Gillian Russo — Theater Critic

That's no fault, though, of Jimin Moon, a comic yet earnest standout as Shane, and Jay Armstrong Johnson, who nails Ilya's Slavic stoicism. One wishes they had more stage time together, enough to fully ignite their currently simmering chemistry as much as the heart they bring individually. But in just about all other respects, Heated Rivalry: The Unauthorized Musical Parody is on fire. You're in for a pucking good time.

At the Shubert Theatre on Broadway, a bit less so. The conceit of the comedy revue, developed and directed by Eugene Pack and Dayle Rayfel, is simple: celebs read bits of other celebs' memoirs that weren't meant to be funny but are, whether for being excessively detailed, oozing ego, or else just so badly written it's comical. More accurately, Celebrity Autobiography is intermittently comical, with much of the material intact from the show's Off-Broadway premiere in 2008. To those who know who Neil Sedaka and Suzanne Somers are, it may feel timeless; to those who've watched Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus mature from when they released their first memoirs as teenagers, it may feel dated.

Acclaimed though Titanique was for more than just silliness, the show's expansiveness perhaps wasn't as apparent in its smaller homes. Now, director Tye Blue's production has a venue big enough to unfold to its full wingspan. Like Rose "flying" on the ship's bow, it seems it's been waiting to do that all along.

The actor finely transforms into the writer, imitating his high-pitched voice and wardrobe like that of a mob boss on vacation (costumes are by Sam Spector). But about halfway through, Tru's momentum plateaus despite Allen's attempts to dive into the darker side of Capote's psyche. He meanders into so many different areas of his life and career with no apparent logic — sometimes he's talking to us, sometimes to himself or the phone or the biographer as though we're suddenly not there — without ever reaching a dramatic peak. A scene in which a telephone operator recognizes Capote's voice and chats with him, momentarily freeing him and us from his own head, comes closest.

A simple, impromptu moment toward my performance's end rung most memorable in that regard. One audience member enjoying the three-course meal revealed it was the first food he'd eaten all day; our show started at 7 p.m. It's one thing to gleefully gamify the experience of burnout, to caricature it with over-the-top feats of multitasking. It's another to be reminded that it more often manifests in quieter ways.

The title warns you: This show is not for the squeamish. Brian Strumwasser's makeup design is impressively, grossly realistic, from cuts on Kayleen's leg to Doug's bloody eye socket (this isn't really a spoiler). I was almost surprised that the instances of vomit are only mimed. The show is not even 90 minutes, though, so like a flu shot, the pain and bleeding will be over before you know it.

Save for the opening scene, in which one character punches another in the face, there's not a lot of capital-A Action in Queens. It's a talky play, but the vivid ensemble, under Trip Cullman's direction, gives every conversation a propulsive energy. Their unspoken ambitions and regrets thrum beneath every word they do say. Not every character gets explored in equal depth, and we don't learn how they all got there or where they all go when their time in the apartment comes to and end. But it's a testament to Majok, Cullman, and the cast that we long to know, to ever more deeply understand these women otherwise forced to hide away.

Only the ambiguous ending falters slightly, leaving Little Bear Ridge Road on a note that's more head-scratching than thought-provoking. But it doesn't take away from the fact that Little Bear Ridge Road is a superbly acted and achingly poignant 90 minutes of theatre. The characters may feel alien to each other and even themselves, but they're messily, sometimes infuriatingly, and altogether relatably human.

Least Problematic Woman falters only slightly in certain one-off scenes, like a fight between Mulvaney and her mom depicted an MMA match, that don't entirely cohere with the piece's main framework. But Mulvaney's comic chops make even such moments fun to watch. Fun is something Least Problematic Woman offers in spades, and being able to share in trans joy with Mulvaney is a treat.

Oh, and that overture? We first hear a version of it in a parlor room, where we’re greeted with flutes of bubbly and a violinist (it’s an Easter egg; Christine’s late father is one in the musical) serenely playing a Phantom medley. I’ll admit, serene wasn’t what I expected upon stepping into such a larger-than-life event. But I should have known — the violin is just the pre-show muzak. When the fully orchestrated overture later exploded alongside a flash of light and a shower of confetti like broken glass, Masquerade instantly had me under its spell. I’d call it the point of no return, except I definitely hope to return.

The show ends up succeeding best as a mirror for anyone who feels like they're constantly on red-alert mode, reminding them they aren't alone in that. There is, indeed, a stormy future in the forecast. Better pack your umbrella.

Dead Outlaw moves through its plot like a speeding train, most of Itamar Moses's script leaning on narration as the remaining seven actors, all but Andrew Durand (as McCurdy) embodying multiple characters, act it out on the periphery of a raised platform on which Brown and his onstage band play. The show's setup and bevy of characters leaves little breathing room to emotionally invest in most of them, but for better or worse, that's not the point.

In that regard John Proctor excels, all the way through to an electric final classroom scene that morphs into a surreal, cathartic outpouring of repressed emotion. It's a play I would have loved — maybe needed — to see when I was the girls’ age... I was simply a teenage girl who didn't yet know how to articulate everything in my overactive brain, especially amid a cacophony of teachers, preachers, parents, and friends firing off their own dogmas from all sides.

But beyond that, is Smash a love letter intended for fans of its screen counterpart, even though the characterizations are all different? Is it one big in-joke for theatre avids, even though they get roasted in equal measure? Is it a scandalous peek behind the curtain meant to show Broadway newcomers this industry is just as juicy as Hollywood? Smash, under Susan Stroman's direction, isn't sure.

Bill, the Harlem artist at the center of the play, envisions his latest work hanging in one of those ordinary places someday. A triptych of Black womanhood also titled Wine in the Wilderness, it features a painting of a young girl, a painting yet to be created, and a central portrait of Bill's ideal Black woman: a sunlit African queen with natural hair and a striking red wrap. She, Bill says, will show the "messed-up women" in his Harlem neighborhood — where the race riots of 1964 are happening concurrently with the events of the play — what they should aspire to be.

Simon Stephen's adaptation plays up every possible bit of comedy in Vanya — an approach that could make the play hokey in the hands of a less skilled actor — but as the show progresses, the laughs get sparser and more hesitant as the characters reach their breaking points and, perhaps, so does the performer. By the time Scott, as Ivan's innocent niece Sonia, delivers the pensive final monologue, it's as if he's actually stripped all nine characters away and is simply thinking out loud to us.

Becca, wary of letting the inexperienced Jesse join their climbing efforts, is a foil to her colleague Finn (Michael Park), who is willing to bend the rules to do so. Their respective motivations — Becca's struggles as a Black woman in her industry despite her intelligence, Finn's own troubled relationship with his son and experience of familial loss — too, hint at character depth but are just as soon glossed over. Redwood broaches many potentially compelling topics, but, like the redwood tree, as we learn, its roots remain shallow.

Eureka Day feels timelier now than ever, fleshing out all sides of topical debates on the big stage with an excellent cast.

Strategic Love Play is like a good first date that nonetheless lacks a spark — it's not memorable enough for a second round, but a pleasant time while you're there, largely due in part to Yorke and Zegen's individual excellence and common chemistry.

Gold's production — featuring buzzy young stars Kit Connor (Heartstopper) and Rachel Zegler (West Side Story) in the title roles — aims to do the same for Generation Z, and in much the same way. The result is hit-and-miss. Sporty streetwear, gender-swapped casting, and original pop songs by of-the-moment music producer Jack Antonoff are all on display in the Circle in the Square Theatre, transformed into something like the site of an unsupervised high school house party. Stuffed animals are strewn about, characters take swigs from a gallon jug of an unidentified blood-red drink, and everyone's running and raging and singing with abandon. The whole thing is undeniably entertaining, but the additions of Antonoff's songs, Sonya Tayeh's choreography, and intermittent modern slang don't serve the play as much as they feel like empty spectacle, inserted out of fear its target audience — short-form TikTok devotees, per the stereotypes of us Gen Z-ers — won't otherwise stay engaged for 2.5 hours.

Not to mention that Strings, as Duke wisely points out, is "reorderin' [his] life to suit [his mother] now she's gone." It quickly becomes clear that he doesn't truly know what he wants for himself. The grass isn't greener on any side, for anyone. The ending, in which Strings reunites with his remaining parent (Frank Wood, always reliable), is supposedly meant to finally ground him a bit. Pepe's production doesn't quite stick the landing, but it's a testament to Driver's performance, and that of the entire ace cast, that I was left wanting to keep going on Strings's journey, to know where he lands.

Though superbly acted and unrelentingly tense under Michael Herwitz's direction, that conversation reveals little food for long-term thought beneath its slick veneer. The most interesting theme — one of many that, for better or for worse, make Job feel less like a period piece and right at home in 2024 — revolves around responsibility and action: Jane believes her job as an online content moderator, viewing and destroying disturbing media, is as essential as that of a frontline worker, which she relishes. It forces her to actually sit with the world's evils and do something more meaningful about them than shouting into the void of Twitter (I'm not calling it X) and the like. It gives her power, she says.

That's where N/A slightly falters: It seems more likely to reinforce people's existing alliances than encourage them to really consider other perspectives. The play feels tailor-made, and -timed, for one express purpose: Get out the vote. Remind its likely audience of urban liberals that divisions within their party shouldn't drive them out of it. The show was supposed to open two days before Tuesday's primaries, after all — though it's still apt that it now coincides with a presidential debate.

Then again, I didn't attend The Heart of Rock and Roll for its politics and I'd wager most people aren't, either. Nor does the show want you to. Your willingness to overlook this and the show's many plot contrivances will likely be proportional to your interest in either or both of the crowd-pleasers named at the start of this review. But I must say, your level of fun likely won’t. I am neither an ‘80s kid nor a person with any outsized interest in Cott’s rugged good looks, but I had a good, old-fashioned great time for 2.5 hours. Director Gordon Greenberg’s production is eager to sweep you up in its bright lights, even brighter costumes, and heart-thumping sound. Why not let it? The Heart of Rock and Roll is still going to be beating around you regardless.

In a marvelous Broadway debut, 21-year-old Maleah Joi Moon plays 17-year-old Ali, a lead character inspired by a young Keys. As told through Ali's eyes, the story of her life in the title NYC neighborhood is as frenetic as any real teenager: the book by Kristoffer Diaz attempts to juggle coming of age, familial tensions, young love, racism, overpolicing, and more. With none of these themes emerging as the dominant one, what emerges instead is a reminder of Keys' marvelous songwriting talent via her soulful, soaring R&B hits — and Moon's ability to bring down the house with song after song after song.