Melissa Rose Bernardo — Theater Critic

The heart, soul, and irrepressible spirit of Bob Fosse’s Dancin’, which just opened in a burst of sparkle and joy at Broadway’s Music Box Theatre, is best embodied in the curtain call. One by one, each dancer glides out from the wings and to the front of the stage performing a different combo—wearing the costume from their biggest moment in the show, adding a few steps, spins, or flourishes from said moment. All the while, the dancer’s name appears in blazing blue neon letters on the back wall of the stage. Every one of them is given star billing, and it would be unfair not to name the full company here: Ioana Alfonso, Yeman Brown, Peter John Chursin, Dylis Croman, Tony d’Alelio, Jōvan Dansberry, Karli Dinardo, Aydin Eyikan, Pedro Garza, Jacob Guzman, Manuel Herrera, Afra Hines, Gabriel Hyman, Kolton Krouse, Mattie Love, Krystal Mackie, Yani Marin, Nando Morland, Khori Michelle Petinaud, Ida Saki, Ron Todorowski, and Neka Zang.

Apropos a subversive piece of performance art, the design for Misty is top-tier, particularly Daniel Denton’s video design, which transforms the back walls into arresting color-drenched canvases. And as far as what we think of his show-if we don’t like it, Kene has something to say about that. No spoilers, though. The freestyle is too good to ruin.

With each successive scene, Guirgis peels away layers, and we learn more about Walter: He basically drinks from morning to night. There’s more to his shooting story than we thought. And he has a real mean streak toward the end—truly avaricious and petty. Yet we’re rooting for him despite each disturbing discovery. Henderson, an exceptional stage actor who’s perhaps best known for his roles in August Wilson plays, gives a bravura performance—all the more impressive considering he’s seated for most of his scenes. In his dalliance with the Church Lady (Liza Colón-Zayas, another Guirgis vet)—which features the wildest passing of the Communion wafer you’ll ever see—he’s confined to a wheelchair; and he’s hooked up to an IV and bedridden for an uncharacteristically restrained confessional with Junior. Judging by the entrance applause, Common is this production’s biggest draw, and the neophyte stage actor seems to still be finding his footing. But he’s sweet and subtly charming in a rooftop scene with Colón, and powerful in the aforementioned muted emotional exchange with Henderson. Guirgis gives his characters plenty of R-rated barbs and razor-sharp banter, but those smaller, low-key moments reveal Riverside’s bruised, battered heart.

Maria Friedman, who directed the revival currently at New York Theatre Workshop, simply seems to accept Merrily just the way it is. No messing about. And that’s why it works so beautifully.

In his 2018 play The Chinese Lady, Lloyd Suh introduced us to Afong Moy, reportedly the first Chinese woman to set foot in the U.S., who was displayed like a curio for paying audiences. In The Far Country, whose premiere at the Atlantic is directed by Eric Ting, he digs into a later period of Asian-American history: the aftermath of 1882’s Chinese Exclusion Act. But this is no staid history class. In just over two hours, Suh succinctly and humorously covers 21 years, two continents, two interrogations and two obscenely expensive trans-Pacific crossings from Taishan to San Francisco.

“Sweet Caroline” lands right before intermission, and the whole scene is so good (So good! So good! So good!) that this New Yorker almost forgot the song is the anthem for the Boston Red Sox. Book writer and biopic veteran Anthony McCarten (The Theory of Everything, Darkest Hour, Bohemian Rhapsody), also represented on Broadway this season by the Warhol-Basquiat play The Collaboration, places the songs thoughtfully, and for maximum emotional effect: Diamond’s first live performance is acoustic, the melancholy slow burn “Solitary Man.” As his confidence grows onstage, his numbers get bigger and glitzier. Act 2 opens with the wild, soulful “Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show,” featuring the singer in full razzle-dazzle, sequin-and-tassel mode and the chorus shimmying for dear life. Combining “Brooklyn Roads” with “America” is a stroke of genius (though bringing in Neil’s bickering parents between verses dampens the mood). And the existential power ballad “I Am…I Said” gets the spot it deserves, as the 11 o’clock number, where it’s sung by Mark Jacoby as present-day Neil, with Swenson joining in at the end.

Mix the single-artist salute Mamma Mia! with the contempo-pop stylings of Moulin Rouge!; add a healthy dose of the Shakespeare-themed Something Rotten, and a sprinkle of the Renaissance-grrl-powered Six... and you've got some idea of what's in store for you at & Juliet, the candy-colored glitter bomb of a show that just opened at the Stephen Sondheim Theatre. But & Juliet-a jukebox musical built around 30 megahits/earworms from Swedish songwriter and super-producer Max Martin (he's masterminded songs made famous by the Backstreet Boys, 'N Sync, Katy Perry, Britney Spears, Kelly Clarkson, Pink, Jessie J, Demi Lovato, and more)-is very much its own thing in so many wild and wonderful ways.

If you've never seen Birbiglia, you'll quickly realize that his comedy is pointed but never cruel; though he mentions his wife, Jenny, and daughter, Oona, frequently, his prime target is himself; his pacing is near-perfect (only one bit, right at the end, runs out of steam); and a left-hook packed with emotion and sincerity often comes when you least expect it. 'I feel like we don't choose what we remember about our own lives,' he says about seeing his father, hospitalized, after an emergency angioplasty, 'but what I remember the most about that day is that it was the first time I saw my dad as a person.'

With his tousled gray-flecked hair, dressed neatly in a jacket, shirt, and sweater vest in cool, complementary shades of blue, Byrne effortlessly charms the audience with tales of wax-like nuns, uncharitable Christian Brothers, and an indulgent granny who fed him forbidden cornflakes and introduced him to the joys of the cinema. Yet every engaging, dramatic moment brings many more equally lackluster stretches.

Reviving a classic the caliber of Suzan-Lork Parks' Topdog/Underdog, which deserved and won a Pulitzer Prize in 2001, is a bit like a high-stakes version of three-card monte. There are so many ways that the contributing elements, no matter how distinguished the contributors, could surface to throw the game. In this production, every single aspect turns up a winner.

Boy Willie is, by definition, insolent and impetuous, and Washington-so captivating as an undercover cop in Spike Lee's Oscar-winning drama BlacKkKlansman-captures both with ease, and has presence to spare. Unfortunately, he's also pretty much at full volume, and full speed, from the jump. To be fair, Charles S. Dutton's performance at Yale Rep and on Broadway received some of the same criticism-too big, too loud, too fast. And if Boy Willie didn't drive at 55 mph, the play could easily be 20 minutes longer. That's how massive the part is. One suspects, however, that Washington will be dynamite in the Netflix Piano Lesson adaptation.

After that, we'll follow these beautiful, messy characters just about anywhere...even to a slightly unbelievable head-scratcher of a final scene. But Eddie said it best: 'The shit that happens is not to be understood.' I suspect that is what we will remember of Cost of Living 20 years from now. 'The shit that happens to you is Not To Be Understood.'

Director Giles Croft, who also helmed the hit U.K. production, moves things along rather well on a smartly sparse set (carpets and crates are just about the only adornments you'll spot). And the gifted tabla artist Salar Nader, onstage throughout the entire show, provides dramatic accompaniment in just the right spots. One curious directorial choice: The second act features a silhouetted reenactment of a cold-blooded killing behind a curtain, which produces an incongruous puppet-show effect. Perhaps it's an effort to interrupt the constant, sometimes draggy, narration, but in that case, telling us that the Taliban shot someone in the back of the head in the street would be dramatic enough.

Fair warning for anyone bothered by the sight of blood shooting across the stage: You might want to cover your eyes. This production certainly goes for the gore. A curious choice, considering the dramaturgical note in the program (it prepares the audience for 'minimal scenery,' 'no major scene changes,' and double- and triple-casting): 'This simplicity and flexibility, in which the play's language carries most of the narrative and expressive weight, enables a high level of imaginative participation.' Yet Gold-who previously helmed King Lear, Othello, and Hamlet-turns Duncan's stabbing, usually an offstage moment, into something out of Psycho, complete with horror-movie lighting and chilling sound effects.

Go big or go home. Thornton Wilder certainly did with his Pulitzer Prize-winning 1942 play The Skin of Our Teeth, which follows a single family through an ice age, flood, and war-centuries upon centuries of epic catastrophes-only to begin the cycle all over again. Directed by Lileana Blain-Cruz, Lincoln Center Theater's swing-for-the-fences revival is appropriately grand, starting with Adam Rigg's sprawling, stunningly detailed sets. And just wait until the dinosaur and woolly mammoth puppets-designed by James Ortiz (The Woodsman)-make their entrances. (It's a good thing those guys go extinct after Act One, because they're total scene-stealers.)

This version of for colored girls truly does feel like a choreopoem, Shange's term for her amalgamation of words, motion and music. (The percussive original score is by Martha Redbone and Aaron Whitby). The seven women on stage are barefoot, and their movement-which draws on African-American traditions including juba, stepping and social dance-feels organic, natural and triumphant. 'Sechita,' performed and signed by Lady in Purple (the amazing Alexandria Wailes) and spoken by Lady in Orange (Amara Granderson), conjures a seductive Creole carnival worker dancing for dust-covered rednecks; we can almost see this mythical woman 'catchin stars tween her toes.'

Ultimately, Letts is making a statement about whitewashing American history, but he hauls out an entirely new character-the heretofore absent but much-discussed Mr. Carp (Linda Vista's Ian Barford)-to do it, yielding less a moment of enlightenment and more of a screed. As for the mystifying ritualistic ending...perhaps Oldfield says it best. 'Now friends, I fully expect you're going to throw me on the floor and kick me in the face,' he says, 'but I assure you I have no idea what is happening.' The feeling, regrettably, is mutual.

There might be life beyond the walls of Ernestine's expansive Grand Rapids, Michigan, kitchen, but Birthday Candles isn't interested in it. (Your first clue that Birthday Candles doesn't take place in the real world as we know it comes from Christine Jones' fantastical set: pots and pans, musical instruments, stuffed animals, and assorted bric-a-brac hanging from above-a lifetime of memories scattered across the sky like stardust.) Ernestine only grows older; she doesn't really grow.

With the exception of casting, director Ruben Santiago-Hudson's production is virtually the same as the terrific one he helmed in 2016 at the Atlantic Theater Company. (Thankfully, he did bring back performer-choreographer Adesola Osakalumi, whose kinetic movement between scenes illustrates the constant, precision motion of the assembly line.) Rashad is fantastic as the 'tough as bricks' Faye, and Dirden-featured in Santiago-Hudson's gorgeous revivals of August Wilson's The Piano Lesson (2012) and Jitney (2016), not to mention in Detroit '67 (2013)-is simply spectacular as the buttoned-up Reggie.

Naturally, there have been a few other character gender swaps as well: The aforementioned eligible bachelors our hero is juggling now sing 'You Could Drive a Person Crazy'; it may no longer be an Andrews Sisters-style number, but the three-part harmonies are as groovy as ever. Amy-the reluctant bride who sings 'Getting Married Today'-has become Jamie the reluctant groom; Matt Doyle's take on the warp-speed, tongue-twisting tune is simply marvelous. And Bobbie's impulse proposal to Jamie ('Marry me! And everybody'll leave us alone!') is just as ridiculous as Bobby's impulse proposal to Amy always was. 'It's just that you have to want to marry somebody, not just somebody,' Jamie explains gently, leading to Bobbie's Act 1-ending 'Marry Me A Little'-the stop on the road on the way to the show-ending 'Being Alive.' Even though she proclaims 'I'm ready now,' she's clearly not: 'Love me just enough./ Warm and sweet and easy,/ Just the simple stuff,' she coos. Lenk-a Tony winner for The Band's Visit-really gets to show her range as an actress in Company.

Kitchen workers Letitia, Rafael, Jason, and their guru, Montrellous, spend their shifts dreaming up the perfect Bon Appétit-ready concoction at a purgatory-like Pennsylvania truck-stop sandwich shop named Clyde's, run by the mean-as-a-cobra, tough-as-acrylic-nails Clyde (Uzo Aduba, late of TV's Mrs. America and Orange Is the New Black). They're all ex-cons-something Clyde, who also did time, uses to beat them into submission whenever she gets the chance. 'She might actually be the devil,' muses Jason. And, in fact, she might. Consider the burst of flames she produces periodically.

What if I told you that the best acting on Broadway is coming from a woman who doesn't utter a single word? As you might have heard, in Lucas Hnath's Dana H.-now on Broadway after runs in Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York at off-Broadway's Vineyard Theatre-the dynamite Deirdre O'Connell lip-syncs every bit of dialogue. In another ingenious turn, that dialogue itself is cut together from multiple 2015 interviews between Hnath's mother, Dana Higginbotham, and Steve Cosson, artistic director of The Civilians.

Satter's staging ratchets up the tension slowly, subtly. Note how Garrick creeps behind Reality's shoulder, then inches closer and closer to her face. He throws around the word 'voluntary,' but could Reality simply have left? Everything about the situation-including the redactions in the transcript, which are punctuated by blistering sounds and stark lighting shifts-screams pressure; it's no wonder she eventually comes clean. (Side note: This is an argument for the lawyers, which she did not have. But the fact that her confession, which came before she was read her rights, was admissible is mind-boggling. If Briscoe and Logan had pulled this stunt with a perp on Law & Order, McCoy wouldn't have gotten the confession past any judge in New York.)

Each queen gets an absurdly catchy pop-inspired anthem to tell her own (often untold) story. There's a little Beyoncé in Catherine of Aragon's salsa-tinged 'No Way,' which details Henry's infidelity, his quest for an annulment, and her refusal ('You must think that I'm crazy/ You wanna replace me, baby, there's/ N-n-n-n-n-n-no way'). Anne Boleyn's bouncy, electro-pop 'Don't Lose Ur Head' has a Lily Allen vibe. To play up her sex appeal-and youthfulness-Catherine Parr sings the breathy, Britney Spears-style 'All You Wanna Do.'

Senior-citizen sex, know-it-all emotionally erratic kids, a looming divorce: It sounds like a pitch for a sitcom as opposed to the newest play from the writer of the somber Make Believe and the minimalist Small Mouth Sounds. Grand Horizons-produced by Second Stage, which commissioned and developed the play with Williamstown Theatre Festival, where Horizons premiered in July-may not be as weighty as some of Wohl's other works, but it's damn funny, and very on-point.