Howard Miller

It's been 60 years since my 16-year-old theatre nerd self eagerly hopped aboard a Trailways bus in Baltimore and headed for New York and the Alvin Theatre. That's where the musical High Spirits waited to greet me with my never-to-be-forgotten first Broadway show. Not a touring company or summer stock, mind you, but the real McCoy! Fast forward to last night, when this now-New Yorker hopped aboard a subway and exited at New York City Center, where the Encores! production of High Spirits is in joyous swing, fully living up to the promise of its title and leaving both the aging veteran and the teenager inside me very happy indeed.

Herein lies the production's greatest strength, Richard's clinging to the belief that the throne is his by divine right, and that whatever has befallen him is an affront to God as much as to his royal self, a nepo baby of his time. There is a certain amount of youthful petulance in his actions, befitting the situation since, in actuality, Richard was 10 years old when he ascended to the throne and was barely 30 when he died. But Urie also finds ways to signal a sense of irony and cynicism into the portrayal, which, perhaps, is the most successfully modern interpolation into Shakespeare's seldom-produced history play. Makes me wonder what the actor could do with the role of prodigal son Prince Hal in the ensuing Henriad plays.

Accept if you can, even if you can't forgive. Forgive if you can, even if you can't forget. That's the idea behind restorative justice, a systematic supportive approach to seeking healing for victims of criminal acts and at least some degree of redemption for the perpetrators. The logic of it is clear. But the heart has a mind of its own, and healing and redemption follow their own careful path in James Graham's gripping docudrama Punch, opening tonight at the Samuel J. Friedman Theatre.

If you are unfamiliar with the tale, I'll leave it to you to learn the rest. And I urge you to do so, because the plot unfolds in such an engaging way, and the performances by the 17-member cast are so uniformly strong, that this production of Heathers promises to be the hit of the summer and beyond.

But the video stuff and Nicole Scherzinger's ferocious singing make this incarnation of Sunset Boulevard little more than a high-concept version of smoke and mirrors. (The smoke is obvious, the "mirrors" are provided by Hannah Yun Chamberlain, who silently dances as "Young Norma," reflecting Norma's locked-in image of herself at the height of her fame). Choreographer Fabian Aloise layers in an interestingly varied range of dance moves for the ensemble to perform, becoming more frenetic as the overall tone descends into madness.

There is not a lot of traditional theatricality to Deep History. Finnigan relies on his skills as a storyteller as he jumps between the far distant past and current times. The only "visual aids" are some projections from his laptop computer and a length of brown paper on which he highlights his points. This may not be a must-see work for anyone seeking a typical dramatic presentation, but the reality is plenty dramatic for anyone interested in the geologic scale of climate change, and in gaining a different perspective on what the future may hold for us,

Wood and Curran, when they are not lost among the gimmickry, bravely try to keep the audience attuned to the actual storyline. The most interesting interactions between them are those times when the two Russians take center stage and you begin to get a sense of how the respected interpreter got tangled up in the goings-on at Trump Tower. But apart from the creative production values, there is not a lot of substance to the play, in which the writer seems to want to set up a collection of circumstantial evidence to make a political statement, literally spelled out in the final on-screen moments of the evening. It's possible, I suppose, that the entire enterprise is meant to be seen as a sort of meta-satire on documentary filmmaking or video-happy theatremaking, but if that's the intent then it is one hell of an inside joke.

A riff on Twelve Angry Men moves tentatively in the direction of The Crucible or possibly even Saint Joan, but it introduces ideas and even new characters that it never fully commits to. The entire enterprise pretty much loses its way altogether once the group breaks out in song before reaching their final decision. Even then, The Welkin takes yet another dramatic turn in the final minutes, this time away from the prosaic to the poetic, so that what started out as a fascinating consideration of the place of women in the criminal justice system has become a muddled and confusing experience.

With their underwritten parts, Parsons gives us flamboyance and occasional anger, while Keenan-Bolger mostly serves as our quiet and patient guide. But it is Lange who stands at the center, giving a performance that throughout is full of nuance as she portrays this complicated mess of a woman. At one point, we are even allowed to hope for a genuine change in Phyllis's deeply embedded homophobia. But she is who she is, and even with whatever magical thinking Vogel has applied to her portrait, there is precious little redemption to be found here, except, perhaps, in the lessons that her daughter Martha, presumably the playwright's stand-in, has accrued. And maybe that's the raison d'être for the play itself: understanding and forgiveness.

The first half of Oh, Mary! is filled with raucous mayhem, and the cast and director Sam Pinkleton (best known as a choreographer, having done the Tony-nominated honors for Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812), milk the play for all the low comic farce they can muster. But things really begin to soar when it moves into the realm of theatrical absurdism that carries it to the end, including some surprising and clever moments that turn our Mary into a model of 19th century feminism.

Purlie Victorious: A Non-Confederate Romp Through the Cotton Patch, Ossie Davis's 1961 satirical play about Jim Crow racism, opens tonight at the Music Box Theatre in a long-overdue first-ever Broadway revival. The production, under the discerning direction of Kenny Leon, is an outstanding one, with uniformly splendid performances by the entire cast. And six decades in, the play itself remains sharp, funny, astute, and, unfortunately, utterly timely.

Eventually, we get to the last day of filming and the final farewells. Not surprisingly, Scheider proffers his hand to the other two: 'I gotta say, I feel kind of sad. It's been a pleasure, gentlemen.' And true to form, Shaw and Dreyfuss say goodbye by trading sarcastic barbs. I hate to carp, but while Jaws may be the ultimate fish story, The Shark Is Broken flounders to the end, with neither an engaging hook nor a line of compelling dialog to keep it afloat.

Let us raise a rousing chorus of hoorahs for the design team: Tim Hatley (set and costumes), Tim Lutkin and Hugh Vanstone (lighting), Finn Ross (video), Gareth Owen (sound), and Chris Fisher (illusions). Together they make the magic happen. Without their tremendous skill and talent, Back to the Future would be nothing but a fairly close rehash of the movie, stuffed with too many uninspired pop tunes (music and lyrics by Alan Silvestri and Glen Ballard) and dance routines (choreography by Chris Bailey) that rarely rise above the level of serviceable time-fillers (though, thankfully, there is that rousing version of Chuck Berry's 'Johnny B. Goode' near the end).

Even with the likely post-performance discussions and musings about 'meaning,' the greatest strength of this production of Grey House is the consistency of its preternatural mood. That is all thanks to its fully committed cast, to Joe Mantello's sharply focused direction, and to the design team of Scott Pask, whose set draws us into both the seen and unseen areas of the cabin; Rudy Mance, whose costumes provide both contemporary and appropriately dated looks that help us differentiate between the living and the dead; and Natasha Katz's lighting and Tom Gibbons' sound design that gives the entire production its air of disquietude. I like that word 'disquietude.' It is the best description I can think of for Grey House. Nothing that jumps out at you, just a series of inexplicable and ominous moments that hold things together until the very end.

There is a perhaps overused but most apt phrase to describe what is happening on stage at the Belasco, and that is 'tour de force.' Garlands all around for playwright Doug Wright, the wonderful cast, director Lisa Peterson, and, especially, for Sean Hayes, for whom this is a career-crowning achievement.

Putting on my curmudgeon's hat for just a moment, I did find the production to be sluggishly paced at times. Director Adam Meggido is best known for his work in improv theater, but while slapstick may look improvised, it does require precise timing in order to seem unpredictably spontaneous to an audience. Yet, especially in the overlong first act, the humor comes off as forced and repetitive, along with too much of J. M. Barrie's Peter Pan and not enough of the 'Goes Wrong' part. The narrative also incorporates some backstage drama that bleeds into the silly stuff and threatens to sour the fun. That being said, however, if you are looking for a hefty serving of daft goofiness, or if you loved The Play That Goes Wrong and would relish more of the same, you will get what you are looking for in the second act when general pandemonium is the order of the day. That's when the fun really takes off and makes this a worthy entry into the 'Goes Wrong' franchise.

Director Bartlett Sher's usually strong hand seems to have focused largely on the staging, which is often quite effective. There is an especially nerve-wracking scene of close swordplay that is a visual highlight of the action. Ultimately, though, this Camelot revival falls on its own sword with its reworked book.

What remains blissfully in place is the same delightful cast and director Saheem Ali on hand to spread positive vibes and laughter in great abundance. But it is what has been gained that marks this as a most welcome addition to the Broadway season. For even though a demolition of the fourth wall is built into the script, with characters periodically acknowledging our prying eyes, there is now a lovely looseness to that relationship, giving the production a surprising sense of improv and intimacy in a venue that might well have overwhelmed things by distancing us from the action. You can't help but feel welcome, drawn in, and caught up in the story.

Many undoubtedly will want to attend A Doll's House in order to see Jessica Chastain's performance. Some will be intrigued by the subject matter or will be interested in this variation on a theme by Ibsen. Regardless, it is difficult to avoid feeling overwhelmed by the heavy-handedness of the production. Frankly, I'd rather see a revival of Lucas Hnath's funny and cleverly conceived 'sequel,' A Doll's House, Part 2.

But if Between Riverside and Crazy does start to leak steam after its inspired first act, the same cannot be said of the strong cast, especially with Stephen McKinley Henderson giving such a supercharged performance in the lead role. The play could not be in better hands.

For this reason–and I can't believe I am writing this–I would have preferred a K-pop revue without the strained narratives. In the concert numbers, the performers are electrifying, and they elicit earned shrieks, squeals, and thunderous applause from the notably young and Asian audience members. Helen Park's and Max Vernon's songs are silly confections that thankfully are accompanied by loud electronic music, so you don't end up with an ear worm consisting of a lyric like, 'This is my Korea/ This is my story-a/ A new category-a/ To make you dance and clap your hands.' Wearing Clint Ramos and Sophia Choi's appropriately gaudy, garish, and fabulous costumes, which include glittering bodysuits, playful dominatrix attire, faux military uniforms, MwE, RTMIS, and F8 put on a sensational show, particularly in the 15-minute finale. Jennifer Weber's thrilling choreography incorporates all the shakes, pops and thrusts one associates with the genre. KPOP will not go down in the Broadway annals as a groundbreaking, or even a very good, musical. But when the company sings the final song, 'Blast Off,' you may realize that you're having too much fun to notice–or care.

Having gushed until I am pretty much gushed out, let me save this last bit for director Jessica Stone, who has led the outstanding cast through a very special journey that has taken the show to Broadway from its previous run at the Atlantic Theater Company's Off-Broadway Linda Gross Theater. It deserves a long stay at its new home. Kimberly Akimbo works a special kind of magic, one that takes an underlying sad tale and spins it around to find all the laughter, love and joy that anyone possibly could wish for.

In alternating scenes, the play focuses on the tenuous relationships between John and Jess, between Ani and Eddie, and, in the end, between the two caregivers who carry their own deep wounds and ache of loneliness. The play's overall theme of dependence, interdependence, and codependence is a gripping one, and all four cast members and the director manage to make a virtue of avoiding full disclosure. What you see as an outsider is what you get, and what you get with Katy Sullivan's performance, in particular, will haunt you long after the final bows. There but for fortune, the 'shit' that happens to them could happen to any of us.

If playwright Tom Stoppard stays true to his word and Leopoldstadt turns out to be the last play he writes, it would be a fitting and worthy way to bookend a long and illustrious career dating back to the middle of the last century. As it happens, it is also an equally fitting tribute to Stoppard's Jewish roots, a personal history he only had a vague knowledge of until he was in his fifties and a cousin filled him in on what his mother barely ever spoke to him about, including the fact that all four of his grandparents and other family members had perished in Nazi concentration camps. Herein lies the impetus, if not the biographical specificity, for the play that opened tonight at the Longacre Theatre.

Something is amiss overall. Hangmen does not work the way it did at the Atlantic Theatre Company, and there is more to it than the transfer to a larger Broadway venue. The play requires taut and cohesive directing and a uniformity of style to hold it together. Here, it seems as though the actors have been left to their own devices to figure out their characters and how best to perform them. It takes a lot of work to pull things back together after a break of four years, and an ensemble work like this requires exquisite timing and consistency, elements that are, alas, in short supply.