Martin Denton

The barrage of criticism heaped upon Spider-Man Turn Off the Dark certainly lowered my expectations, and I'm not absolutely sure I'd want to pay top ticket price unless I was certain I was in seats where I'd experience the full impact of the show's effects. But the bottom line is that I had a pretty good time at Spider-Man, and I think just about everyone else in the theatre did too. If you go, I am very sure you will have an experience—at least for those 15 minutes—unlike any you've had before.

Rajiv Joseph's Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo, which is having its New York premiere at the Richard Rodgers Theatre, is certainly the most distinguished work to arrive on Broadway this season. This is true because of the across-the-board excellence of the artists who have contributed to this production, from the playwright to the director (Moises Kaufman), from the top-notch team of designers to the brilliant ensemble of actors on stage. Here is a play that's been crafted to entertain, to engage, to challenge, and to jolt its audience—and that succeeds in all of these endeavors, shatteringly. Joseph makes us confront the world we've made for ourselves in the past decade. By turns darkly comic, grotesque, horrifying, absurd, and deeply disturbing, Bengal Tiger demands to be seen by people who care about humanity and art and their troubling devolutions in the 21st century.

Well, dear readers, I regret to say that I broke my rule and went to see the new Broadway production of The Merchant of Venice. Shakespeare's problematic play about a Jewish moneylender who asks for a pound of the borrower's flesh in the event of default on a debt of 3,000 ducats is, as you have by now realized, the third play on my 'thumbs-down' list; but the excited word-of-mouth among my critical peers (though not nytheatre.com's own David Gordon, whose assessment of the earlier incarnation of this production last summer is here), plus the chance to see a pair of actors I respect (Al Pacino and Lily Rabe) in classic roles they seemed suited for, made me decide to break my rule and give Merchant another chance. I left at intermission.

Jones gives a performance that I'd classify as one of the ten or so best I've ever seen in the theatre. Hoke is in his blood, it seems, and he reveals this man with respect and compassion and a deep understanding that helps us appreciate not just his place in the play but the place of men like Hoke in our country's history. His Hoke is certainly funny, wise, and canny; but he's so much more than that! Moments when Hoke feels Miss Daisy's thoughtless bigotry are galvanizing. Moments when he exposes himself, out from behind a pose of subservience that's second nature to him, are wrenching. He gets Hoke's dialect exactly right, to my ear, and also his posture and walk, which slows ever so gradually as time passes and Hoke becomes an octogenarian himself. It's a privilege to see this fine, fine actor at work.

Oskar Eustis, artistic director of The Public Theater, where this production originated, says in a program note that the show uses 'the immensely pleasurable tools of Populism to critique that most dangerous of American political phenomena.' I can see his point, I guess; but I can just as easily argue that BBAJ employs a key technique of the contemporary Radical Right—misrepresenting historical fact—to try to create some kind of cautionary tale about celebrity and apathy.

Neil Pepe's directorial concept is pretty grand, and he's gotten Santo Loquasto to provide more set changes and Laura Bauer more costume pieces that your average Metropolitan Opera production. This has the twin effects of slowing the show down constantly (so that a new thingamajig can be rolled onto the stage and Stewart and Knight can change into yet another witty set of outfits) and enlivening the proceedings enormously. Loquasto's reverse-perspective on-stage scenes, offering a view of the audience from the actor's point of view, are especially captivating.

This show annoyed me greatly—as I watched it and then, later, as I thought about what it signified. Because apart from being a prankish and gimmick-ridden stunt, I don't know what it's supposed to be about. It's not a sincere retelling of Coward's screenplay, or a deconstruction of it, or a parody of it. It wants to eat its cake and have it too by pretending to care about the romantic story at Brief Encounter's heart while simultaneously revealing it to be hollow and hackneyed. Why do artists fetishize cultural icons like this? And why does an organization like Roundabout Theatre Company want to use its (relatively) scarce resources to present work that's both derivative and devoid of any kind of substance when so many worthy American artists are making new work that's neither of those things?

The revue, conceived and directed by Sondheim's frequent collaborator James Lapine, feels haphazard and uneven. For every choice moment like the ones mentioned so far there are jarringly disappointing ones, notably Tom Wopat's attempts at 'Epiphany' from Sweeney Todd and 'Finishing the Hat' from Sunday in the Park with George, and Vanessa Williams's lackluster 'Ah, But Underneath' from Follies. The material is presented in no particular order, skipping around chronologically and thematically; some important themes of Sondheim's work are virtually unrepresented here, especially his wit. Where are the funny songs like 'Impossible' or 'Barcelona' or 'I Never Do Anything Twice'? The Sondheim shown here is resolutely serious and melancholy; the only real laugh in the show comes from a naughty anecdote about Ethel Merman.

Director Michael Mayer has dressed the story and score up with a relentless staging that owes its inspiration to many sources, from the musicals Jesus Christ Superstar, Hair, and Rent to Twyla Tharp's Movin' Out and Des McAnuff's Tommy. Steven Hoggett's choreography feels mostly indebted to Michael Jackson music videos, as indeed does the entire short-attention-span ambience of the entire piece. I was hoping to experience something new in this new-generation rock opera, but American Idiot is instead a long string of cliches. There's diverting stuff to watch, and the music is almost always pretty good, but it's ultimately derivative, boring theatre.

Unfortunately, almost the last thing that Million Dollar Quartet feels like is an impromptu jam session. What it is, instead, is a musical drama—albeit one lacking in suspense, since we know before it starts how it will come out—about Sam Phillips, presented here as the founding pioneer of rock & roll, and how the 'boys' whom he nurtured to fame one by one abandon him. Interspersed throughout this drama are the songs of the jam session, often played in snippets so that the story can play out literally between verses. (For example, 'Great Balls of Fire,' the climax of the session in this musical, is interrupted twice by Phillips's soliloquizing.) Because the narrative is constructed so snugly around and within the songs, and because the performances are glitzily polished (as one would indeed expect at a Broadway musical charging $125+ for tickets), spontaneity is pretty much vanquished from the proceedings. And of course spontaneity would seem to be the precise feeling that the creators of this show ought to be going for if they want to re-create the unplanned brilliance of that famous evening.

Brevity is not one of the qualities of the latest incarnation of The Addams Family. The first act of this new musical comedy is a pleasant, if often mindless and more often vulgar, diversion; certainly the spectacular set and special effects (notably a delightful Venus flytrap puppet) keep us engaged even when the comedy and songs sag. But Act Two proves to be one act too many; it felt as if the show's creators had tired of playing with their toys, and instead left them to flounder on their own within a bottomless pool of cliches drawn from second-rate kids' films, sitcoms, and hackneyed musicals. Nothing interesting or witty happens during this last hour, which is surprising in that it includes three songs that are clearly intended by the producers to be show-stoppers. I was bored and disappointed and left The Addams Family, which I sincerely tried to enjoy, feeling saddened by the squandering of resources that it represents.

Red, the new play by John Logan at Broadway's John Golden Theatre, is a stimulating, thought-provoking exploration of art. It asks what art is for, and it plumbs deeply into the process of its creation: a director friend of mine remarked that she felt Red looked more nakedly and truthfully at the pain that goes into the making of art than anything she'd ever seen. I think that people who care about art, in any manifestation, and certainly people who make it, will find much resonance in this fine drama.

Fly me to the moon Let me play among the stars Let me see what spring is like On Jupiter and Mars Bart Howard's words are as good as any to conjure the euphoric, elating spirit of Twyla Tharp's newest contribution to Broadway. Come Fly Away invites its audience to do just that, and then delivers: it's a joyous, beauteous, magic-carpet ride of a musical, celebrating the rhythms of love and the human body. If spring on Jupiter is anything like this, I want to go there for my next vacation.

If only the play felt more consequential! I really don't have a clear handle on what A Behanding in Spokane is supposed to be about, beyond painting portraits of a couple of grotesquely obsessed losers. The play, just 90 minutes long, still overstays its welcome, and in at least one area—its politically incorrect depiction of Carmichael as an unredeemed racist—it doesn't so much push buttons as simply annoy. McDonagh seems less comfortable with American archetypes and dialect than with those of his native Ireland; the decision to set the play in America seems designed mostly to accommodate his American cast (and Walken uses a weird accent that sometimes sounds likes New Orleans and other times sounds like his trademark Hollywood drawl, so the specific locale is beside the point).

So, it is richly rewarding to at last get to see this lovely, intelligent show unfold before my eyes on a Broadway stage. Now if only the parts were worthy of this remarkable whole! Unfortunately, this production, directed by Trevor Nunn and based on one he did at the intimate Menier Chocolate Factory in London a year ago, fails to deliver on most fronts. The main failing here is the presentation of the music. Music director Tom Murray leads a tiny band of eight musicians, and they never provide the lush sound that this show needs and deserves. (Check out Lincoln Center's South Pacific if you're not sure what I'm talking about.) Most of the cast sings—well, not poorly, but oddly: words are pronounced strangely and phrased weirdly, and some of the songs are more spoken than sung. And the tempo is disturbingly sluggish.

David Mamet's new play, Race, is the most interesting new work of his to reach the New York stage in quite some time. It's provocative and savvily written, though it feels in the final analysis more like something designed to push emotional buttons rather than stimulate reasoned thought about the topic that gives it its title. It has been given an expert Broadway production, and features a top-notch cast that boasts two of the most impressive performances currently on view here in town.

Memphis wants to be a happy musical. That's what my companion said as we were heading home from the theatre, and she is entirely correct. This new show by Joe DiPietro (book and lyrics) and David Bryan (music and lyrics; he's from the band Bon Jovi) reminded me more than anything else of one of those dopey MGM musicals from the '30s and '40s—the kind where Mickey Rooney would bound into some producer's officer, insert himself at the piano before anyone can throw him out, and start plunking out a catchy tune which, miraculously, would suddenly be played by an unseen orchestra while Mickey sang the lyric. And then Judy Garland, as the producer's secretary or something, would wander in and even more miraculously start to sing the second verse. This sort of thing happens throughout Memphis. Honest.

The show flies by and it's without a doubt a crowd-pleaser. But what, I asked myself, is finally the point of this production of Hair? People younger than me even by a few years never knew a military draft in this country; there's nothing remotely shocking or surprising about the sex, drugs, rock & roll, bad language, nudity, or funky hairdos and far-out costumes. I found this great quote in Wikipedia from La MaMa founder Ellen Stewart: 'Hair came with blue jeans, comfortable clothing, colors, beautiful colors, sounds, movement.... And you can go to AT&T and see a secretary today, and she's got on blue jeans....' I think that completely sums up how much the world has changed since Hair burst unto the cultural scene in 1967. It really was revolutionary then. I'd sure love to see something really revolutionary on Broadway now.

Librettist Arthur Laurents has decided to take on the project nonetheless, directing the play himself and abetted by Joey McKneely (reproducing Robbins's original choreography), music director Patrick Vaccariello, and more than a dozen above-the-title producers. They've filled the stage with a big cast and seem to have consciously made the show look and feel as different from the original as they dare. The score is intact, and generally sounds marvelous—far and away, the best element of this production is the big Broadway orchestra playing this music for us. The dancing is intact too, as Robbins ordained, but it is utterly devoid of life or energy, sitting uneasily on performers for whom it was not created.

There is much that's resonant to take away from God of Carnage: not only its honest view of the worst inside all of us, but its more focused jabs at cell phone culture, pharmaceutical companies' dishonesty, and inappropriate parenting techniques of various descriptions. But when I left the theatre, I felt that I hadn't seen the play's true potential realized.

What works in this show, though, is the ballet. The sequences set in Mrs. Wilkinson's studio are delightful (they feature a corps of little girls who are deliberately dancing poorly, and they're charming). The sequences where Billy learns to dance under the tutelage of Mrs. Wilkinson and her accompanist Mr. Braithwaite are gorgeous. And the sequence where Billy imagines himself a grown-up ballet dancer (Older Billy is performed by New York City Ballet principal dancer Stephen Hanna) is the highlight, despite the fact that unnecessary stage fog obscures some of it, and despite the fact that it doesn't actually make much sense for a boy to dream of being partnered by his older self. The contemporary choreography—all of the dances are by Peter Darling—is more scattershot; Darling doesn't seem to have a handle on how to match movements to Billy's body or to his personality. The score, by Elton John with lyrics by bookwriter/original screenwriter Lee Hall, is nondescript in the book songs (which are actually relatively few in number; this is a book-heavy musical with lots of dancing but not much singing). Steven Daldry's direction gets the job done efficiently.

Lincoln Center Theater's revival of South Pacific is the high point of the spring season—exactly the passionate and bittersweet musical romance that I hoped it would be. Its story of American nurses, marines, and seabees becoming irrevocably changed by their time on an island in the South Pacific during World War II is deeply involving; the people we meet on this island—creations of James Michener by way of librettists Joshua Logan and Oscar Hammerstein II—are intensely human and we come to care about them very much. The craft of its story-telling—Logan and Hammerstein's book, Hammerstein's lyrics, and Richard Rodgers's score—is extraordinary. With director Bartlett Sher at the helm, South Pacific has been lovingly and beautifully realized on the stage of the Vivian Beaumont Theatre, with Ted Sperling's 30-piece orchestra invaluably performing Robert Russell Bennett's original lush orchestrations.

I love the idea of In the Heights, and I think Miranda's voice as performer and writer needs to be heard on the NYC stage. But this show is a jumble of ideas, some of them interesting, many others quite mundane or cliched. In the Heights has got a beat; it's got energy. But it's finally so much less than it ought to have been!