Marilyn Stasio

Like some forgotten treasure found in the attic, the Old Vic's radiant revival of 'The Winslow Boy' - now presented on Broadway by the Roundabout Theater - practically glows in the dark. Terence Rattigan based his 1946 drama on the actual experience of an upper-middle-class family whose legal defense of a son's honor became a cause celebre when its brief against the English political establishment was debated in London's High Court. A top-drawer ensemble masterfully helmed by Lindsay Posner and headed by Roger Rees do the honors in this tense legal drama, which Rattigan has shrewdly taken out of the courtroom and into the drawing room.

As a musical biography, 'A Night With Janis Joplin' is pretty much a bust. The book by Randy Johnson, who also helmed, skims lightly over the singer's Texas childhood and her tenure with Big Brother and the Holding Company, with nary a word about her personal life or the booze and drugs that cut it short. But as a concert in which those great ladies of song who were Joplin's musical inspiration join her on stage, the show is something else - a celebration of the blues and those beautiful bruises they leave on the singer's soul.

Resisting the usual Broadway tendency toward over-production, this show is perfectly scaled to the modest level of Edward's boyish daydreams. Invention, not excess, seems to be the dominant house rule, from the tight choreography, which is quick and clever and never over the top, to the primary-color projections by Benjamin Pearcy that make a comic-book universe of Julian Crouch's sets. William Ivey Long captures the playful vibe with ingenious costumes that move in unexpected ways (like the fishtail of a mermaid's silvery costume) and contribute their own magic to the storytelling (like the witches that materialize from the trees in a forest). The main thing missing from this show - and might have taken the edge off its unlikable hero and unpalatable message - is the mystical sensibility that flavors Southern storytelling. Although supposedly set in Alabama, there's not a hint here, musical or otherwise, of the traditional magic found in regional folktales. The kind of magic that might transform a selfish character like Edward Bloom into the hero of his own dreams.

The kids are all right. That's the takeaway from 'Romeo and Juliet,' with movie heartthrob Orlando Bloom and ingenue stunner Condola Rashad as Shakespeare's star-cross'd lovers. The interracial casting of the feuding Montague and Capulet clans sounds bold, but has surprisingly little dramatic impact. The tragedy also survives its gimmicky update to modern-ish times. Bottom line: This enduring love story stands or falls on the appeal of its lovers, and the young stars bring a sweet passion - if no ear whatsoever for romantic poetry - to their immortal roles.

Lots of luck marketing 'Soul Doctor' to a general audience. This worshipful musical biography of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, the so-called 'Rock Star Rabbi' credited with infusing Jewish music with the musical idioms of 1960s pop culture, has obvious appeal for its core audience of fans. But there's nothing transcendent about Daniel S. Wise's plodding book or Rabbi Carlebach's 'soulful' but dated music to lift the show out of its narrow niche and give it the universal appeal of a latter-day 'Fiddler on the Roof.'

'First Date,' a romantic musical comedy about the horrors, humiliations and occasional happy surprises of blind dates, is cute (but not too cute) and sweet (but not too sweet). So, indications are that this appealing show will do well (but not too well) on Gotham's Main Stem, despite having come out of nowhere and been assembled by no one you've heard of. Creative team of Austin Winsberg (book) and collaborators Alan Zachary and Michael Weiner (music and lyrics) should thank their lucky stars for Krysta Rodriguez and Zachary Levi, who are seriously charming as mismatched blind daters destined to become lovers.

The matchless Fiona Shaw commands the stage in this solo piece adapted by Irish scribe Colm Toibin...It's safe to say you've never seen anything like it. Helmer Deborah Warner, a first-hand creative collaborator on this hugely imaginative work, succinctly conveys the point of it in a single powerful image...Warner honors the scribe's intention with what appears to be her single piece of direction: play it human. That's exactly what Shaw's soul-baring perf delivers - a mother whose grief at the loss of her child is singularly human, but also so timeless and universal, it seems to contain the rage, the fury and the suffering of every mother who ever lost a child.

Whatever headaches Richard Greenberg might be having, what with this month's closing of 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' on Broadway and next month's opening of 'Far from Heaven' at Playwrights Horizons, he can relax about 'The Assembled Parties.' The Manhattan Theater Club, with a.d. Lynne Meadow at the helm, has done a sweet job on his messy but moving domestic comi-dram about a Jewish family living - and eating and arguing - over two decades in a 14-room rent-stabilized apartment on Manhattan's Upper West Side.

If great looks were all it took to be a success, then helmer Doug Hughes' production would rack up major points...Cannavale not only carries off the studly movie star persona, he's not unmanned by Charlie's displays of emotion to his wife, Marion (Marin Ireland), who shows similar strength of character and also looks great in white. (Costumer Catherine Zuber did some terrific job on this show.) But neither of these fine thesps seems willing or able to attack the deeper flaws of their difficult characters...there's the nagging thought that, in a less glittery and more searching production, there might be something more to be found in a character whose creation was such a source of pain for his creator.

The Broadway faithful (at least, the part that covers the Baby Boomer demographic ranging from 'mature' to 'doddering') will have its mantra ready when cooler heads point out that 'Motown: the Musical' is a hot mess. Should anyone note that Berry Gordy's kissy-face tribute to himself has no shape, depth, thematic point or dramatic continuity, the proper aud response should be: 'We don't care!' And why should any nostalgic music-hound care, when this jubilant jukebox musical comes loaded with great singers, tons of energy, and dozens of classic Motown roof-raisers?

Tom Hanks is a natural. Although he hasn't trod the boards in years, the affable movie star takes to the stage like a fish to water in 'Lucky Guy'...As an actor whose niceness is the key component of his DNA, Hanks can play selfish, arrogant, cunning, and calculating without losing his sources or alienating his enemies. The inherent decency he projects redeems this prickly character from his less than princely behavior toward friend, foe, and long-suffering family.

Well, Broadway finally got itself an all-American musical in 'Hands on a Hardbody.' The question is, will an all-American audience go for it? It's hard to picture hotel concierges, travel agents and group sales ladies pitching tourists a show about some working-class stiffs from East Texas clinging desperately to a cherry-red pickup truck in a marathon competition to win it...Still, no matter how this dark tuner fares under Gotham's cold glare, regional bookers should be lining up six deep...If the show has a weakness, it's that the music is so consistently all-of-a-piece that some of the songs tend to melt into one another. But in a character-rich show like this, one of them is sure to stand up and make a musical statement that gets you between the eyes.

It's like trying to ignore the elephant in the room, watching Richard Greenberg's stage adaptation of Truman Capote's 1958 novella 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' and trying not to think about Audrey Hepburn's matchless performance in the 1961 Blake Edwards movie. The scribe and helmer Sean Mathias have walked the story back to its original World War II time frame, restored the pitiless ending and the sexuality of the gay narrator, and made Holly's source of income less ambiguous. Good for them. But having restored Holly's world, the creatives have neglected to put Holly in it.

Helmer Mark Brokaw...has cast this show shrewdly, with actors who can sing, get their laughs, and in one crucial case especially, even dance. That triple threat is Osnes...While her light soprano gives sweet voice to Ella, Osnes' acting chops and dancing skills make her as lovely to watch as she is to listen to...The cheeky humor of Beane's book comes from imposing modern sensibilities (and contemporary lingo) on timeless storybook figures....But all these clever alterations radically change the story we all grew with, the tale about how true love rescues a callously mistreated girl from persecution. Because the evil stepmother and stepsisters are no longer cruel or threatening, our fairytale Cinderella is no longer a despised outcast, the unhappy victim of her sad circumstances. For that matter, Ella is no longer even the hero of her own fairytale.

Al Pacino may be pulling them in for David Mamet's 1984 Pulitzer Prize-winning ode to American con artistry, 'Glengarry Glen Ross,' but the guy who's blowing them away is Bobby Cannavale, a live wire in the role played by Pacino in the 1992 film version. Show's hefty $377 tab for prime ducats and the long-delayed opening provided much grist for the gossip mill. But despite production flaws, in this post-Recession era of mortgage foreclosures and crooked real estate deals, it's a treat to revisit the best American play ever written about merciless men and their predatory business practices.

What are the odds of a commercial producer being able to finance the revival of a three-act straight play calling for some 20 thesps decked out in pricey period costumes and performing on a multi-unit set? That sort of reclamation work is generally left to nonprofit theaters, which operate with publicly assisted funding. A half-dozen years after honoring that mandate with his muscular Lincoln Center revival of Clifford Odets' 'Awake and Sing,' Bartlett Sher returns to the helm with a dynamite version of 'Golden Boy.' It's no act of charity, either, because the show is killer good.

David Mamet being David Mamet, he can write plays about whatever he damn well pleases. But he can't seriously expect Broadway auds to share his fascination with the 1960s radical politics of the Weathermen, which he explores ad nauseam in 'The Anarchist.' David Mamet being David Mamet, he can also direct his own play however he damn well pleases. But he does no favors for the thesps in this two-hander by enabling Debra Winger to drone on and on and Patti LuPone to swallow half her lines. Better ship this one off to the college circuit tout suite.

Katie Holmes is ideally cast in 'Dead Accounts.' Not because she's that Katie Holmes, but because the fresh-faced star effortlessly projects the Midwestern virtues of honesty and moral integrity that scribe Theresa Rebeck celebrates. These values are kicked around in an amusing if aimless way in this comedy about a rogue hero (the perfect role for Norbert Leo Butz) who throws himself on the family bosom after behaving badly in New York. Rebeck opens up some smart arguments about old-time values in a modern world, but these circular conversations are too shallow to rock the boat.

'The Performers,' David West Read's romantic comedy about a lovers' showdown at an Adult Film Awards ceremony in Las Vegas, is dopey fun. That's not because the sensibility is raunchy, but because the sentiments are so corny. There's not much to cheer in the thin plot about married porn stars who teach a prudish couple a thing or two about true love and great sex; the big pleasure comes from watching true comic artists spin this trite material into gold.

If you can overlook the absurdity of casting the ravishing Jessica Chastain as the plain and clumsy heroine of 'The Heiress,' Ruth and Augustus Goetz's 1947 stage adaptation of 'Washington Square,' then Moises Kaufman's masterfully helmed production is everything you want from a Class A revival. As is proper for a costume drama, the costumes are mouthwatering. The set is just as scrumptious, and the cast seems entirely comfortable speaking the language and thinking the thoughts of people from a bygone era -- David Strathairn so much so, you'd swear he goes up the staircase to bed each night after the show.

Credit helmer Jamie Lloyd with an original concept for staging Rostand's 19th-century romantic drama. Ditching the affected manners, elaborate court dress, and elegant verse readings associated with classic presentations of this French masterpiece, the Brit director portrays Cyrano as a swashbuckling military leader with the same lusty appetites as his soldiers -- who happen to enjoy a good poetry contest as much as a tavern brawl. But a lack of restraint spoils the fun, making it all seem too big (Cyrano's honker), too much (stomping on tables), and over the top (Douglas Hodge's star turn).

The problem with the play is that there's no seismic shift when tables are turned, and the believers become doubters and the doubters find faith. In fact, both believers and doubters sort of slide over to the other side. If faith is as fundamental as Wright tells us it is, you'd think he'd have made his characters fight for it.

Comedy can be deadly. Just a few directorial misjudgments and uh-oh, sudden death: forced laughs, desperate thesps, and an aud growing surlier by the minute. Something like that has befallen the Roundabout's revival of 'Harvey,' Mary Chase's 1944 Pulitzer Prize-winning play…Jim Parsons aims to charm the pants off us by giving Elwood P. Dowd an air of sweet serenity. But the vacancy behind his bland facial expressions has a chilling effect.

'Don't Dress for Dinner,' the little bon bon that French playwright Marc Camoletti dashed off after 'Boeing-Boeing,' ran for seven years in Blighty, where auds dearly love a naughty French sex farce featuring philandering husbands, saucy mistresses and lots of well-oiled doors. After working up this high-gloss version of Robin Hawdon's crafty adaptation at Chicago's Royal George Theater a few years ago, veteran helmer John Tillinger brings it in with an A-list design team and a cast that knows how to negotiate the sublimely silly conventions of classic farce.

John Lithgow is a chameleon who can play anything from a TV serial killer ('Dexter') to a charming con in a Broadway musical ('Dirty Rotten Scoundrels'). In 'The Columnist,' the new bio-drama by David Auburn ('Proof'), he does a brilliant job with Joseph Alsop, the Washington political pundit who wielded immense power through his syndicated newspaper column. Supported by a solid cast, Lithgow finds the humanity in this irascible, obsessive and quite unlikable demigod. But neither he nor helmer Daniel Sullivan can do the impossible: manufacture a play out of the scattered events of Auburn's well-articulated but loosely structured scenes.