Johnny Oleksinki

Something I won’t be saying on my death bed: “I wish I would’ve watched more shows about boats.” Yet another crew of singing seafarers sets off in the Avett Brothers’ uneven “Swept Away,” which opened Tuesday night at the Longacre Theatre. The musical adds a twisted new twist, through — cannibalism. On Broadway? Not so appetizing.

But these scenes that go beyond clunky biographic exposition are short-lived. Just when we’re starting to explore the depths of the man, another song begins. Some, like “Black and Blue,” contribute meaning and texture; others fill time in a show that already drags.

Once the audience has become accustomed to the playful, cool mood that extends into the chic lobby, they await the, er, tragedy to unfold. On that end, “Romeo + Juliet” is a let-down. During the dark final moments in the crypt, or wherever the heck they are, the play peters out. The best bits are specks in the rearview; the sadness, less powerful than the booming tunes from two hours earlier. Then, in the last seconds, we are told as ever, “For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.” And, as the lights fade at Circle in the Square, we’re not so sure about that.

There is no doubt as to what the new play “Left on Tenth,” which opened at the James Earl Jones Theatre Wednesday night, wants to be: A romantic, funny and harrowing tale of a woman’s rebirth. Yet, after seeing Delia Ephron’s Broadway show starring Julianna Margulies and Peter Gallagher, different descriptors jump to mind: Sappy, sluggish and awkward.

So, why, if it is Our town, is director Kenny Leon’s staging of “Our Town” among the most uninvolving and anemic I have ever seen?

Should your sole aim be to watch the Marvel and “Oppenheimer” actor, who’s making his Broadway debut, give a capable performance in his signature Tony Stark staccato, mission accomplished. However, it is, well, a marvel how even the most blinding star power can dim when blacked out by a mind-numbing plot, mouthpiece supporting characters and a Universal Studios-scale set of giant screens that’s an expensive apology for the actual play.

The production, directed in haste by Lear deBessonet, is not without its flaws. Personally, I’m tired of lazily staged, barebones Encores! concerts being lugged to Broadway like a surprisingly nice couch somebody found on the curb. Still, Foster is such a smash that you forgive most of the peripheral problems.

On its face, the tumult of the Civil War and a traumatizing assassination do not a recipe for laughter make. And yet the Great White Way has not witnessed a comedy this funny, or a comedic star turn this dazzling, in at least a decade.

All of these unlikely pieces fit together seamlessly. What surprised me most was that the ballroom concept, beyond its initial rush of novelty, unexpectedly unearths laughs and heartfelt moments that were always there, but were kept down by whiskers and Spandex.

And now for the elephant — or, well, the ship — in the room: Should this “Titanic” have a future life like Encores’ “Into the Woods” and “Parade” did? Seemingly every production in this series creates Broadway buzz now, whether it’s deserved or not. But “Titanic,” directed by Anne Kauffman, is not the sort of staging that would make sense in a sit-down a few blocks away. This concert is constructed, as it should be, to grandly showcase the blissful score. I’d love to see “Titanic” back on Broadway. But this one should live out the rest of its days on 55th Street.

But the audience’s three-camera sit-com chuckle does reveal this “Vanya”’s chief shortcoming straightaway. While the production has got the jokes down pat, it is quite a bit shakier when it comes to the pathos and hardship that spring from them.

Rolled out modestly, little “Heart” is also a lot more fun and proudly frivolous than any of its sober-minded neighbors. It’s perhaps the first time in my life that I’ve been happy to see a confetti cannon at curtain call.

The suffragist characters of the musical “Suffs,” which opened Thursday night at the Music Box Theatre, rarely take a breath to celebrate their victories. As soon as they achieve something monumental, such as securing a rare meeting with President Woodrow Wilson or finally getting the right to vote, another lofty goal appears on the horizon. Or there’s a dispiriting setback. They’re never done. They’ve gotta keep marching. Much the same could be said about the show, itself, written by and starring Shaina Taub. Even after a 2021 run at the Public Theater, which garnered less-than-enthusiastic reviews, and a later workshop to reshape it, “Suffs” still feels frustratingly unfinished.

Despite the cozy feeling of being reunited with beloved material 40 years after it was last on Broadway, director Schele Williams’ production is deflatingly flimsy and lackluster. Clumsily staged, it’s a Wiz-sper of what it should be.

Newcomer Brody Grant, with a record-deal-ready voice and a grounded teenage vulnerability, makes a sublime debut in the role. He’s the sort of bookworm heartthrob you’re more likely to find on Netflix nowadays than Broadway. But the shrewdness of director Danya Taymor’s production starts with how brilliantly cast it is, from top to bottom. By the end of the opening song, called “Tulsa ’67,” we have somehow already met and grown inexplicably fond of every single Greaser.

The quaking revival of Pete Townshend’s seminal rock opera, which opened Thursday night at the Nederlander Theater after nearly three decades away, really is an espresso martini of a show after a chamomile-tea season of musicals. Everything about this exhilarating production shakes you awake and leaves you buzzed: Knockout singing, superbly inventive stagecraft and a star-making performance from 24-year-old Ali Louis Bourzgui as the Pinball Wizard that’s the most exciting New York stage debut in years. I hope the Nederlander’s carpets are regularly vacuumed. Because for two hours and 15 minutes, my jaw became all too well acquainted with the floor.

But Gold, whose Broadway “Macbeth” starring Daniel Craig was a bells-and-whistles disaster, nearly bungles it by serving the audience free shots of Linie Aquavit between the first and second halves from a hopping bar onstage. The otherwise riveted man next to me said, “This is so stupid.” Twice. I’m sure there is a high-minded rationale for the pop-up pub. Perhaps it’s there to confront us with our own hypocrisy, or lull us into a false sense of security before the untethered town meeting where Thomas is attacked. Whatever the reason, the silly trick flattens the tension the cast built and leaves it up to Strong to pick up the pieces. He ably does, thank goodness, and prevents his director from becoming the enemy of the play.

While the cast of “The Notebook” sings and dances up onstage at the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre, there is an even more dramatic performance going on in the seats. The sniffle chorus. Ingrid Michaelson’s musical, which opened Thursday night on Broadway is, of course, based on Nicholas Sparks’ weepy 1996 romance novel that was made into a popular movie starring a young Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams. Like Pavlov’s pups, millennials habitually sob during that 2004 film, and the production has seized upon its teary reputation by selling branded tissue boxes. During the final 10 minutes, the noses are deafening.

Shanley wrote an immaculate work that can stand up to even so-so productions like the revival starring Amy Ryan and Liev Schreiber that opened Thursday at the Todd Haimes Theatre. The script is the marquee star. And although the head-to-head battles between Sister Aloysius (Ryan) and Father Flynn (Schreiber) don’t explode as powerfully here as they are capable of doing, the words are never less than riveting.

“Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” of course, was not a big-budget project and “Spamalot” needn’t be either. But if you can’t afford to be spectacular, like Mike Nichols’ original production was, then make the design clever and funny. Nope. This one settles for mere functionality. It’s yet another missed opportunity for the revival to be something at least a little different.

Zien’s wealth of experience is paired with exciting young talent. Five of the Harmonists are making their Broadway debuts, and all of them are tremendous singers. And, most poignantly, the show’s forceful rallying cry against anti-Semitism and for peaceful coexistence is relevant and movingly reverberates. How depressing it is to remember that the very same thing was being said last season about the musical “Parade” and Tom Stoppard’s play “Leopoldstadt.” The problem is that while “Harmony” is about a sextet of singers whose voices blend like milk and coffee, its elements do not similarly fuse into a cohesive and satisfying musical. The show, directed and choreographed by Warren Carlyle, has been tinkered with by Manilow and lyricist/book-writer Bruce Sussman for nearly 30 years, but on its largest stage yet it still doesn’t quite work.

The effect of their macho antics, however, is much the same as listening to your drunken friends argue about capitalism at 2 a.m. They keep on yapping and are not getting anywhere, so you zone out. Big-personality confrontations about who the real star of the movie is — and who’s the better actor — are neither rip-roaring nor very insightful. They start out amusingly petty, and quickly grow repetitive. The draw, though, is Ian Shaw. He is the son of Robert Shaw — the Shakespearean actor who played gruff shark hunter Quint and who died in 1978. Ian plays his dad in the show he co-wrote. So, not coincidentally, he’s the best part of the play directed by Guy Masterson.

Some will insist that the show is meant for “Back to the Future” super fans only. Well, speaking as one of those super fans who has watched the film trilogy countless times to the point of “Pledge of Allegiance”-like recitation, the musical left me cold and uninvolved. It made me want to go back… to the movie!

You miss the old farces. There isn’t much of the hiding-in-closets fun that has long been the meat of similar comedies such as “Boeing-Boeing” and Coward’s “Present Laughter.” That’s why the amped-up energy is so jarring — for the most part, these characters simply stand together and yell. That tried-and-true farce structure — low-key witty first act, madcap second, wrapup third — is abandoned by Rustin in favor of high-energy antics from start to finish, much like Broadway’s 2021 play “POTUS” that similarly ran out of gas halfway through. Steingold, as the loopy Dierdre, runs away with “The Cottage.”

Still, even if “Here Lies Love” doesn’t reach the emotional highs of “Evita” (one reason it can’t is that, unlike Eva Peron, Marcos is alive and well and with a son, Bongbong, who’s the current president of the Philippines), it’s a ravishing sensory experience unlike any other. You'll walk out at the end with no changed opinion of Imelda Marcos, but instead with your eyes opened about the endless possibilities for Broadway theaters.