Jeremy Gerard

Nothing unexpected happens in “Sister Act,” a fairy tale we already know. But it’s delivered with exceptional glee and polish.

Stafford never departs from the children's-book contours of the story. Albert (played with intense passion by Seth Numrich) must separate from his sad loser of a father and doting mother. He will witness the thundering violence of war and the near- death of his beloved Joey. The climax, which is overwrought and even a bit silly, never is in doubt, ultimately robbing the play of deeper emotional involvement. But Joey? He'll nuzzle his way into your heart. You won't soon forget him.

The show itself? An odd duck. The songs are by the 'Hairspray' duo of Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman, who are very adept at writing and arranging pop songs that fly by effortlessly without leaving much of an impression. They're played by a sensational onstage swing band.

[Sutton Foster] generated more heat being wooed by an ogre in 'Shrek' than she does here. With her eyes constantly darting around as if unsure of her place on the stage, Foster seems uncharacteristically out of sync both physically and vocally with her partners...Timothy Crouse and John Weidman's re-revised book (first undertaken for the Lincoln Center production) turns the silly original into a dopey groaner. And don't worry: Cheeky survives, even if little else does.

Moises Kaufman has staged the play with considerable restraint (despite the fact that the male actors tend, incomprehensibly, to be yelling much of the time). David Lander’s pinpoint lighting throws the players and Derek McLane’s minimalist settings into chiaroscuro tableaux vivants of light and dark, most appropriately.

As for the appealing Radcliffe, he's eager to please but lacks a certain urgency that makes Finch dangerous and irresistible at the same time. He's no singer ('I Believe in You,' the show's best-known song, barely makes an impression) and not much of a dancer. Still, he does both more than respectably in the rousing 'Brotherhood of Man' finale, which sends us home in a forgiving mood.

Like several shows this season, “Book of Mormon” is too long and comes close to wearing out its welcome before redeeming itself with a strong second act. And like most 12-year-old-boys, it isn’t nearly as nasty as it would have us believe. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

In 'Ghetto Klown,' more than in his previous solo Broadway shows ('Freak' and 'Sexaholix...a Love Story'), he uses many masks ultimately to reveal a naked self...Director Fisher Stevens has clearly spent a lot of time helping Leguizamo shape what can sometimes be unshapely -- there's a lot of territory to cover, and perhaps 15 minutes too long is spent covering it. But when the inevitable father-son reconciliation comes, the actor takes us way beyond laughter.

So what if Stephan Elliott and Allan Scott's crude book, based on Elliott's film 'The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert,' panders to a crowd that doesn't need winning over? The first act works too hard and Will Swenson's voice seems to be on the verge of going on strike. Nevertheless, he's pretty winning as Tick; so is Nick Adams as Felicia. A cut above, for bringing tremendous heart to a predictable role, is Tony Sheldon as the touching Bernadette. Hats off too to C. David Johnson as lovable Bob, the man of Bernadette's dreams. Bring your dancing shoes.

On Michael Yeargan’s too-gorgeous set -- a high-ceilinged parlor room whose mahogany solidity is made light by stained- glass windows and Peter Kaczorowski’s golden lighting -- director Gregory Mosher’s irony-free revival brings together an all-star cast for the boys’ reunion two decades after the Big Win.

Director Daniel Sullivan can’t finesse the play’s contrivances. Chief among them is the familiar setup of a confrontation between a proud denizen of the old neighborhood and the successful striver who escaped while clinging to a highly selective, even romanticized, version of his rough-and- tumble childhood. But John Lee Beatty’s evocative sets and Pat Collins’s pale verismo lighting lift the show above the norm.

Bedford is purse-lipped and aloof as Lady Bracknell, a gorgon of mock-scandalized calm floating through Desmond Heeley’s sensuous sets. A profusion of roses spills like raindrops in the garden scene and the young ladies-in-waiting (for marriage) are dollishly trussed by Heeley in white and pink. The uneven cast is brightened by two other fine veterans, Dana Ivey and Paxton Whitehead, as the dour Miss Prism and the befuddled Reverend Chasuble. They add the dose of satire the production otherwise lacks.

Lucky for Guare, then, that director George C. Wolfe has convened an astonishing creative team and an equally gifted ensemble (26 actors!). Designer David Rockwell and lighting masters Jules Fisher and Peggy Eisenhauer make the Vivian Beaumont Theater feel intimate, with sets that are at once minimalist and lavish. Adding to the semiclassical atmosphere is Jeanine Tesori’s insinuating incidental music, with its quotes from Haydn and other composers.

The mischievous wit for which Thomas Meehan ('The Producers' and 'Hairspray') is known seems to have been rubbed too smooth by his co-writer, Bob Martin, the nostalgist behind the musical 'The Drowsy Chaperone.' The songs are by Matthew Sklar (music) and Chad Beguelin (lyrics), the team behind the awful 'The Wedding Singer,' and they hardly do better here; the tunes are instantly forgettable and you can predict every rhyme a mile away.

The story is wrenching and the songs rank with Kander and Ebb's most gorgeous; 'Southern Days' -- which starts out as a riff on 'My Old Kentucky Home' and, with its lynching imagery, ends up echoing Billie Holiday's 'Strange Fruit' -- still gives me nightmares.

There is dumbed-down, Monty Python-style animation, trippy lighting recalling the Joshua Light Show and the inevitable wig and costume changing. There is even, occasionally, a bit of singing to remind us of the power of the Lennon/McCartney partnership. Primarily, however, 'Rain' is a Vegas act for All Hallow's Eve -- a rock horror show.

Four stars (****) for this unmissable jewel.

Margulies offers no reason to believe that either Ruth or Lisa has ever written a word worth publishing. The gifted director, Lynne Meadow, indulges Lavin, who mutters, mugs, winces and sneers along with the yelling, as Paulson recedes into the attractive clutter of Santo Loquasto’s lovely faded facsimile of a Greenwich Village floor-through.

With scorching arrangements by Tom Kitt (who just won a Pulitzer for his “Next to Normal” score), the songs sneer and whine just as a rock-n-roll concert ought to. Still, 90 minutes of barbaric yawp does not an opera, punk or otherwise, make.

The reductions in this stripped-down version, Broadway’s latest import from London’s Menier Chocolate Factory, seem especially stark as it follows closely a 2005 revival that matched the opulent 1985 Tony-winning original sequin for sequin. Yet unlike the shrunken revivals of other big Broadway musicals, this one makes sense. Terry Johnson’s smart, tight, rough-edged and slightly tacky production gets closer to the sort of scene one might actually find in a transvestite club on the French Riviera.

Rather than abandon his Broadway aspirations, “Wicked” producer David Stone made the extraordinary decision to send “Next to Normal” out of town to work out its kinks. A well- received run at Washington’s Arena Stage and $4 million later, “Next to Normal” has its Broadway opening with major rewrites and new songs replacing old ones. The result is a better show, though still one that’s easier to admire than love.

There was nothing like “Hair” when it opened on Broadway in April 1968, and there’s nothing like the revival that opened last night at the Al Hirschfeld Theatre. “Hair” was then and is now the most exciting new show in town, not so much a breath of spring air as a jolt of adrenaline.