Melissa Rose Bernardo — Theater Critic

In other words, this is a standard-issue family drama—not the Alicia Keys story. Yes, it’s Keys’ music, a score full of her chart-topping hits and lesser-known gems, plus a few new, largely forgettable, songs. (In the uninspired “Seventeen,” Jersey sings, of Ali: “I once was her/ So I try to stop it/ Cause she ’bout to step in some shit.”) But if you’re heading to Hell’s Kitchen hoping to see a portrait of an artist, you’ll be greatly disappointed.

Speaking of Act 2 showstoppers: There are a few—starting with the crowd-pleaser “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life,” the British music-hall ditty made famous in Monty Python’s Life of Brian. And perhaps most memorably, there’s “You Won’t Succeed on Broadway,” Sir Robin’s patter song explaining what every good Broadway musical needs: “There simply must be, Arthur, trust me/ Simply must be Jews.” It’s a massive production number incorporating a Fiddler on the Roof parody, a Streisand impersonator, and Michael Urie on a chair doing his best “Mein Herr,” and yes, it lands differently in November 2023. (There’s also, alas, a sound issue, which seems to be a St. James Theatre problem; the singers were getting drowned out during Into the Woods as well.) You can feel the audience asking themselves, Is it okay to laugh? Is the song offensive? For that matter, is it any more or less offensive than the disco-tastic number “His Name Is Lancelot,” which is basically one big gay stereotype wrapped in Lycra? No judgment here. But if you don’t chuckle over the lyric “There’s a very small percentile/ Who enjoys a dancing gentile,” I promise—I will judge you.

they’re tough roles—ones that require an actor to go from “fuck off” to “marry me” in the span of 80 minutes (another reason aspiring actors love them). As the truck driver who bears the nickname The Beast, Abbott is fearless—by turns dynamic and devastating, imposing but not terrifying, poignant but never pathetic. In her stage debut as divorcée Roberta, film and TV actress Plaza—whose deadpan delivery and dagger-filled glares proved a highlight of the Sicily-set second season of The White Lotus—tends to fall into a familiar cadence with Roberta’s lines, wilting under the weight of the Noo Yawk accent. She’s more comfortable with lighter one-liners like “You got friendly ears,” one of the awkwardly sweet compliments Roberta gives Danny.

Directed by Moritz von Stuelpnagel—who helmed Rebeck’s 2018 backstage drama Bernhardt/Hamlet, also at the Roundabout—I Need That runs only 100 intermission-free minutes, but somehow feels padded. Perhaps in an effort to avoid turning the play into The Danny DeVito Show, Rebeck gives Foster and Amelia a few crises and obstacles, most of which feel contrived. Foster going to Cleveland to live right near his son and grandkids, however, does make sense, and it gives rise to Sam’s brilliant one-liner: “Ohio is the source of all disappointment and grief in America.” (If that had been on a T-shirt in the lobby, I would have bought three of them.) There’s so much substance on stage, literally—Alexander Dodge’s set is a brilliant testament to the pure emotional power of material goods; less so in the script. Sorry!

Directed by Jackson Grace Gay, this Partnership simply doesn’t meet the Mint’s usual high standards. (And I’m not talking about the blatantly obvious stick-on mustache. Although…) It boils down to a glaring lack of chemistry between Haider and Echebiri. And Echebiri’s Fawcett never seems excited by anything, not even his supposedly prized springtime miles-long walks and hillside excursions. (He’s the only character in the play who believes in work-life balance.) So when Kate starts cutting work, forgetting appointments, and prioritizing pleasure over business—taking a mid-morning boat trip instead of doing a fitting with the uppity but influential Lady Smith-Carr-Smith (Christiane Noll, looking splendid in Kindall Almond’s over-the-top frocks)—we can’t help but wonder why? What does she see in him that makes it worth risking her reputation as a businesswoman? “If I choose to lose my clients that is my affair,” Kate shrugs. Maisie is incredulous, and she’s not the only one. Snap out of it, girl!

Radcliffe’s “Franklin Shepard, Inc.” is an absolute marvel (don’t be surprised to see a standing ovation after that high-speed train of a song), and his unassuming delivery of “Good Thing Going” is a surprise emotional bombshell. Post–Harry Potter, Radcliffe has racked up an impressive list of stage credits ranging from How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying to The Cripple of Inishmaan, and he impresses more in each appearance. And as the pal that holds the trio together, Mendez’s performance is a delicious cocktail of cynicism and hopefulness. What’s most impressive: When they sing the anthem “Old Friends,” they actually look like old friends.

If he’s lucky, someone will do him a favor and take him to Circle in the Square to see Melissa Etheridge’s My Window. Then he can hear the smoky-voiced—and extremely articulate—singer-guitarist rip through songs such as the seductive “Like the Way I Do”; the R&B-soaked “Bring Me Some Water,” her first single; and the Grammy-winning anthem that gives the show its title, “Come to My Window.” Loneliness, longing, heartbreak, passion—if she’s not a philosopher of rock, then who is?

If he’s lucky, someone will do him a favor and take him to Circle in the Square to see Melissa Etheridge’s My Window. Then he can hear the smoky-voiced—and extremely articulate—singer-guitarist rip through songs such as the seductive “Like the Way I Do”; the R&B-soaked “Bring Me Some Water,” her first single; and the Grammy-winning anthem that gives the show its title, “Come to My Window.” Loneliness, longing, heartbreak, passion—if she’s not a philosopher of rock, then who is?

Gordon Greenberg and Steve Rosen’s diverting new Dracula, which just opened at New World Stages, is subtitled A Comedy of Terrors, which gives you a hint of the zaniness that’s in store. Think Monty Python, with fewer silly walks. The madcap, manic Tricycle Theatre production of The 39 Steps. Perhaps a dash of the Ridiculous Theatrical Company, without the glitter.

Gordon Greenberg and Steve Rosen’s diverting new Dracula, which just opened at New World Stages, is subtitled A Comedy of Terrors, which gives you a hint of the zaniness that’s in store. Think Monty Python, with fewer silly walks. The madcap, manic Tricycle Theatre production of The 39 Steps. Perhaps a dash of the Ridiculous Theatrical Company, without the glitter.

The Cottage is at its best when at its lightest. A few philosophical tangents—Dierdre and Sylvia discussing “varying degrees” of love, Beau and Marjorie debating the merits of marriage (Beau: “In my opinion, faithfulness is an entirely separate matter from marriage”)—drag down the otherwise snap-crackle pace that director Jason Alexander (of TV’s Seinfeld) has established. And the intermission takes a bit of air out of the proceedings.

Credit director Saheem Ali—who’s making his Broadway debut, as are five of the actors—for keeping the 95-minute play tight in the transition from an intimate 275-seat theater to a 700-plus-seat house. It’s not just about ensuring that the jokes land, which they do; it’s also about the subtler moments. “I want to lay my head in your lap,” Larry tells Juicy. When Hamlet tries that on Ophelia (“Lady, shall I lie in your lap?”), he’s going for laughs and sexual innuendo. Between Larry and Juicy, there’s genuine tenderness, and maybe even more.

I’d never call myself a Sweeney Todd person—thrillers simply aren’t my thing, on stage or screen—but every time I see a production I leave with a deeper appreciation for Sondheim’s score, packed with swoon-worthy melodies and subversively witty lyrics. (Is “A Little Priest” the best-ever example of Sondheim’s wordplay? Discuss.) The new Broadway revival—starring Josh Groban, Annaleigh Ashford, a 26-member orchestra, and Jonathan Tunick’s original orchestrations—is guaranteed to do the same for you. It sounds spectacular.

I’d never call myself a Sweeney Todd person—thrillers simply aren’t my thing, on stage or screen—but every time I see a production I leave with a deeper appreciation for Sondheim’s score, packed with swoon-worthy melodies and subversively witty lyrics. (Is “A Little Priest” the best-ever example of Sondheim’s wordplay? Discuss.) The new Broadway revival—starring Josh Groban, Annaleigh Ashford, a 26-member orchestra, and Jonathan Tunick’s original orchestrations—is guaranteed to do the same for you. It sounds spectacular.

I’d never call myself a Sweeney Todd person—thrillers simply aren’t my thing, on stage or screen—but every time I see a production I leave with a deeper appreciation for Sondheim’s score, packed with swoon-worthy melodies and subversively witty lyrics. (Is “A Little Priest” the best-ever example of Sondheim’s wordplay? Discuss.) The new Broadway revival—starring Josh Groban, Annaleigh Ashford, a 26-member orchestra, and Jonathan Tunick’s original orchestrations—is guaranteed to do the same for you. It sounds spectacular.

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.

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.

“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.'