Johnny Oleksinski

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.

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.

It’s a mess with multiple personality disorder. From start to finish during this perplexing and often dull fairytale spin — and, oh, does it spin — you’re never entirely sure what you’re watching or why you’re watching it.

Brown’s finest music, and Platt’s most heart-wrenching work, come during his trial, as three factory girls (who have been coached to lie) hauntingly harmonize their testimony like Abigail from “The Crucible.” Brown has yet to top it in any show. When Leo gives his statement, and Platt sings that his character is unemotional and awkward but innocent, it’s the tears-free opposite of when he sobbed at the end of “Dear Evan Hansen,” but the gut-punch is the same. The second act has more built-in structural issues, as Lucille works tirelessly to appeal her husband’s verdict and enlists the help of Governor Slaton (Sean Allan Krill) to get Leo home. A galvanizing number is followed by minutes of aimless procedural wading. But there are few sublime moments. As another factory worker, and suspect, Jim Conley, Alex Joseph Grayson wails the song “Feel the Rain Fall,” which is gorgeous but pops up out of nowhere. And Diamond, whose combination of fragility and power is thrilling for an actress so young, brings an electricity to her duets with Platt: “This Is Not Over Yet” and the romantic “All the Wasted Time,” which fades into the musical’s devastating conclusion.

Usually stripping a play down to the bare essentials — simple costumes, a few chairs — renders it rawer and more authentic. Not so in the uneven revival of “A Doll’s House,” starring Oscar winner Jessica Chastain, that opened Thursday night on Broadway. Despite an absorbing performance from the “Eyes of Tammy Faye” actress, British director Jamie Lloyd’s staging is as sterile as an operating room.

“Pictures,” directed by Bartlett Sher as an afterthought, is not really a play at all, so much as one guy’s musings about the middle class. It’s a drama-free paraphrase of Sultan’s essays punctuated by Nathan Lane and Zoe Wanamaker, as Irving and Jean respectively, wisecracking about being old. When you occasionally laugh at their jokes, you briefly forget that you’re bored.

However, it’s Henderson who shakes the stage. The wonderful actor, who’s been a regular for years in plays by August Wilson and Lorraine Hansberry and in films as far-removed as “Lady Bird” and “Dune,” gives the performance of his career and the Broadway season. He makes the complicated Walter a millions things at once — adorable, frightening, calculating, indifferent, reserved, commanding, a stand-up comic, a boozer — that combine into one indomitable theatrical force. It’s not the sort of showy, speechifying role that we usually laud out of habit. Often, Walter simply watches on. But as played by Henderson, he’s a man you won’t soon forget.

Has “Merrily” finally been fixed? Not really, and it never will be. But its storied problems have not only become part of its lore, but also a messy asset in our dismal era of mechanical, assembly-line musicals produced by movie studios. “Merrily” is an affecting oddball that hits you hard emotionally, even when it creatively misses. Here’s to it. What’s like it? Damn few.

I’ve heard “Some Like It Hot” described a lot as an “old-fashioned musical comedy.” And, yes, it sure feels old. But the shows that those folks are referencing, and that this musical aspires to be — “Guys and Dolls,” “The Music Man,” “Anything Goes” — sparked with innovation in their time (and, ya know, had strong scores and books). Unlike “Some,” they were hot.

McDonald is an actress who radiates optimism and smiles often. And that positivity makes her agonized characters, such as Suzanne, absolutely fascinating to behold. From start to finish, there is an engrossing battle raging within the academic. Suzanne is desperate not to show her cards, at first, because that means the oppressive world will have won. Even after a terrible event befalls her, she refuses to leave Columbus. She’s full of stoic determination. McDonald smartly finds contrarian moments for her careful professorial facade to crack and each and every one is affecting. When her gleaming face suddenly turns hurt, cold, angry or lifeless, it has a big, wordless punch. The lion’s share of the show is hers, but Pinkham, who’s best known for his roles in musicals, has a striking scene. During another lecture late in the play, as Suzanne looks on with a polar opposite facial expression this time, his eyes are so red and strained it looks like he hasn’t slept in days. It’s simple but scary.

At first the musical follows the usual jukebox musical formula, straightforwardly depicting a young Brooklyn-born Diamond (Will Swenson) playing guitar at the Bitter End rock club on Bleecker Street and being discovered by record producer Ellie Greenwich (Bri Sudia). His nascent career is not unlike Carole King’s. (Don’t misunderstand me — “Beautiful: The Carole King Musical” is an infinitely superior show.) He writes hit songs for other more famous artists to sing, such as “I’m a Believer” for the Monkees.

And the direction is very fine. Arden has become a Broadway regular since his revival of 'Spring Awakening' in 2015, and 'A Christmas Carol' is his strongest and most confident work to date. Every idea connects seamlessly with the next, and never settles into Scrooge-control. The performance builds and builds, surprising us all along the way. The director also shows a flair for breathtaking stage pictures that was not so evident in his recent City Center revival of 'Parade' that plans to come to Broadway. Even if you're a Scrooge when it comes to annual holiday fare, like I am, 'A Christmas Carol' succeeds as a strong piece of theater.

This sporadically fun musical from - where else! - Great Britain with a loony book by David West Read suggests this idea is somehow very feminist; that taking a dagger for your poisoned man is the ultimate failure of the Bechdel test. A bit self-righteous coming from a show that includes 'I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It' by Katy Perry, dontcha think? The key to enjoying yourself at '& Juliet' - and it is, indeed, an empty-headed good time - is to ignore the plot entirely and pretend you're at a concert. And to have the bartender fill your souvenir sippy cup right to the rim with your booze of choice.

Yes, composer Jeanine Tesori and book-writer David Lindsay-Abaire's musical at the Booth Theatre is a smidge too wacky for its own good. Lindsay-Abaire's many eccentric flourishes, at times, can come across as showing off. I often missed the grounded power of the writer's excellent play, 'Good People.' Nonetheless, this odd duck is undeniably likable. 'Kimberly' the musical and the character have a strong underdog appeal and a warmth that keeps the audience firmly on its side. While never rapturous, 'Akimbo' is always enjoyable and ultimately touching.

Those classic bits are all still here, yes, but they're a wisp of the original. British director Jeremy Herrin, who should stick to plays and steer clear of Stratocasters, composer-lyricist Tom Kitt and book writer-lyricist Crowe do not present a compelling case for why the film must be a Broadway musical. It's pleasant and sweet and passes the time, sure, but should that be enough?