Lane Williamson

But it also feels unfinished, like many of the plays that pop up in the Summerworks festival. Clubbed Thumb and Playwrights Horizons both have a talent for spotting new voices and producing plays that feel so fresh the printer is probably still spitting out pages. That can be thrilling, but it can also mean that the plays haven’t fully incubated.

It’s the best stage performance I’ve seen Broderick give in many years. The production capitalizes on his off-kilter energy to upend our notions of who Tartuffe is and his soft-spoken tone is, in its own way, a heightened style of acting. This was the first time I’ve seen a Tartuffe that made me miss Tartuffe when he wasn’t onstage, a feat all of its own.

It all comes together well, but doesn’t quite turn into something great. It’s a perfectly respectable production, but I’m not convinced the play has much to offer, despite its Pulitzer-winning bonafides. The central trio (and a marvelous one-scene performance from Mare Winnigham) make it worth seeing, but it’s not really the kind of play to generate excitement beyond that. Still, this is clearly a passion project for Kail and Williams and the results of their work are quite impressive.

William Finn and Rachel Sheinkin’s delightfully quirky musical The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee has returned to New York in a dream-come-true revival directed by Danny Mefford at New World Stages. A full-hearted, belly-laughing confection from the early 2000s, this new production of Spelling Bee swoops in like a big hug from an old friend, reminding us of everything we fell in love with two decades ago.

Director Lear deBessonet understands, and respects, that the writing must be central to this production’s success. Too many revivals become opportunities for revisions, permitting the writers to tinker with things that don’t need adjusting. Thankfully, Ahrens, Flaherty, and McNally’s estate have left things as they are and deBessonet’s production presents their stunning achievement in nearly barebones fashion.

The production is pretty well-cast all around. Lupita Nyong’o and her brother Junior Nyong’o are the shipwrecked twins and, aside from their height disparity, are nearly identical in Oana Botez’s costumes and Krystal Balleza’s hair design. Viola and Sebastian’s eventual reunion at the end of the play is wrought with the kind of palpable, historied connection that only real-life siblings can bring.

Now, the musical plays more like a cautionary tale than a bared-teeth satire. Girls, avoid toxic boyfriends! Well, yes. Killing your classmates is not a good idea. Understood! Andy Fickman’s production and the softening revisions Kevin Murphy and Laurence O’Keefe have made to the book and score add up to a tepid, if tuneful adaptation of what was once a controversial, giddily violent send-up of teen culture.

It’s an intentionally messy, ragged play and it needs to be. I’ve been wrestling with it for days and am still not even sure that I’ve landed on an “opinion” about it. Playwrights Horizons and Soho Rep are to be applauded for programming something like this – it takes confidence and intelligence to read this play and see what it could be, even if it’s not entirely successful.

Krasinski’s casting (by Taylor Williams) is key to the play’s success. Krasinski exudes nice-guy energy, the kind of lovable, dopey presence that made him stand out on The Office. He’s unbelievably handsome, but his face also kind of looks like a stuffed bear. There’s a pervasive gentleness, a comforting vibe which is then upended, quite dramatically, as he spirals out of control. Roger’s unraveling veers from light comedy to boiling anger to terrifying anguish and Krasinski effortlessly navigates that terrain. With his face lit primarily by a computer screen as he plunges into the abyss, the play’s final seconds are bone-chilling.

It’s not the kind of role Jeremy Jordan usually takes on, but as the two and half hours of the musical elapse, it’s clear that he was born to play it... The entire production sits on his shoulders and he keeps it aloft through the final seconds... I’d never seen a production of Floyd Collins before, despite loving the score for almost two decades. This one really gives the term revival the full breadth of its definition. Here’s Floyd Collins, the man, born again in front of our very eyes, thanks to a stunning performance from Jeremy Jordan. And here’s Floyd Collins, the musical, expertly gradated up, but still true to its emotional center.

The Jonathan Larson Project brings him back to life for ninety minutes and then sends us out into the East Village night feeling his loss all over again.

Most of what’s revealed lacks any real bite. O’Hara can be acidic; he’s not afraid to let characters get down and dirty. But while the couples here excoriate each other, they don’t go far enough, and the problems they’re hashing out don’t ignite. Only Tramell Tillman’s Logan, the lone Black man among his privileged white friends, has a grievance worth spending time on.

But oddly, the wattage of his wives dims the light on Armstrong himself. James Monroe Iglehart has delightful presence and nails Armstrong’s vocal quality, but he’s too often relegated to narrator, stepping out of the action to tell the audience how he felt, instead of showing us in the scene. Iglehart, Christina Sajous and Christopher Renshaw are all credited as directors of the project and, despite so many perspectives, the musical’s focus seems to be anywhere but on its central character.

The show boldly posits the notion that musical theatre can be impactful, without being didactic. Its points about sexuality and consent, shame and religion are all well made and crystal clear – yet Jacobs and Jackson never baldly declare them outright. It’s a tricky task – and they’ve nailed it.

That doesn’t make for a particularly dynamic play; aside from long conversations, nothing happens. McNeal doesn’t emerge at the end of the play having experienced a change for better or worse. None of the characters reach a new connection with him. It’s unresolved, empty and pointless – just an opportunity to see a movie star on stage.

Now, they’re playing on Broadway for the first time since its original production in an energetic, charming new staging from director Schele Williams. Cheers erupt. Charlie Smalls’ score is packed with infectious grooves and the cast delivers some fine singing. JaQuel Knight’s choreography physicalises the music and the show ascends when the full ensemble is in motion.

Post-War Horse, large-scale puppetry on Broadway is expected to wow. When the titular elephant makes her entrance at the end of the first act, she appears undersized, and there’s no life in her blank eyes. The circus and the theatre may have a lot in common, but there’s little of the thrill of either here.

With an imbalance between them, as well as between Ryan and Quincy Tyler Bernstine (excellent in a single scene as Donald’s mother), the production wobbles. The electric confrontation between Aloysius and Flynn is underpowered and prevents the play from reaching its climax. Ryan should be applauded for learning this titanic role and creating her portrayal in what limited time she had. But everything about the world of Ellis’ production is calibrated for a different performance.

That’s achievement enough, but Here Lies Love does more. Byrne and Slim (with additional music by Thomas Gandey and José Luis Pardo) use disco-pop to tell the fraught history of former Filipino First Lady Imelda Marcos from childhood to exile. The show relies more on the vibes of each song than expository dialogue and lyrics. Projected text identifies characters and events, distilling the rise and fall of the Marcos regime into bullet points that sometimes feel like skimming a Wikipedia article – but the score and performances expand on the general mood enough to flesh out the events.

Having turned his attention to film work for a while, it's a thrill to have a McDonagh play on stage. Hangmen is dark, well-plotted and often hilarious. It's a shame that two of the pieces aren't clicking together to deliver on its promise.