Johnny Oleksinski

As Lincoln, Hawkins (from the 'In The Heights' film, 'BlacKkKlansman') is weathered by the world - bruised, tired and punishing, but also grandfatherly for someone so young. (Maybe it's the fake Abe beard.) When he furiously deals three-card monte, the actor drives the speeches with Nascar adrenaline. Hawkins is thrilling.

The famous ending, involving the aforementioned ghoul, is also bungled. This time it combines a screen and less-than-adequate projection, the shoddiness of which distracts from the finale's power and purpose. If you're sitting even slightly off center, you can barely discern what's going on. It could be an iPhone flashlight or the aurora borealis. The windup, however, is rich and sublimely acted. When Washington snarled and stared at Brooks and Jackson with unrelenting intensity, I was reminded of his father Denzel's explosive Troy in Wilson's 'Fences' that he performed 12 years ago just two blocks away. In a play very much about legacy, that felt right.

'Salesman,' always a long sit, settles on an even-keeled gear early on and stubbornly sticks to it - so the production feels endless. The climactic fight all the way to the inevitable conclusion is not affectingly tragic, and there is no build to speak of. Nice songs, but not enough attention was paid to the basics.

All that cramming leads to a drama that is, for the most part, cold and clammy until it gains some heat near the end. The writer has jammed politics, innovative devices and the passage of time together before, in plays such as 'Arcadia' and 'Rock n Roll,' that were far more satisfying because there were fewer stories and names to keep track of.

Michele brings real singing power to the table as Fanny - the role made famous by Barbra Streisand - which was sorely lacking in the revival and is beyond vital... Michele's best number, though, is 'The Music That Makes Me Dance' - a reflective tune sung after her home life has crumbled as her fame has skyrocketed. Michele hasn't been on Broadway since she left 'Spring Awakening' in 2009, and her self-reflection and vulnerability from the intervening years is obvious. As Wendla in 'Awakening,' she was an inexperienced kid - onstage and off. Her Fanny, on the other hand, is hardened, hurt and defensive from the get-go. She's not always lovable, but it's the right take for this actress.

Onstage, of course, we don't have hundreds of pages to let the ambitious tale breathe. We've got 2½ hours. So the sheer number of tragedies makes 'The Kite Runner' an especially tough story to adapt without turning it into a soap opera - an emotional shellacking. That treacherous trap, however, is shrewdly avoided on Broadway, where a moving stage adaptation of the book opened Thursday night, because of the actors' radiating warmth and the production's generosity of spirit. It's a straightforward, to-the-point play, but one that's easy to embrace and gripping as it unfurls.

The razor sharp focus here, instead, is on a divinely cast, crystal clear staging of the fairytale musical that intertwines the tales of Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, Jack and the Beanstalk and Rapunzel into a lesson about how adulthood has no happy ending. You won't soon forget Sara Bareilles' perfect rendition of 'Moments in the Woods,' a notoriously tricky song in which the Baker's Wife tries to rationalize some taboo forest frolicking. The actress is so warm and thoughtful during the number, but also flies by the seat of her pants. I've never seen such a relatable interpretation - she's the Baker's Wife of Park Slope.

Craig, a fine actor in the past, is a victim of all the directing detritus. Gold seems to have told 007 and company to act detached and indifferent in this oh-so-violent and propulsive of works. Kings and murderers sound like Iowans discussing soybeans. When the witches tell Mackers that he'll be promoted to Thane of Cawdor and then King of Scotland? Meh. 'Is this a dagger which I see before me?' Yawn. During 'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,' Craig channels Hank Hill and cracks open a Bud Lite.

At first the romp is engaging, lifted by a truly brilliant cast of comedic actors who embrace and explode the qualities that made them famous. Then, in Act 2, the set-ups become so unwieldy and ludicrous that it turns into an episode of 'Hoarders: Broadway Edition.' Somebody needed to come in with gloves and a garbage bag and do some major decluttering.

There's one thing to kvetch about with 'Mr. Saturday Night': it would be better as a straight play than a song-and-dance show. Jason Robert Brown has composed a bland point-A-to-point-B score that's not as hilarious or textured as the text. Similar to 'Tootsie' before it, the star here is the scenes, not the tunes.

Even if it all plays out like a dramatic therapy session, there is a powerful, raw emotionality to 'A Strange Loop,' directed by Stephen Brackett, and a boppin' score with a couple memorable tunes - if not much polish or, ultimately, much satisfaction. I missed it at the much smaller Playwrights Horizons in 2019, but would've liked to have felt its effects in a more intimate room. For instance, the sound balance on Broadway is off, and it's hard to hear the lyrics over the band. Prepare your ears: The musical is also absolutely filthy. If 'Spring Awakening' or 'The Book of Mormon' had you reaching for your rosary, best bring along some holy water and frankincense for this one. On the language front, Jackson goes overboard.

With its visual appeal and committed cast, the pessimistic asides are hardly necessary. Beans, who brings to mind Endora from 'Bewitched,' begins a smidge too campy, but turns out one of the season's funnier performances. Meredith and Roslyn Ruff, as Mr. and Mrs. Antrobus, ground the zaniness with moral authority. And, playing the Antrobus' son, Henry, Julian Robertson's PTSD-inflected performance in Act 3 is affecting.But golly, this set. 'Our Town,' with its ladders and chairs, looks like a very poor cousin, indeed.

The audience members at 'Funny Girl' are not the luckiest people in the world. They've waited a long, long time for the first-ever Broadway revival of the 1964 musical, which opened Sunday night at the August Wilson Theatre. Fifty-eight years! But the mediocrity that salivating Fanny Brice fans are finally laying their eyes on isn't particularly funny, or well sung, or well designed or well directed. This sorely lacking new production rains on the old musical's parade. It's clear from the get-go that the burden of anticipation and showbiz lore has not been kind to this 'Girl.'

You're absolutely wracked with guilt at 'Hangmen' - from laughing so hard at the many, many inappropriate jokes. A crude sight gag near the end had me practically dry heaving. That nonstop naughtiness is what makes Martin McDonagh's killer satire the best new play on Broadway by a green mile. The Brit's comedy, which opened Thursday night at the Golden Theatre, is a heaping scoop of jaw-droppers and taboos - albeit with a sophisticated takeaway about the justice system - that'll make wimps clutch their pearls for dear life. The rest of us can't help but chuckle at the macabre madness.

The play comes across, unfortunately, as an antiquated time machine that's at odds with the current conversation. Being a glimpse into a specific, different era would be OK - plenty of revivals fit that bill - but 'for colored girls' seems awfully intent on speaking forcefully to the present moment. A strong connection to today, however, is nowhere to be found.

When she goes off to college and starts to realize the creepiness of her 1960s small-town Maryland predicament, leading to a devastating climax in a hotel room, we should be left in pieces. After all, what was once quietly frowned upon is now rightly seen as a grievous sin of the abuser. The scene doesn't quite reach those heights of emotion.

Rockwell and Fishburne nail the buddy-cop dynamic of these prickly parts. Donny is the cool-headed mediator (who also says 'f - - k' a lot) and Teach is a furious, distrusting bully whose temper is surely exacerbated by his skintight plaid pants. Fishburne's commanding portrayal reminds me of the best kind of bartender - a sweetheart when he takes your drink order and a hardass when he drags a drunk to the curb by his collar. And although Criss has the least rewarding role of the three, his empty-headed kid is a fun 180 from his diabolical characters in 'The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story' or on Broadway in 'How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.' Bobby certainly doesn't have Hedwig's wit, and the actor shows just how versatile he is.

Nothing in 'The Little Prince' wakes you up so much as those flying follicles, and all of it is swallowed up by one of the theater district's largest houses at 1,761 seats. Nor is the book's meaning or profundity properly explored. We leave not knowing how to feel about 'The Little Prince,' other than that it is French and vaguely whimsical; its messages and life lessons wiped away by a production more content with being wannabe ASMR than an embraceable tale. To see the book's potential, check out the far better animated film that was released in 2016. The lack of a thrilling adventure, the middling spectacle, canned songs and a corny CGI landscape make for a 'Prince' that's much too petit for Broadway.

Haidle's plays (his better 'Smokefall' did not receive the production it deserved when it played New York back in 2016) have a way of convincing every audience member they've been written just for them. 'Birthday Candles,' at its best, bubbles up our own cherished and difficult memories of the people in our lives who've come and gone.

'Take Me Out' isn't a sports psychologist's essay though. It's a taut and exciting play - and much more propulsive than your average spring ball game - that thankfully doesn't concern itself with the endless sensitivities and triggers of 2022. Most of the scenes are set in the tense locker room and there is an authenticity to the players' angst and jibes that wouldn't exist if the script had been scrubbed clean by some modern non-profit's propaganda officer. The show's got belly laughs, and a lot of grit.

Co-starring Parker's husband Matthew Broderick, the 1960s-set comedy is an old-fashioned affair to be sure, but a sparkling one. 'Sex and the City' fans will certainly enjoy it more than HBO's weirdly woke and clunky 'And Just Like That.' And, for everybody else, Simon's middle-drawer play is a relaxing vacation from our overly serious theater season.

'The Music Man,' I'm sorry to say, does not live up to our oversize expectations. Quite unexpectedly, you leave not raving about Jackman, one of Broadway's hottest sellers, but the music woman - Sutton Foster, who plays Marian 'The Librarian' Paroo. She's a wonder and the main reason to buy a ticket. Much has been made of Foster not having the soaring soprano range of Barbara Cook and Shirley Jones, but that doesn't matter. Hers is as thoughtful, funny, threatening, witty, maternal and romantic a Marian as you've ever seen. She never settles for a schoolmarm stereotype and makes 65-year-old lines fresh.

It's not a smooth musical. The troubles over at 'MJ: The Musical,' the new show about Michael Jackson that opened Tuesday night on Broadway, are much bigger than the controversy surrounding its subject - although the two are closely connected. While the lifeless script is written by Pulitzer Prize winner Lynn Nottage of 'Ruined,' the pat dialogue feels as if it was co-authored by a lawyer for the Jackson estate - one of the producers - with Wite-Out and a Sharpie.

Broadway, of course, should not dominated by schlocky copycat musicals based on old films, and ingenuity and experimentation must be encouraged. With risk, however, should come drama and the electricity of something new. Writer-director James Lapine has the originality part down, to put it mildly, but, boy, is his show sedate and esoteric. That's saying a lot for the man who wrote the strange-at-the-time books for 'Sunday in the Park With George' and 'Into the Woods.' They're 'Guys and Dolls' next to this. Beyond oddness, though, 'Flying Over Sunset' is unforgivably dull onstage. It would make a fascinating New Yorker article, but is far from a compelling, cohesive musical.

No other show understands the callused skin that hardened, cynical New Yorkers develop to make it through another miserable day quite like 'Company' does. Sondheim's musical, splendidly directed by Marianne Elliott, is a paean to NYC about the pains of living in NYC. Eight million people and somehow you're still single and in your 30s. Constantly surrounded by wackos and dullards. Friends hightail it at random, unable to deal with the stress. Apartments are small. The subway is unavoidable. Why pay for therapy when you could go to 'Company'?