Matthew Wexler — Theater Critic

According to the script for ||: Girls :||: Chance :||: Music :||, 12 audience volunteers are to pick notes from a G-F# scale, which will then be used throughout the play in various improvised sections. If this happened at the performance I attended, I missed it completely. But even if I had chosen one of those notes myself, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Eisa Davis’s play about “coming of age under pressure” may leave much up to chance, but it lacks the payoff of untethered musical expression.

Which isn’t to say the performances aren’t captivating. But unlike Williams’ The Picture of Dorian Gray, in which Sarah Snook transformed into 26 characters before our eyes with the help of an onstage film crew, The Maids gets stuck in a self-referential cycle that acts more as commentary than captivating theater.

Still, Heated Rivalry is its own beast, bolstered by a familiar IP that will put butts (though not quite as muscular as Ilya’s) in seats. There’s no shortage of similar shows on Broadway right now, Titaníque and Schmigadoon! among them, at a higher price point. Cost aside, the musical delivers a delightful queer romp, perfect for Pride month or anyone craving a chicken smoothie. IYKYK. And if you don’t, you’ll still have a great time.

Unfortunately, fame is fleeting. Are Joe Namath and Neil Sedaka—successes, sure—really in today’s cultural zeitgeist? But with the right talent, it doesn’t really matter. Emmy winner Jeff Hiller took a bite out of Sandy: The Autobiography of a Star, about Annie’s four-legged bestie. Those who’ve already seen this season’s hit-or-miss Broadway pickings may find something fresh in Celebrity Autobiography. Or save your cash and enjoy a good book from your couch.

Jack Holden embodies every character in town in a magnetic performance that reminds us why we go to the theater in the first place. Co-written by Holden and Ed Stambollouian, KENREX also features a pulsating, Americana-infused score by John Patrick Elliott, performed live and in sync with Giles Thomas’s atmospheric sound effects. The result? An edge-of-your-seat journey into the depths of small-town America, a broken judicial system, and the vigilante residents determined to reclaim their power.

Varying degrees of stage experience among the cast give an adult-learner college production vibe as glaring as the neon green rope lights strung throughout the theater. Nostalgic, sure, but is this the caliber Broadway audiences expect to see? If only there were a post-show cast party at Denny’s.

Director Kenny Leon (This World of Tomorrow) keeps the stellar cast laser-focused as the banter unfolds—a herculean task in scenes with the entire cast onstage. Eventually, it becomes clear that nearly everyone will have their moment of racial reckoning, despite Penny’s reminder that “everyone in this room is a decent person.”

Byrne and O’Hara prove themselves brilliant physical comedians, whether sliding down stairs, falling over chairs, or guzzling champagne. When Mark Consuelos finally arrives as the highly anticipated French lover Maurice Duclos, the splash of celebrity feels wholly unnecessary (despite him living up to the women’s description: “Those eyes … those hands … and teeth … and legs!”)

Director David Cromer (Bug, Meet the Cartozians) navigates the play with his typical precision, and Brody carries much of the weight with charisma and charm. But when an exasperated Jacki asks Nick, years into his sentence, why he never told anyone what really happened, he says, “Now, even the truth sounds like a lie.” Such lines land, but the relationship doesn’t. Without it, The Fear of 13 feels as handcuffed as its hero.

Director Tye Blue mostly keeps the pace intact, and Mindelle is as witty as ever, improving her way through Jack (Constantine Rousouli) and Rose’s (Melissa Barerra) clandestine meeting with an off-the-rails recounting that changes for each performance. But those, like myself, who saw this little steamer-who-could Off-Broadway may wonder what it’s gained by its move uptown. Even Mindelle’s self-efacing kicker, “Thank you so much for coming to see Titanique! On the set…of The Voice,” nods to its slick new packaging. Design solutions rely on sequins and oversized props, with nearly everything bedazzled to suit a larger theatre. And after Titaníque’s award-winning West End run, this limited engagement may be a strategic opportunity to ramp up the show for a national tour. Which isn’t a bad thing, necessarily, though catching Deborah Cox as Molly Brown belting out “All By Myself” may be worth the Broadway ticket price alone.

In contrast, Metcalf’s Linda stretches beyond the role of capable homemaker. Her devout commitment to her unraveling husband, and to keeping the peace between Willy and their sons, Biff (Christopher Abbott) and Happy (Ben Ahlers), nearly reaches a tipping point. Mantello further amplifies the play’s flashback scenes by double-casting the boys as younger versions of themselves (Joaquin Consuelos and Jake Termine), warmly illuminated by Jack Knowles’ otherwise stark lighting design.

Does this Cats make more sense than the original? Mostly. Cat burglars Mungojerrie (Jonathan Burke) and Rumpleteazer (Dava Huesca) are now from Victoria Grove, New Jersey, and Skimbleshanks (a scene-stealing Emma Sofia) is now your bilingual MTA operator. But we can’t fully escape Eliot’s original London locale. Similarly, Moore’s Grizabella may resonate more with those who know the Ballroom hall of famer’s real-life story, despite scenic designer Rachel Hauck’s smartly conceived ascent to the Heaviside Layer. Still, this is a Cats worth clawing for tickets over, and proof positive that Broadway can still turn a lewk.

For all the effort, Clarke and Henley fail to sculpt a captivating story arc. Instead, we’re left with 70 minutes of ramblings—likely a reflection of the real-life artist’s struggles with mental illness and social disorders. Kelly appears swallowed by the enormity of it all, leaving us to wonder what Henry Darger’s life might have been had the world valued and nurtured rather than shunned him.

Despite its weighty subject matter, Radcliffe and the audience mesmerized by him remain buoyant, thanks to improvisation woven throughout. The unpredictability reminds us why we gather in theatres to begin with: a shared lived experience that will never be exactly the same.

For anyone who had to read Alas, Babylon in school or sit through ABC’s The Day After—both nightmare-inducing post-apocalyptic narratives—Cold War Choir Practice will strike a nerve. But it’s hardly a museum piece. As the U.S. throws itself into another nuclear tantrum under the guise of self-preservation, Meek’s obsession with building a fallout shelter is all too real.

Did I experience a vicarious endorphin rush after watching the cast collectively run over 17 miles? Not exactly. But it didn’t really matter. Their enthusiasm was irresistible. I declined to leap out of my seat at one of the many prompts, but I did email a photo I took mid-performance, per the admin treadmill’s request. He responded in real time, which admittedly felt special.

Night Side Songs, the new musical by sibling writer duo the Lazours, wears its heart on its sleeve. And nubby sweater. And hospital gown. But for all its earnestness and yearning for connectivity, this song cycle about life, illness (what Susan Sontag called “the night side of life”), and death flatlines.

While the score may not be particularly memorable, Schmoll’s orchestrations and arrangements maximize what’s there, further imbued with over-the-top zeal by the six-member cast. Tim Mackabee’s charming scenic design (Main Street USA gone awry) becomes their playground amid lighting-fast costume changes and plot twists.

But the “Republican” part of Chinese Republicans feels shoehorned into its structure, with references from Roosevelt to Reagan. And stylistically, when the action moves to a storage room to prep for a company-wide event, the slapstick physical comedy undermines the world that Lin has created. When Chinese Republicans trusts its characters, it’s electric. When it doesn’t, even the Louboutins can’t carry it.

At a brisk 75 minutes, Hayes remains captivating, even if Cale’s play meanders a bit in the brothers’ backstory, and plot points, such as a stolen set of apartment keys, feel lifted from an episode of Law & Order. But no matter. By the time the curtain closes, you won’t be sure who’s been writing the story all along. And that’s precisely the point.

Ulysses—on the page or stage—isn’t for the intellectually fatigued or those not well-caffeinated. Compacted into a brisk two hours and forty minutes, co-directors John Collins and Scott Shepherd and their creative team employ a bevy of props, projections, and screeching sound cues (courtesy of Ben Williams) to indicate the passage of time. Recurring themes ranging from anti-Semitism and nationalism to repressed sexuality appear throughout Joyce’s text. The seven-person ensemble undertakes dozens of roles, and while plenty of captivating moments surface, the whole fails to be greater than the sum of the parts.

Director Sarah Krankcom attempts to wrangle a more intimate, humanistic approach, with varying success. McKellen’s vast film experience pays off, as does Golda Rosheuvel’s (Bridgerton), both understanding that this is, essentially, film work. But as for being a piece of theater, An Ark is lost at sea.

Director David Cromer (Dead Outlaw, Meet the Cartozians) keeps the play’s focus tight and the performances brisk within the confines of scenic designer Takeshi Kata’s oppressive motel room-turned bunker. But it’s Coon and Smallwood’s performances that make us question how far we’ll go to not feel alone, regardless of the outcome.

Broderick, last seen on Broadway opposite his wife, Sarah Jessica Parker, in Plaza Suite, allows the madness to unfold around him gently. It’s a generous performance that speaks to Hnath’s take. “Cheaters are also easily cheated,” Elmire says as she prepares to trap the imposter, “because they assume they’re the only ones cheating.” We can only hope.

Williams hovers on the crest of these shifting social tides with nearly too much expertise, delivering a polish to Anna’s emotional navigation that outshines her father, who blames all of life’s woes on the sea, and a verbally stunted lover-to-be, who brands her a slut when learning of her past.