Michael Dale

If more of Soul Doctor was like that warm, darkly humorous and hesitantly emotional scene, the musical would be far more interesting than the awkward and clichéd point-by-point biography occupying Circle In The Square after a stint Off-Broadway and a regional tour...Soul Doctor may have a decent share of enjoyable moments, and sometimes even moving ones. But a housecall from a show doctor is definitely in order.

Zachary Levi is adorably nervous and quirky as finance guy Aaron...Krysta Rodriguez's Casey is the kind of sardonically sexy indie/arty type that intimidates the hell out of Aaron. But if their romantic chemistry seems lacking, their comedic chemistry crackles incessantly via Rodriguez's deadpan reactions to Levi's hilarious lack of game...Staged with wacky buoyancy by director Bill Berry, this is the kind of musical that'll have you remembering the funny moments more than the melodies, but if it's true what they say about a sense of humor being the most attractive quality in a mate, First Date offers up a terrific match.

More of a supper club floor show than the usual theatre fare, the elegantly-mannered onstage eleven piece orchestra, led by Víctor Lavallén, features four gentlemen playing the bandoneón, the traditional concertina-type instrument. In fact, the show's primary dance team, Victoria Galoto and Juan Paulo Horvath, both make their entrances out of an oversized replica of the instrument.

With its high-profile stars and subject matter, The Mountaintop is likely to be a big commercial success, but if this one is awarded the Tony come June, it will mean we've indeed suffered through a sad and sorry Broadway season.

The sad reality of Broadway is that, because this is a limited run that will close long before the season's finish, it's unlikely this production will be up for any Tony Awards. But Tyne Daly's performance in this sturdy mounting is certainly bound to be one of the highlights of the season.

If you know who Vince Lombardi is, the play is most likely exactly what you'd expect it to be: a portrait of decent, honorable figure who earns the devotion of his players by tough-loving them into the best they're capable of being. If you don't know who he is, you can simply disregard the scattered names from the past and sprinklings of sports jargon, and Lombardi stands as self-explanatory. Just remember that if you hear a few chuckles and/or applause for some seemingly random lines ('We didn't lose; we just ran out of time.') it's because the evening does embrace quite a few beloved sports clichés; but Lombardi is such an earnest play that the clichés seem perfectly natural in context.

Stewart doesn't hide the large degree of ego-massaging motivating Robert's tutorials, as though he takes special delight in having mastered the role of the wise, old mentor. But his hammyness is cured with a seasoned charm. Knight plays it straight for most of the piece, but succeeds in the subtler job communicating how John's gratitude for veteran's attention gradually dissolves as he recognizes the man behind his off-stage character and grows more distant as his confidence builds and others recognize his own talent.

While Shaw's politics might be easily spotted on the sleeves of his leading ladies, the eventual clash between mother and daughter sets off theatrical sparks with exciting immediacy. Mrs. Warren's Profession may no longer shock, but Hawkins, Jones and Hughes still provide plenty of electricity.

In its limited run, Time Stands Still was one of last season's best new plays and among the most satisfying evenings on Broadway. Its return open run, with Ricci's replacement of Alicia Silverstone the only cast change and the three returning actors giving even richer performances, is bound to be among this season's cream as well.

Even if the story of a chance to elevate one's self from a dangerous, working-class life through art sounds a bit too much like Billy Elliot, Hall's other current Broadway offering, The Pitmen Painters is a far superior piece with a strong emotional pull; its heart pumping primarily from the sensitive Oliver Kilbourn (the excellent Christopher Connel), the most talented of the bunch, who is timid about this new world that is not only accepting him but is offering an opportunity to become a benefactor's fully-supported resident painter. Though there is much of the expected fish-out-of-water humor, especially when the boys first encounter modern art, Hall also develops a good deal of empathy as their skills, as well as competitiveness, develop. Since this is a British play, issues of class and labor threaten to bog down the darker second act with its heavy-handed presentation; the time might be better spent showing the early artistic progress of the group (they seem too good too soon) and exploring more of their day-to-day lives in the mines.

Proving once more that Noel Coward wrote sexier scenes for clothed people that most playwrights could with naked ones, the evening's steamy highlight comes in a moment where Yelland and Sturrock, alone together at last, finally reach the 'will we or won't we' point. With the company singing Stu Barker's soft ukulele arrangement of 'Go Slow, Johnny' in the background, the tension is elegantly unbearable.

While our century began with inane 'jukebox musicals' that crowbarred pre-existing songs that were not written for the stage into makeshift plots (a refresher course in the genre is still being offered at The Winter Garden) American Idiot (along with the still-running Jersey Boys) shows it is possible to intelligently use such material to create a dramatically intriguing theatre piece. American Idiot may not offer an uplifting story, or even especially sympathetic characters, but most likely anyone who has gone through a youthful rebellion can see a bit of their determined, frightened, naïve and somewhat stupid selves on stage at the St. James Theatre.

Of course, the Sherie Rene Scott who describes herself on stage as, 'one of Broadway's biggest and brightest semi-stars,' in the enormously entertaining variety hour (and a half) she calls Everyday Rapture, is actually a character created by the Sherie Rene Scott who co-authored the smart, semi-autobiographical musical with Dick Scanlan. Which details are factual and which are, shall we say, enhanced, are for them to know and for us to not give a damn about as we're laughing, tapping our toes and enjoying the fizzy charms of this impeccably funny, semi-funked up chanteuse.

Of course, the Sherie Rene Scott who describes herself on stage as, 'one of Broadway's biggest and brightest semi-stars,' in the enormously entertaining variety hour (and a half) she calls Everyday Rapture, is actually a character created by the Sherie Rene Scott who co-authored the smart, semi-autobiographical musical with Dick Scanlan. Which details are factual and which are, shall we say, enhanced, are for them to know and for us to not give a damn about as we're laughing, tapping our toes and enjoying the fizzy charms of this impeccably funny, semi-funked up chanteuse.

While I wouldn't exactly use the exalted theatrical term 'ridiculous' to describe the newest Broadway mounting of La Cage aux Folles, it did strike me from time to time that director Terry Johnson's view of Jerry Herman and Harvey Fierstein's landmark musical tasted a bit like what the great Charles Ludlum might have done with the piece.

Like many of those unrevivable musicals from the early decades of the 20th Century, The Addams Family works best as a star vehicle, and the Lunt-Fontanne is presently hosting a constellation full of 'em.

I suppose if you've never seen a play or film about a bullying self-important artist who finds him or herself growing out of style and now must reluctantly pass the torch to the younger generation's new voice, then John Logan's Red is as good an introduction to the genre as any. It's a perfectly competent play receiving a perfectly competent production that never bores and even provides some interesting moments in its ninety minute life. But for a subject so involved and characters so passionate, Red doesn't excite.

Ken Ludwig's hotel suite farce, making comic fodder out of what happens when a 1934 Cleveland opera company arranges for a world famous Italian star to play the title role in a one-night gala performance of Otello, only to have him suddenly unable to perform minutes before curtain, may not be the most uproarious of entertainments, but it's certainly good for a decent stream of laughs when the pacing crackles and the door slamming is well-timed. Tucci, however, directs the piece as a comedy, seeming to want the laughs to come from a realistic exploration of the characters. And, of course, realistic explorations are what kills farce. While he does come up with some appropriately nutty visuals, the production suffers from too much thinking time.

While all is not sunshine, lollipops and rainbows in Martin McDonagh's newest gruesome comedy, A Behanding In Spokane, it is, by the playwright's standards, considerably lighter fare. No cats or children are harmed, nobody's shot in the head at point-blank range and there are no pots of urine involved at any time during the playwright's first piece set in America. Yes, there are characters that have gasoline poured on them and are then threatened with a lighter, but in moments like that the real suspense lies in whether or not we're about to see a really cool special effect.

Newcomers to Mamet will probably find Race more interesting than those familiar with his career. All the characteristics that satirists use to spoof the style of the author's more familiar works are there; the clipped, testosterone-driven dialogue, the uncensored language, the self-centered characters with a cold, unsentimental view of the world. Race is a bit like what would happen if the professor from Oleanna was getting legal advice from the Hollywood execs of Speed-the-Plow.

Fela! certainly isn't meant to be a complete portrait of its title character. The action of the show takes place before the man dismissed AIDS as a myth (he eventually died from it) and his practice of polygamy (he married 27 women at once) is treated more like nightclub shtick than fact. But the music radiates and Jones and his crew never allow Fela! to be less than visually entrancing. Set and costume designer Marina Draghici turns the entire theatre into The Afrika Shrine with colorful murals and portraits painted on the walls and dresses the cast in an appealing mixture of traditional and 1970's contemporary. Robert Wierzel's lights are appropriately clubby and Peter Nigrini's videos nicely accent key moments. Most importantly, the kinetic force of the hard-working dancers and the talented star make Fela! a worthy celebration.

Yes, there are moments of predictable schmaltz and the ending is most definitely contrived, but the rest of Memphis is bursting with gutsy story-telling, convincing performances and exhilarating moments that more than make up for a bit of predictability.

And while I'll admit the loud, raucous and darkly-humored Feeling Electric was more to my personal taste ('Taking a semi-automatic and shooting as many popular kids as possible is really the only sane response to high school.'), the latest incarnation of Next To Normal - which has turned a 180 from being a musical about depression to one about a family's efforts to keep the disease from tearing them apart - is a far better musical. In fact, it's only the existence of a Broadway revival of Guys and Dolls that keeps Next To Normal from being the best written musical currently on Broadway; and having West Side Story around is all that keeps it from being the most daring.

I enjoyed quite a lot of Rock of Ages; even though the songs don't carry the same nostalgic appeal for me as it does for its target audience. (Though I will admit a quick mention of Reunite on ice did bring back memories.) Sure, it would have been better off as a ninety-minute intermissionless show, as the production really starts losing steam early in Act II (Hint: When an author suddenly starts going Pirandello in the second half it usually means he's run out of ideas.), but much of it is good, stupid, noisy fun that doesn't take itself as anything more than good, stupid, noisy fun.

There's a fine, fine line... No, let me rephrase that. There's a wide gaping canyon between clever social commentary and unmotivated slapstick. And while I'm not suggesting that Yasmina Reza's God of Carnage had me longing for the subtle nuances of Messrs. Moe, Larry and Curly I will admit to being reminded of the famous Tallulah Bankhead quip, 'There's less to this than meets the eye.'