Laura Collins-Hughes — Theater Critic

Directed by Danny Sharron, “Hold Me in the Water” is as seamlessly, thoughtfully inclusive as “Dark Disabled Stories” was. At the top of the new show, after Haddad’s dramatic entrance on a lift through the stage floor, and his ebullient greeting — “Hello, darlings!” — Haddad gives visual descriptions of the set (by dots, the design collective) and himself (costumed by Beth Goldenberg). He notes the projected supertitles, the dimmed but not extinguished house lights, the audience’s freedom to pop in and out. (“I’m begging you,” he says, “if you need to go to the bathroom, go!”)

*CRITIC'S PICK* Still, Floyd Collins reaches the sublime, and that is a rare achievement in any work of art... One of the wonders of the show’s glorious-sounding new production... is how far from claustrophobic it feels... Jordan swiftly makes us want that for Floyd... Suddenly, powerfully, Floyd was all of us, waylaid mid-pursuit of happiness, uncertain how to proceed... Inside that tiny, frightening pocket of earth, Floyd needs an echo. To cry out and get only silence back: There would be heartbreak.

**CRITIC'S PICK** Glad tidings, then, from the holiday run of “Annie” at the Theater at Madison Square Garden, where Whoopi Goldberg is giving a rib-ticklingly funny, extremely smart performance as the tipsy, terrorizing Miss Hannigan, bane of all the orphans in her care. If Goldberg the TV talk-show presence has eclipsed in your mind Goldberg the savvy comic actor, her Miss Hannigan will jog your memory.

Henson, who was nominated for a Tony Award for his show-stealing turn as Damian in “Mean Girls,” makes Buddy utterly his own: sunny, darling, slightly unsettling. At the mention of tickle fights or snuggling, he emits a small noise that he doesn’t know is sexual, and moppets in the audience won’t either. That joke is aimed at the adults. It’s a tonic of a performance — the kind that makes you smile later, just thinking about it. The trouble is that Buddy is trapped inside “Elf the Musical,” a creaky adaptation whose two-and-a-half-hour length seems designed less to maximize audience enjoyment than to ensure there’s an intermission that people can spend buying merch.

Henson, who was nominated for a Tony Award for his show-stealing turn as Damian in “Mean Girls,” makes Buddy utterly his own: sunny, darling, slightly unsettling. At the mention of tickle fights or snuggling, he emits a small noise that he doesn’t know is sexual, and moppets in the audience won’t either. That joke is aimed at the adults. It’s a tonic of a performance — the kind that makes you smile later, just thinking about it. The trouble is that Buddy is trapped inside “Elf the Musical,” a creaky adaptation whose two-and-a-half-hour length seems designed less to maximize audience enjoyment than to ensure there’s an intermission that people can spend buying merch.

So an anodyne rom-com is for the most part what we get from this play, which opened on Wednesday night at the James Earl Jones Theater. Julianna Margulies stars as Delia, an anxious, bookish denizen of Greenwich Village, still grieving her husband’s death. Peter Gallagher plays the widowed Peter, the calm Californian psychoanalyst for whom Delia falls by email, so suddenly that it feels fated.

Disclaimer to rom-com haters: “Table 17” is not for you. It is, however, for a lot of us — fans of the genre and anyone to whom theater of late has felt more arduous than entertaining. This is a play that wants you to have an amusing, untaxing evening out, and everything about Zhailon Levingston’s alluringly designed production, with its top-notch cast of three, is calibrated in service of that aim.

Taking aim at more targets than it can accommodate, the play is scattershot but genuinely experimental and, as such, daring programming by Evan Cabnet, LCT3’s departing artistic director, who was recently named to the same role at Second Stage Theater.

An impressive rotation of actresses — Maslany, Dizzia, Deirdre O’Connell, Tavi Gevinson and Julia Chan — is slated to inhabit A during the run: a clever way of signaling universality while adding box-office cachet in these uncertain times for theater. (More on that below.) An equally strong lure is, frankly, the gossip factor: Ireland’s own experience of domestic violence a dozen years ago in her relationship with the actor Scott Shepherd, when they were appearing in a show with the venerable Wooster Group. What makes “Pre-Existing Condition” so powerful, though, has nothing to do with that. It is A’s Everywoman nature, combined with the vulnerable physicality that’s so evident in such an intimate space: her breath, her welling tears, the placating smile she puts on like a demure piece of armor when she runs the risk of upsetting a man.

The darker elements of “The Great Gatsby” prove more elusive, which blunts the impact overall. So does the show’s anodyne Broadway sound, which is poppy and pleasant without being memorable. It summons neither the Jazz Age, like the soundtrack to Jack Clayton’s 1974 movie adaptation did, nor a spirit of wild abandon, like the soundtrack to Baz Luhrmann’s 2013 take. The score to this “Great Gatsby” is missing a vital urgency.

The darker elements of “The Great Gatsby” prove more elusive, which blunts the impact overall. So does the show’s anodyne Broadway sound, which is poppy and pleasant without being memorable. It summons neither the Jazz Age, like the soundtrack to Jack Clayton’s 1974 movie adaptation did, nor a spirit of wild abandon, like the soundtrack to Baz Luhrmann’s 2013 take. The score to this “Great Gatsby” is missing a vital urgency.

As a news story evolving in real time, the scandal made for jaw-dropping reading. As a play, though, “Corruption” is uncompelling — counterintuitively so, given the inherent drama: the crimes, the coverup, the comeuppance (or not), the clashes of personality. Also the stakes, which include the well-being of a democracy in which one culture-shaping media magnate holds too much sway.

The show, an earlier version of which was presented online in 2021, is smartly structured and frequently fascinating, as in a scene between Othello — honorable, deep-voiced — and Iago, feigning guilelessness, whom Page gives a lighter tone. His Malvolio, more narcissist than villain, is comic, then moving; his Ariel, not villainous at all, is ethereal and excellent.

It would be easy to exploit Elmer’s story, to play it entirely for laughs. “Dead Outlaw” has lots of those, as well as a healthy sense of absurdity. But if it forgot Elmer’s humanity — and it never does — it would lose its soul.

Laura Collins-Hughes, The New York Times: I wonder what “Brooklyn Laundry” might have become if Shanley hadn’t staged it himself — if there had been a director to push him where text needs strengthening; to find a tone that breathes life into Fran’s one scene with Trish; to steer away from visual grimness in design rather than, with the exception of the restaurant scene, straight into it. That, however, is not on the menu.

All of that can leave a theatergoer in a state of wariness — which, it turns out, is a great way to watch this play: trusting nothing, unsure where reality lies, guard firmly raised against any kind of charm. Mind you, “Jonah” will charm you anyway, and make you laugh. So will Jonah, the adorable day student (or is he?) whom Ana, our teenage heroine, meets at her boarding school (or does she?). Who and what is illusory here?

What's astonishing about this show, though — aside from the central performances, which are superb, and Guettel’s anxious, spiky, sumptuous score, which grabs hold of us and doesn’t let go — is the way its devastating chic snuggles right up to catastrophic self-destruction.

Superficiality is a bane of this uncertain show, for which Creel wrote the book, lyrics and soft-pop music. Commissioned by the Met’s Live Arts Department, and performed at the museum in 2021, it has the dispiriting feel of an advertisement for the Met’s collections — and despite the dozens of artworks projected upstage, not a persuasive one. Try though Creel does to convince us that he eventually succumbed to the museum’s magic, little of “Walk on Through” seems heartfelt. A lot of it seems forced, as if he is trying to deliver what he thinks is expected in response to the art: profundity, epiphany.

Superficiality is a bane of this uncertain show, for which Creel wrote the book, lyrics and soft-pop music. Commissioned by the Met’s Live Arts Department, and performed at the museum in 2021, it has the dispiriting feel of an advertisement for the Met’s collections — and despite the dozens of artworks projected upstage, not a persuasive one. Try though Creel does to convince us that he eventually succumbed to the museum’s magic, little of “Walk on Through” seems heartfelt. A lot of it seems forced, as if he is trying to deliver what he thinks is expected in response to the art: profundity, epiphany.

I have no idea whether I caught the show on an off night, or if after merely a week of previews the production was still somewhat underbaked. But the inertness of Act I gave way to a high-energy Act II — rather denting the idea that one day in the nearly featureless void of Didi and Gogo’s existence is practically indistinguishable from another, but thank goodness anyway.

Share it she does, superbly, in “Melissa Etheridge: My Window,” which opened Thursday at Circle in the Square Theater, just one block east of where an earlier version of the show ran Off Broadway last fall. On Broadway, this rock concert spliced with memoir has gained a striking intimacy, as if Etheridge had shrunk an arena to fit in the palm of her hand.

Share it she does, superbly, in “Melissa Etheridge: My Window,” which opened Thursday at Circle in the Square Theater, just one block east of where an earlier version of the show ran Off Broadway last fall. On Broadway, this rock concert spliced with memoir has gained a striking intimacy, as if Etheridge had shrunk an arena to fit in the palm of her hand.

Sidney Brustein, whom she has placed at the center of this crowded tragicomedy, is not an interesting person. This is not Isaac’s fault, although he ignores Hansberry’s stipulation that Sidney “laughs at himself as much as the world.” Isaac’s performance is mostly unremarkable but fine, sparking fully to life only in Sidney’s scenes with Iris’s wealthy, conventional sister, Mavis — the best role in the show, and the best played, by a thoroughly captivating Miriam Silverman. (The play is a Tony nominee for best revival; Silverman is its only acting nominee.)

If “Summer, 1976” feels too comfortable to be fashionable, it’s sharply observant, too, and subtly, insistently feminist - more than the wisp of a two-hander that it might first appear to be. Auburn, who at 53 was about Holly and Gretchen’s age during the Bicentennial, has once again sown a script with riches for actors. Linney and Hecht mine them for all they’re worth.

If “Summer, 1976” feels too comfortable to be fashionable, it’s sharply observant, too, and subtly, insistently feminist - more than the wisp of a two-hander that it might first appear to be. Auburn, who at 53 was about Holly and Gretchen’s age during the Bicentennial, has once again sown a script with riches for actors. Linney and Hecht mine them for all they’re worth.