Michael Musto

But the show's over-the-top level can be tiring--almost running over the audience indeed--and a lot of the songs are wordy emissions that sound more work-in-progress than classic stage tunes. Still, it's a kiddie show done with spirit, audaciousness, and a minimum of cheap sentiment. Matilda will surely go waltzing home with some Tonys.

The show is slow to get off its feet--eek, sorry again--but then it starts simmering, at times coming off like a very special Broadway Bares, with more of a throughline...Cyndi Lauper's score is varied, rich, and much more interesting than the usual Broadway fare...By the end, the talented Porter has veritably become Whitney Houston while learning the importance of being a man. Some of the themes and machinations may seem off the conveyor belt--a device that's integral to one of the numbers--but when a musical is accessorized with stagecraft like this, one learns acceptance. You'll stand at the end, even if it hurts.

Hanks is terrific at capturing the writer's gumption, drive, and vulnerability...But this is truly an ensemble piece, and the whole company--as directed by George C. Wolfe--is strong...As the evening's sketchy feeling becomes its defining feature, it's clear that this is more of a character evocation than a strict narrative. It's a play about atmosphere--the booze-and-smoke-filled arena where headlines are born, chances are taken, and, most of all, stories are told. In the uneven but boisterously affecting result, McAlary's pure love of journalism--like Ephron's--shines through like a cigarette in the dark.

Richard Greenberg's adaptation of Truman Capote's classic novella Breakfast at Tiffany's turns out to be earnest, talky, and rather lifeless despite its good intentions. Telling the story of a chirpy socialite/hooker in 1943 New York and her interaction with a writer who isn't exactly straight, this production stays faithful to the book without turning it into a persuasive piece of theater.

Christopher Durang's Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike is a comic tour de force about a bunch of Chekhovian characters full of yearning...Hyde Pierce is just plain perfect, and his monologue about the joys of the past is pulled off with a virtuosic mastery of eccentricity and stagecraft.... Nielsen gives her best performance to date, getting big laughs with her Maggie Smith impression...Weaver seems to be stretching in her performance as such a superficial lady, but her emphatic delivery won me over....Nicholas Martin has directed the whole thing with equal parts wit and feeling. I haven't wanted to simultaneously laugh and cry this much since...Chekhov.

In head-to-toe white from her hair on down, Taylor is splendid, capturing the humor, decency, and abrasive energy in the woman while smoothly going from speech to phone call to more yakking.

Rodgers and Hammerstein's Cinderella--which originated as a light and lovely 1957 TV special--has been fleshed out with theatrics, jokes, a political subplot, puppets, extra songs, and anachronisms. The result is an unwieldy but crowd pleasing concoction that ends up being reasonably entertaining despite its jarring multiple tones.

Tony winner Scarlett Johansson is the frustrated Maggie, who spends Act One raging against her alcoholic husband, Brick (Benjamin Walker) for not romancing her anymore, and worse, for looking better than ever. Johansson has fun with Maggie's imaginative way with language, but with her raspy voice and overly direct approach, she seems to be playing Maggie's extreme coarseness at the expense of her sultriness or vulnerability. Her high-volume take is interesting, but it's hard to believe the emotionally (and physically) crippled Brick wouldn't grab his crutch--as it were--and hobble away for miles rather than just roll over to the other side of the bed.

Sam Gold's new production is a mixed-bag stab at the play, pumping up the comedy in the first half, then going for slower, more somber tones in the second...But for this play to work--for it to be an American answer to Chekhov, with Tulsa standing in for Moscow--it's got to have a burning attraction at the center of it. Unfortunately, while Sebastian Stan has the glistening body for Hal...his performance is too posturey...And while Maggie Grace is lovely as Madge, she doesn't carve a distinctive figure, and certainly not one who seems fated to run off with Hal and gamble with the rest of her life. So the play about dashed hopes colliding with awakened desires isn't nearly as electric as it could be, but it's still a vintage trip back to muddled 1950s morality and the poetic hopes that rose up in spite of it.

The Other Place might lack poetry--or Wit--but its emotional moments are potent. And Metcalf? Unforgettable. She even holds focus for the half hour before the play starts, sitting onstage in a chair, fiddling with a device, and trying to make sense of things. I could definitely do without this gimmick in general, but 30 minutes more of Metcalf is always a good thing.

Fortunately, the imprisoned lady (named Cathy) is played by Patti LuPone, who's superb in her composure and reasoning, and Ann is Debra Winger, who's also terrific (though she has the more thankless task of conducting the relentless inquisition, often with staccato stolidness). If you ask me, I'm still glad to have been part of the mob who demanded an original drama, but The Anarchist could have used a lot more blood and tears. At approximately 70 minutes long, it also could have used another short play to round out the evening.

Broadway's new Scandalous: The Life and Trials of Aimee Semple McPherson might sound like a female Leap of Faith, but it's actually Chaplin The Musical with girls' clothes...But Scandalous is a way more schizo show…Act One is filled with way too many bombastic songs--basically one musical breakdown after another for the lady evangelist--but there's fire there, and some kind of electricity that reminded me of the better bits from Carrie the Musical. And Broadway favorite Carolee Carmello is committed and powerful in the role of Aimee…Act Two is a mess. It's alternately campy and dull, featuring a stock black character and ending with one more screechy number…But though the show does slide into a pit of absurdity, it would be scandalous to say it's all just junk. Good for lyricist and book writer Kathie Lee Gifford for stretching with something this ambitious.

Like sex itself, David West Read's The Performers--about two couples colliding in the adult entertainment arena--is kind of guiltily enjoyable while it lasts, though by the end, you think, 'Did I really need to do that?'...The cast is fine, and Henry Winkler is especially sly and funny as Chuck Wood, the elder statesman of the porn-actor world, who's prone to emissions like 'The world was my glory hole!' But despite the chuckles, The Performers tended to remind me of one of the satirical porn titles mentioned in it: I Ate Chinese and Now I'm Hungry Again.

The original Drood was flawless, but this one--directed by Scott Ellis--does quite nicely, with splendid sets, good casting, and solid attention to the score, which is sophisticated and fun, only a couple of the songs making things temporarily turgid. In the cast, Gregg Edelman, Andy Karl, Jessie Mueller, Robert Creighton, and the gang are comically deft in their suspicous roles. Stephanie J. Block as Drood and Betsy Wolfe as his fiance Rosa Bud, handle the high-power singing. And as opium-wielding Princess Puffer, Chita Rivera lends her legendary presence and wit, making for a surprising Cockney matron and pulling it off with sass and class…It was magical. I vote yes.

Oscar nominee Jessica Chastain is a fine actress who seems incapable of a false move, giving a naturalistic performance, though I found some of her moments flat, needing a bit more awakened fire.

Rudd and Asner are terrific, catching their characters' light, dark, and manipulative sides, even if they're at opposite ends of the 'Jesus freak' spectrum. Shannon is great in a scene where he frustratedly tries to get computer help on the phone--he seems to be the heir apparent to Christopher Walken-style quirky angst. But his big matchup with Arrington is dullsville and leads to a Hallmarky conclusion, as does Asner's sad tale...There's imagination at work here and to get dark comedy out of material this bleak is an achievement, but because of its flaws and limitations, I didn't find Grace to be amazing.

The solid Gaines--who also played the voice of reason in recent revivals of Gypsy and 12 Angry Men--knows how to do decency. And Thomas is good as the priggish, misguided mayor who considers himself the town's moral center (though he seems to recede as his character does).

Director/choreographer Andy Blankenbuehler's staging throws s-p-i-r-i-t in your face, with lots of people lifting other people at regular intervals. And the plot--complete with an obligatory she-messed-up twist--has draggy stretches, but when the humor clicks, it brings on spoofy amusement.

It's thin stuff and difficult to pull off because a lot of the action happens offstage and is merely recounted, but this production has moments, while not really soaring into the absurdist yet warming stratosphere. Jim Parsons has the right earnest, bemused decency as Elwood, making you believe he believes while conversing with what looks like thin air. But Jessica Hecht is strange casting as Veta Louise. Hecht is an excellent actress, but she's best at sensible, analytical roles, not ones that call for being daftly flustered. (The pseudo aristocratic accent she goes for here sounds especially forced.) Fortunately, she--like the whole production--gets better in the second half, especially when she unravels while noticing, to her dismay, that her mother's portrait on the wall has been covered by one involving Harvey.

The Columnist, it turns out, is well written, nicely designed, talky, and a little bit dull. The whole show is Lithgow, who--in his gray suit, bow tie, and specs--gets to the heart of a man full of withering sarcasm, humor, jingoism, and rages. He's terrific. And I'm gladder than ever that I'm out of the closet.

In all of its shades, Emily Mann's production mines the rich humor in the play (yes, Williams wanted you to laugh a lot) while also going for a grounded, conversational approach that avoids hokey mannerisms...Mann takes [the cast] (and Daphne Rubin-Vega as the conflicted Stella and Wood Harris as the disillusioned Mitch) through a Streetcar whose straightforward approach deprives us of a central battle royale but whose admirable affection for the text still merits the kindness of strangers.

You wish they'd throw out the second half of the script and just keep rolling around and improvising. Still, Guvnors often has you hoarse from laughing, and allows you the rare chance to brag about seeing something extremely tony that also happens to be incredibly 'Benny'.

The comedy varies ('You like me! You really, really like me!' Ugh) and the switch to total earnestness at the end doesn't fly, but in digging into the roots of a familiar tale, Peter catches enough stardust, especially when it's at its most wicked.

So while Broadway's original Evita was more spectacular, innovative, and starry, this one has a bracing intimacy and vigor that makes you feel the truth is, she never left you.

By the end, you might feel this is over the top rather than over the rainbow, but you still admire the talent and chutzpah that never got away.