Matthew Wexler — Theater Critic

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.

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.

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.

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.

Smash lives up to its name with an over-the-top theatricality and cheekiness that pulls back the curtain on the business of Broadway with a wink and a nod.

Does McDonald’s mezzo-soprano mimic her predecessors? No. Do we want that piercing belt to pummel to the rear balcony in “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” and “Rose’s Turn”? Yes. But that’s not what she delivers; frankly, it doesn’t matter. The reach and yearning to cut through the noise, while powerful but not necessarily cutting, makes her Rose that much more vulnerable despite actions that some might consider monstrous.

Unfortunately, ambition exceeds form despite a starry cast that leans into familiar tropes, including Neil Patrick Harris, Jane Krakowski, Constance Wu, and Debra Messing. Three couples, a friend who arrives dateless (Tramell Tillman), and a whiny teenage daughter (Genevieve Hannelius) who bookends the piece, make for a lot of interwoven narratives in addition to those unseen characters who DM into the action.

Unfortunately, ambition exceeds form despite a starry cast that leans into familiar tropes, including Neil Patrick Harris, Jane Krakowski, Constance Wu, and Debra Messing. Three couples, a friend who arrives dateless (Tramell Tillman), and a whiny teenage daughter (Genevieve Hannelius) who bookends the piece, make for a lot of interwoven narratives in addition to those unseen characters who DM into the action.

We don’t have to look too far to see how quickly democracy can collapse. A presidential candidate facing 91 felony charges, “Don’t Say Gay” laws, and the proliferation of drag bans could push any of us to unleash our inner Sally Bowles. Redmayne, Rankin, and a smartly conceived Cabaret reboot shoot warning flares high into the sky. We only need to wander into the Kit Kat Club to discover a world mirroring our own.

Dorothy’s back on Broadway in a reimagined revival of The Wiz. Does the fresh take with new material by Amber Ruffin and movement by Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” choreographer JaQuel Knight ease on down the road? For the most part, with a few stumbles along the way.

“Why were they voguing?” my companion asks at intermission, referring to a dance sequence early in the show. “Ah, that makes sense,” she responds with a slightly perplexed look after I explain the Madonna connection. Herein lies Lempicka’s challenge: the musical wants to capitalize on Madonna and other pop stars’ notoriety along with sense of agency uncommon to female artists of the era, but its creators have stretched the canvas so thin that the brush strokes crack.

The Shark is Broken’s scenic design is packed with memorabilia from the original film, including a floatation barrel used to track the fictional predator, but the real memories pay homage to Robert Shaw’s complicated life as an artist struggling with addiction. In preparation for the role, son Ian reviewed a drinking diary the actor logged during the 1970s. “It gave me a baseline about how he felt about his alcoholism,” Shaw told the New York Times. “He had tried to quit and couldn’t do it. He wanted to concentrate on his writing and it was interfering with that.” Those glimpses are more harrowing than any fake shark could muster.

Much like Rocky, its 2014 predecessor at the Winter Garden Theatre, Back to the Future gambles on name recognition and nostalgia but forgoes the basic mechanics of a successful musical: a coherent book and catchy score.