Matthew Wexler — Theater Critic

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.

Scenic designer David Korins (Ragtime) amps up the production value, and a rousing supporting cast, including Andrew Durrand (Dead Outlaw) and Alex Newell as The God Pan, helps Bat Boy take flight, even when its wacky plot threatens to strand you in a dark cave without a flashlight.

Little Bear Ridge Road’s melancholy softens with the introduction of graduate student James (John Drea), a potential hookup that evolves into dating despite Ethan’s curmudgeonly exterior. The unlikely threesome overlaps like a Venn diagram, its central point illuminated in the awkward, everyday language of people just trying to survive and communicate the best way they know how..

Ragtime, one of the great musical theater scores of the late 20th century, steps up to bat on Broadway in its third major production. And if some of its design elements feel sparse in Lincoln Center Theater’s 1,050-seat Vivian Beaumont, its glorious cast of 34 and “the music of something beginning” land with a visceral impact that marks a uniquely American art form.

Director David Cromer (Good Night, and Good Luck; Prayer for the French Republic) has a knack for extracting a kind of distilled specificity from his actors, and this trifecta rises to the occasion. Though a bit slowly paced in a preview performance I attended, the production has already been extended twice, perhaps driven by Moretz’s 23.8 million Instagram followers.

A triumphant gender-defying curtain call, costumed in glorious technicolor by Oana Botez, further challenges the recent assault on creative expression and the arts, demonstrating that joy is an act of resistance. And there’s nothing more joyful than the return of Shakespeare in the Park.

The show’s title pays tribute to Ross’s late grandfather, Pop Jack, who said, “You never know what’s going to happen…” An apt saying, which comes to fruition when Ross works the audience during the evening’s final moments. But this banana is more of a snack than a feast, leaving audiences hungry for the full-course roasting they likely came for.

McGovern acutely embodies Gardner’s magnetism and toxicity. Foul-mouthed and flirty in her youth, frail and ferocious in later years, the Oscar-nominated actress (both subject and star) is a force to be reckoned with.

Heathers 2.0 isn’t so much a reimagining as a high-polish paint job. But this is no “Greased Lightning.” While Grease depicted late-50s nostalgia and the kind of gang warfare that didn’t escalate much beyond chewing gum on the underside of a desk, Heathers‘ Gen X timestamp goes for the jugular, with a triple homicide, fat jokes, fag jokes, a potential date rape and an attempted suicide. Meanwhile, an audience dotted with Gen Zers dressed like the three popular Heathers (a powerhouse trifecta of McKenzie Kurtz, Olivia Hardy, and Elizabeth Teeter), squealed at decibel-shattering levels, equally mesmerized by Lorna Courtney (& Juliet) as Veronica and Casey Likes (Back to the Future) as J.D.

Smart’s performance lives up to her name: measured and nuanced, both vulnerable and full of rage, depending on which of the handful of characters she’s inhabiting. Her adjustments, under the direction of Sarna Lapine, shift seamlessly from one to the next. Perhaps it’s the clipped cadence of friend Rosalie, or a broadening of the shoulders as she embodies Izzy’s menacing husband. Smart pulls us into the conversation—not an easy task in a 1,000-seat theatre.

The Imaginary Invalid, much like Molière’s other works, explores social structures and infidelity through satire and exaggerated physicality (there’s lots of enema jokes and butt massages). While there are plenty of laugh-out-loud moments, as a whole, the company doesn’t necessarily deliver a remedy for the dark times we’re living in, but it’s a pleasant enough painkiller. And at 85 minutes, there’s no fear of suffering from Argan’s diagnosis of glutial amnesia (aka dead butt).

Shapiro can’t quite carry the emotional weight of the musical’s central character, but she’s got plenty of support from scene-chewing Keri Reneé Fuller as Coco, Broadway vet Sarah Gettelfinger as MOTHER!, Natalie Walker as Kiki, and her wormy cohorts. Wrapped in a fake couture fur of Y2K nostalgia, The Last Bimbo of the Apocalypse transforms yesterday’s tabloid into an excavation of celebrity obsession and Gen Z social media-fueled social anxiety.

Despite their earnestness, Floyd Collins leaves us nobody to root for... For all their expertise and Jeremy Jordan’s moving performance, the sum of the whole can’t capture the palpable fear of a man facing his mortality and those he is destined to leave behind... I can’t imagine a more committed effort to make sense of Guettel’s far-reaching score, which shines a headlamp on Jordan’s exquisite voice... But Collins gets stuck. And so does the audience.