Johnny Oleksinki — Theater Critic

Belflower’s play says the opposite while mirroring Miller’s moral certitude about his own characters’ top-to-bottom guiltlessness. She casts zero doubt on the men being investigated. They absolutely did it.

Similarly indecisive, ‘Smash’ is on the fence as to whether ‘Bombshell’ is a good or bad musical. That should have been action item No. 1. [...] But the only reason ‘Smash’ is on Broadway right now is because Shaiman and Wittman’s songs from the series still have admirers. Why, then, are the fictional composers depicted as unreliable hacks who no one seems to believe in? It makes no sense. Nothing does.

There’s ​such a ​throwback showbiz energy to discovering a major talent like Rogers that makes the marquee lights twinkle a bit brighter as you ​b​oop out ​o​f the theater and off to Sardi’s.

It’s unnecessary and obvious; shoveling textureless meaning into the troth.

So, to channel Mamet, why the f–k has it been plopped onto the same stage that was home to “West Side Story,” “Legally Blonde” and “SpongeBob Squarepants: The Musical”? It’s a huge mistake. Any tension heads straight down the lobby escalator as soon as the curtain rises, and it’s challenging to become absorbed by the tale — even during the always-feisty second act.

But what the worthwhile play offers — and I know there are many who pooh-pooh screens onstage as a rule — is the childlike wonderment of not understanding the logistics of what you’re looking at. The first hour is marked by awed and confused “How did they do that?”s. “How did she do that?”

The madcap World War II comedy from London, which opened Thursday night at the Golden Theatre, is an often tiring wallop of frenetic hyperactivity. There’s ample cleverness and some witty lines, but the Red Bull tweeness gets grating.

Really, though, the plot is just a means to more exceptional music. What gets our blood pumping is the fabulous onstage band that stirringly performs some 20 numbers, including 'Chan Chan' and 'Dos Gardenias.' The songs are accompanied by Patricia Delgado and Justin Peck’s vibrant, fluid, full-bodied choreography that’s so athletic and rubbery it makes you question if the dancers actually have bones.

There’s trauma after trauma. Yet what’s so puzzling about “Redwood” is that it’s a textbook tearjerker — a mom in mourning rediscovering herself midair, weighty speeches about losing everything — that leaves your eyes totally dry. The closest the musical comes to being remotely affecting is a quiet song toward the end called “Still,” beautifully sung by Zachary Noah Piser as Spencer. Jesse’s winding explanation for her son’s death should be scrapped and completely rewritten, but Piser has a velvet voice and an easily emotional presence regardless.

“Gypsy” is, by the estimation of many — including me — the greatest musical ever written. But you wouldn’t know it from the slow and unsteady revival starring Audra McDonald that opened Thursday at the Majestic Theatre. The quintessentially American story about driving and moving from place to place while scraping by with a pipe dream of stardom does not satisfyingly drive or move. With stop-start direction from George C. Wolfe, the sixth Broadway production of Jule Styne, Stephen Sondheim and Arthur Laurents’ musical runs out of gas early.

Since Act 2 narratively does not have as much drive or emotion as the first, and the songs are still mush, Gattelli should have included even more body horror schtick. The Demi Moore film “The Substance” is a lesson in how upping the gore ante can rev up a story. But whenever the material sags, like aging skin, its sensational stars inject the show with new vibrancy. Even if the musical doesn’t have a discernible heartbeat, Hilty and Simard ensure “Death Becomes Her” stays fun and fabulous.

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.