would never know that Jodie Comer is making her stage debut in Suzie Miller’s harrowing one-person play Prima Facie. The thirty-year-old British actress has rocketed to fame in recent years, thanks in large part to her award-winning turn as a ruthless assassin in the international hit television series Killing Eve. But while many film and television stars prove underwhelming on stage, Comer instantly affirms herself as a top-rank theater performer with this dynamic star turn in which she absolutely commands attention for 100 uninterrupted minutes. Already the recipient of the Olivier Award for the play’s London run, she should repeat that success when the Tonys are handed out in June.

Not all of the jokes land, and even with its brief 90-minute running time, the evening ultimately has the feel of an overextended sketch. That’s particularly true of this new production directed by Rachel Chavkin, which feels much broader than the original staging and features some theatrical flourishes near the end that feel wholly unnecessary. But the play still delivers plenty of uproarious moments and this starrier Broadway cast milks them for all their worth, with Carden and Finneran particularly hilarious with their physical comedy.

Director Jack O’Brien orchestrates the proceedings with endless imagination and precise comic staging that accentuates the show’s strengths while downplaying its weaknesses. Thanks to the outstanding efforts of all concerned, Shucked feels as light and airy as Scott Pask’s beautiful set design of a huge, multi-level wooden barn.

Besides the spellbinding puppetry, the production features stunning projection designs, special effects, lighting, sound design and musical underscoring that combine to create a truly stunning experience. That praise, however, must come with a caveat: Theatergoers would be well advised not to sit in the front orchestra section, as many of the projections, including the swirling ocean, are displayed on the particularly high stage floor, making viewing them difficult if not impossible from there. The best seats would definitely be in the front mezzanine. The play feels somewhat drawn out at 135 minutes (including intermission), and the climactic narrative twist is too blatantly spoon-fed to the audience, as if the show’s creators were afraid that we would not be able to figure it out. But those are minor quibbles about this enthralling, wildly imaginative production.

That immediately clues you in as to what you’re in for with this ultra-modern production which should more accurately be titled A Doll’s House: The Reading. That approach is a particular specialty of Lloyd’s, who apparently feels that such things as costumes, scenery, and lighting that’s bright enough to discern which actors are speaking, are simply too bourgeois. Instead, we’re supposed to concentrate on the text, the text, the text, which would be fine if you were attending an Actors Studio workshop. On Broadway, it just feels like the height of pretension. Theatergoers can be forgiven for thinking, “I’ve paid $200 for this ticket. Would it kill them to spring for a sofa?”

Under the scattershot direction of Scott Elliott, the actors, many of whom are familiar, are all over the place. At times, you feel like they’ve just been introduced to each other. Some manage to find the humanity in their characters, with Nef, Wolff, Cale and Amy Stiller having their moments. And Posey is an absolute delight, even if she feels miscast, with her extensive comedic experience in Christopher Guest’s films (and many, many others) serving her well in her impeccably timed delivery of Irene’s biting asides.

Pictures from Home proves less artful than the photo book that inspired it, but the universality of its themes and the power of its performances make it pack an emotional punch nonetheless. It would make even more of an impact if it had been housed in a more suitable theater. (Memo to Broadway producers: Studio 54 is not an appropriate venue for small-scale, intimate dramas.)

Though the writing is a letdown, The Collaboration nonetheless proves entertaining, thanks to the colorful figures at its center and the superb acting. Bettany had the harder assignment of not caricaturing Warhol, even though by that point Warhol had already become a caricature of himself. He handles the task beautifully, avoiding excessively overt imitation and somehow managing to convey Warhol’s underlying Andrew Warhola. Pope ­— as much a star on the rise as the character he’s portraying, thanks to his Tony-nominated work in Choir Boy and Ain’t Too Proud and his acclaimed starring role in the film The Inspection — delivers a rivetingly physical, live-wire turn, exuding restless energy and speaking in a high-pitched voice that sounds like Michael Jackson. The two actors’ mesmerizing turns, soon to be repeated in a film adaptation of the play, are, as the old saying goes, worth the price of admission alone.

Denis Johnson’s play takes place entirely in a kitchen. But Des Moines, being given its New York premiere by Theatre for a New Audience, is as far from a kitchen sink drama as you can get. Sure, it starts out that way, with a middle-aged couple, Dan (Arliss Howard) and Marta (Johnna Day), sitting down for a snack and debating such issues as butter versus margarine while Dan eats some leftover microwaved spaghetti. But it isn’t long before this unsettling work from the late author of such acclaimed novels as Tree of Smoke and the short story collection Jesus’ Son turns into something far stranger. During the course of the evening all of the characters liberally consume the potent alcoholic drinks known as depth charges, and this play carries a depth charge of its own.

Shaiman’s music is tuneful enough, with the title number being downright catchy. But the songs never quite take hold, and the lyrics are disappointingly generic rather than displaying the wit the farcical storyline deserves. And while Nicholaw keeps things moving briskly and energetically, whipping the large ensemble into one dynamic production number after another, eventually they begin to feel formulaic. There’s so much tap dancing that you start to wonder if he’s being paid by the tap, and a frenzied chase scene, complete with doors being brought onstage just for the purpose of being slammed, is expertly orchestrated but so reminiscent of Jerome Robbins’ “Bathing Beauty Ballet” from High Button Shoes that his estate should be seeking royalties.

The problem is that Diamond, at least as he’s portrayed here, isn’t much fun to spend two-and-a-quarter hours with. Will Swenson and Mark Jacoby, as the younger and older versions respectively, do what they can, with the former obviously having the advantage because he gets to show off the sequined outfits and sing all of the hits. But the more they both mope about the problems of being a rich and famous pop star adored by millions, the more you want to channel your inner Cher, slap them silly, and yell, “Snap out of it!”

The 2017 Off-Broadway incarnation of the new musical KPOP opened at a venue just a few blocks away from its current Broadway home at the Circle in the Square. But despite the short distance, much of the show’s impact has been lost along the way. The original production was immersive, with segments of the audience moving from one location to another to witness the aching workloads and personal conflicts of young Korean performers to achieve stardom under the guidance of an ambitious record label. That aspect has been necessarily and understandably lost in the show’s transition to a traditional Broadway theater, albeit the only one featuring in-the-round seating. Unfortunately, much of what made the earlier production interesting has been discarded as well, resulting in a more sanitized, less thematically interesting experience that mainly relies on the propulsive energy of its many musical numbers to fuel the evening. The end result provides a reasonably enjoyable facsimile of K-Pop music, but it’s certainly not the same KPOP.

But those are minor quibbles about the transfixing production with its virtuosic solo performance (another actor, Danny Gardner, appears briefly as “The Spectre”) and dazzling stage wizardry that would give Harry Potter a run for his money. This Christmas Carol may not be the most exuberant or sentimental one you’ve ever encountered, but it will certainly prove one of the most memorable.

If you're anything like me, you probably haven't spent a lot of time wondering why Juliet had to die at the conclusion of Shakespeare's classic Romeo & Juliet. But the creators of the new Broadway musical & Juliet apparently have, resulting in the latest of what seems like an endless torrent of jukebox musicals. Fortunately, this effort featuring dozens of earworm-heavy smash hits by pop composer/producer Max Martin (a name you may not know, but you'll have no trouble recognizing his songs) and his various collaborators provides the sort of infectious silliness that makes for a very enjoyable evening, provided that you leave your brains at the door.