Matthew Wexler

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.

June Squibb and a superb company turn Marjorie Prime into an acting masterclass about mortality, memory, and why we love.

Still, Gotta Dance! lives up to its name, featuring a seven-piece band, live vocals, and an exacting attention to detail, thanks to stagers like Baayork Lee, Stephanie Pope, and Donna McKechnie, who are passing along the legacy to the next generation of dancers.

Some may find Two Strangers (Carry a Cake Across New York) a pleasant enough holiday confection, but as Robin says to Dougal to squelch his movie fantasy of NYC, “You know how much it costs to go for dinner in midtown Manhattan? To see a Broadway show? New York is just money, that’s all it is.” Consider, instead, seeking out one of the best cake slices in New York City and calling it a night.

Director Kenny Leon, who has recently had a string of Broadway hits, pulls out all the stops to keep this time-traveling misfire in the right galaxy. Even with brisk pacing and seamless scenic and projection design by Derek McLane, the play spins out of orbit, unable to connect its multiverse themes with the intimate relationship at its core.

Twenty years later, this charming Off-Broadway revival proves Spelling Bee‘s blend of silly wordplay and surprising heart remains unbeatable.

Pinkham, along with a deliciously dry performance by Sean Allan Krill as CIA agent Walter de Courcey, balances the above-the-title star power, including Aaron Tveit as clinically depressed and bipolar US chess champion Freddie Trumper, his coach/lover Florence Vassy (Lea Michele), and their Soviet opponent Anatoly Sergievsky (Nicholas Christopher). Christopher, joined by an electric Hannah Cruz as his estranged Russian wife Svetlana in Act II, leans into Michael Mayer’s direction with the highest stakes, navigating the political and personal with the kind of urgency that kept us glued to The Americans for six seasons.

For some, the historical details may be a bit dense to follow, despite Joseph’s succinct writing and Page’s clarion delivery. In contrast, Berne, Roulette, and Sanchez, as the three sickly recruits, never quite reach the stylistic ease of their more seasoned counterparts. 6

Even Kristin Chenoweth’s desperate charm can’t salvage this cringy musical about building America’s largest home—a Broadway construction site that never finds its foundation.

Knockout performances across the board get to the heart of Majok’s play with little pity but plenty of humor. If the moments of magical realness feel less than inspired on Marsha Ginsberg’s bifurcated set with billowing curtains to indicate the passage of time, this found sisterhood has plenty in its tank to fuel the evening. References to 9/11 and Trump’s first presidential term ocassionally feel forced, though the spiraling xenophobia creates a chilling backdrop for the women’s intersecting lives.