Johnny Oleksinski — Theater Critic

“Mary Jane” is not a vehicle for showboating, or some explosive Mom vs. Society battle, and rightly so. Herzog’s drama is calm, and made up of slice-of-life conversations familiar to anybody who’s been a caretaker or knows one. And at times, I found director Anne Kauffman’s production too quiet for the Friedman, intimate though the venue is. Even a simmering show needs to build, and the middle of “Mary Jane” leans static.

Along with choreographer Camille A. Brown, whose dances burst with unrestrained youth and Manhattan chutzpah, the director gives Ninth Ave’s unique bustle energy without resorting to old cliches. It’s a show that’s true to its city. And at the end, when the cast sings the lyric “concrete jungle where dreams are made of,” the crowd walks out into Times Square fully believing it.

Yet the pricey bells and whistles distract from what is a so-so, overly dreary staging that is often undermined by its own overwrought machinations. Undeniably slick and handsome, this two-hour-and-forty-five-minute musical feels much longer than it should. That’s because, bizarrely for a production that is so determined to get its audience wasted, it’s hesitant to have too much fun itself.

Still, “Stereophonic,” directed by Daniel Aukin, is undeniably transportive, and it’s a pleasure to be immersed in this creatively robust decade for a while. David Zinn’s neat set is the control room of a recording studio, with a soundproof booth upstage behind glass. It casually evokes the ‘70s without going full-blown “Brady Bunch” kitchen.

Unfortunately, having garishly blared open Sunday night at the Longacre Theatre, it’s far too late for the creators to start over again on a blank canvas. And so, the ugly splatter that audiences are left to parse is a ridiculous two-and-half-hour Eurovision act with stratospheric delusions of grandeur.

“Water” has more exuberance than wit; more catchphrases than character. While the second half lumbers along like a pre-flight Dumbo, the wrong scenes and songs are given too much breathing room and important events such as, you know, murders and catastrophic stampedes are raced through to curtain call. Although “Water” is a love story, that becomes one of its less appealing aspects.

Outrageously funny Mindelle plays Celine as an omniscient narrator who, we learn during a Titanic museum tour at the start, is actually 150 years old and was onboard the ship with our favorite characters. Sure! She pops in every so often to gloriously upstage everybody else. Mindelle’s performance is a sensational, hilarious and deranged turn that rises above a 2 a.m. Las Vegas impression. Yes, if you are a big Celine fan like, ahem, a certain tabloid newspaper critic is, you’ll howl at the actress’ borrowed Celine-isms from old viral YouTube videos and banter from the “A New Day Live” album. But the performance — conversational, occasionally improvised and quite affectionate — is more than mockery.

And, yes, Michael Mayer's production - with its blood and death set to bouncy tunes - is still hilarious. Borle's dentist leaves you gasping for breath when he inhales nitrous oxide for kicks. His erratic energy is that of Jack Nicholson in 'The Shining.' And there are laughs to be had at how perfectly big Audrey II (voiced by Kingsley Leggs) is puppeteered as Leggs croons 'Feed Me.'

More than once during “Oh, Mary!,” which opened Thursday night off-Broadway, it hits you: How am I laughing so uncontrollably at a play about Mary Todd Lincoln? Yes, Abraham Lincoln’s wife is the subject of this riotous new comedy at the Lucille Lortel Theatre, written by and starring Cole Escola, that definitely does not aim to teach your anything or challenge your brain cells. Rather, the campy “Oh, Mary!” is too busy daring your lungs to stay full of air for more than a few seconds. Like the Confederacy, your lungs lose.

More than once during “Oh, Mary!,” which opened Thursday night off-Broadway, it hits you: How am I laughing so uncontrollably at a play about Mary Todd Lincoln? Yes, Abraham Lincoln’s wife is the subject of this riotous new comedy at the Lucille Lortel Theatre, written by and starring Cole Escola, that definitely does not aim to teach your anything or challenge your brain cells. Rather, the campy “Oh, Mary!” is too busy daring your lungs to stay full of air for more than a few seconds. Like the Confederacy, your lungs lose.

Being directed by Daldry, who also helmed the brilliant “Billy Elliot: The Musical” and many episodes of “The Crown,” you expect a certain level of capability and artistry walking in. Yet “First Shadow” is inelegant and confusing, and the special effects are hardly special. He spins the actors on a revolve over and over like a tumble dryer at the laundromat. One or two moments are striking — in over three freakin’ hours — but you’ve seen them all before.

Being directed by Daldry, who also helmed the brilliant “Billy Elliot: The Musical” and many episodes of “The Crown,” you expect a certain level of capability and artistry walking in. Yet “First Shadow” is inelegant and confusing, and the special effects are hardly special. He spins the actors on a revolve over and over like a tumble dryer at the laundromat. One or two moments are striking — in over three freakin’ hours — but you’ve seen them all before.

Also off-putting is that the musical’s rightly expressed message — that people with autism should not be objects of pity or a means to someone else’s inspiration — is undone by a book (Rebekah Greer Melocik) and score (Melocik and Jacob Yandura) that can only manage two things with the subtlety of semi-truck: tears and uplift. Complexity, take a hike.

In trying to be a paen to New York, a love story, a mother-daughter drama, an exploration of Keys’ biracial identity and an artist’s origin tale all at once, “Hell’s Kitchen” does justice to none of those aspects. The show succeeds largely as a concert.

When appalled neighbors call the cops about Sam’s hoarding problem in “I Need That,” his friend Foster says defensively, “It’s not like… that show.” He’s referring to A&E’s “Hoarders,” the long-running reality TV series that illuminated many Americans, often viscerally, about the disorder of unsafely cramming your home full of junk and the excruciating pain of parting with it. Theresa Rebeck’s new play, which opened Thursday night on Broadway in a production starring Danny DeVito, is not like “that show” either. Not at all. It’s nowhere near as compelling, focused or human. Yes it’s a drama about someone’s mess, but it needn’t be so messy.

If you’ve ever seen the fantastic Groff in concert, you know he’s a singer who loves to make eye contact with audience members. That quality — his desire for personal connection — is what makes him such a strong, layered, sympathetic Frank. And his hopeful glance is what sells an unobtrusive but vital new ending. Friedman adds a fleeting epilogue featuring Frank back in 1980, alone and staring out at the sky. His life has just played out inside his head, since we’ve never really left the midcentury-modern California house designed by Soutra Gilmour. And he looks at us as though he’s come to an important realization.

As temperatures warm up, and our temperaments improve, there is something so soothing about spending an afternoon on a sun-bathed, screened-in porch with two fabulous actresses. And that is what David Auburn’s Broadway play “Summer, 1976,” which opened Tuesday night at the Samuel J. Friedman Theatre, generously provides — featuring the indomitable Laura Linney and Jessica Hecht. Not that you’re outside — even if Japhy Weideman’s sparkling lights warmly make you feel like you are — or that the show is all smiles.

As temperatures warm up, and our temperaments improve, there is something so soothing about spending an afternoon on a sun-bathed, screened-in porch with two fabulous actresses. And that is what David Auburn’s Broadway play “Summer, 1976,” which opened Tuesday night at the Samuel J. Friedman Theatre, generously provides — featuring the indomitable Laura Linney and Jessica Hecht. Not that you’re outside — even if Japhy Weideman’s sparkling lights warmly make you feel like you are — or that the show is all smiles.

But near the end, Levant gets behind the piano and plays Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” on NBC. Hayes, a gifted piano player himself, does this in full view of the audience — and from memory. That thrilling moment — without mannerisms, words, other characters or exposition — is the only time Levant and “Good Night, Oscar” come to life.

But near the end, Levant gets behind the piano and plays Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” on NBC. Hayes, a gifted piano player himself, does this in full view of the audience — and from memory. That thrilling moment — without mannerisms, words, other characters or exposition — is the only time Levant and “Good Night, Oscar” come to life.

Most astonishing throughout are Comer’s quick shifts in posture, voice, pace and body language that instantly and impactfully reveal Tessa’s state of mind. The actress shoves heavy tables and chairs around the stage in director Justin Martin’s production, and looks drastically different by the end. I was in awe that I’d been in the room with the same person for an uninterrupted 100 minutes.

At two hours and five minutes over two acts, the effect of the wackiness wears off a tad toward the end - even though the final chase scene is brilliantly choreographed on Simon Scullion's set of a million secrets. And some adults in the audience (not this one) might turn up their noses at Shields' pantomime-like insistence that kids boo Captain Hook. And they boo a lot. A few theatergoers looked aghast, like some drunks had just thrown their bras at King Lear. To them I'll give the opposite advice that Peter Pan would: Grow up! Shields' self-debasement is delightful. That's really all this lovable cast wants anyway - for us to get rowdy for them to be ridiculed.

For a while there’s some satisfaction in experiencing the ways Ijames inventively reconceives Shakespearean plot points and characters. And, on the design front, it’s clever to replace the usual Danish fog with smoke from a BBQ pit on Maruti Evans’ set. Yet you start to get the sense that more effort was spent on meticulously setting up the pins than finally knocking them down. The ending is mush. Still, the cast’s energy is warm and enveloping throughout. Spears’ Juicy, with his sideways glances and Charlie Brown sincerity, is more lovable than any melancholy Hamlet you’ll ever see. Jones doesn’t come across evil enough to kill anybody, but he’s a font of mischievous energy.

The Southern comfort show, with a tuneful country score by Brandy Clark and Shane McAnally and a superb book by Robert Horn, is just so damn funny. If any of the outrageous yokel characters open their mouths to do anything but sing, 99% of the time they will deliver a winning joke or pun. The receptive audience sits in a state of perpetual giggle, with heads bobbing up and down like buoys.

Immediately we realize that Groban is not the menacing, feral Todd that Len Cariou and Michael Cerveris were, but a calmer chap with an ax to grind. This choice cuts both ways. Sweeney is more human, yes, but some scenes lack intensity. His song “Epiphany” — in which he declares, “They all deserve to die!” — isn’t as scary as it should be. Still, Groban is as well-sung a Sweeney as you’ll find.