Michael Musto

A couple of legends, some TV stars, a few Broadway types, and Giuliani's ex wife--all together in the original outing play. It's as mixed a bag as it sounds. It's the new production of The Best Man, which is as timely as ever, seeing as it's set at a convention where corruption and dirty politics hang over every word.

Not greatly altered since its New Jersey stint, this Disney Theatrical Production stage version of a cult movie is a cheerfully old-fashioned mix of a stirring story with a catchy score. And did I mention that the dancing by a terrific ensemble is mighty awesome? And then some!

Like I said, it's not deep--and it sort of just ends--but it's zippy fun, and it's so expertly done, I might even write about it in the pape too. Extra! Extra! Newsies is a hit.

McAnuff's presented the show in a sleek, clean way that reduces gimmicks and makes it all move very quickly, while getting to the heart of the betrayed-icon rock operatics.

Philip Seymour Hoffman doesn't look the part of the 63-year-old salesman at the end of his rope, but he's not afraid to play the character's unsympathetic traits and he's poignant when Willy uncharacteristically realizes he's furthering his own destruction before diving right back into it. ... Yes, there have been better Salesmen, but this production is a solid reminder of the play's sturdy brilliance in dissecting the dark side of the American dream

At 84, [Harris] is at the top of her game in the revival of Athol Fugard's 1984 play The Road To Mecca, about an eccentric widow who lives among her concrete statues in a South African village where she's been ostracized and misunderstood. Harris is riveting, even when sitting still and absorbing the other two characters' thoughts. (And there are a lot of them.)

By the end, you've become intrigued enough by the sexuality complications stemming from the Doctor/David dynamic to almost forget the relative jumble that preceded it. Connick is especially touching as he's forced to confront the death of his various lady loves and move on.

Their evening strips classic musical theater down to the human element, allowing them to dabble in a couple of their showstoppers (particularly in Act Two), but more often to engage in some lovely interacting by digging into the meat of the music, stripped of the traditional flash and eagerness to please.

The truth about Seminar?' Well, the young writers' banter initially crackles, as they humorously toss around words like 'reductive,' 'associative connection,' and 'interiority.' But other times their language becomes surprisingly flat, with too many seminar-discussion utterances of 'I liked it' or 'It's good.'

Dancy's portrayal is handsome but the range of Arianda's fluent performance is astonishing. Arianda's heartbeat transitions between that dizzy Vanda and the elegant dominatrix she depicts are hilarious, even while her glinting eyes hint at a greater force lurking behind those characters. Talk about seductive stage magic: Arianda is one of those chameleons who looks homely at one moment and then gorgeous in the next. Phew. Where do I sign up for the fan club?

Her vehicle is not all smoothly entertaining--the play within a play is less riveting than the actor-versus-playwright dynamic, and without an intermission, it's a long sit--but for a pristinely acted literary sex comedy, it's hard to beat Venus In Fur, except with a stick.

But the show's switches from goofy to glum are as awkward as ever, and while the Jesus (the surfer-dude-looking Hunter Parrish from Weeds) has a silkily beautiful voice, he can't make the dramatic parts as profound as they want to be.

Baitz's initial banter is fun, but in Act Two dimensions are added and the play becomes Tennessee-Williams-like in its recriminations, revelations, and shifting loyalties, going beyond the scope of the usual 'Someone's spilling the beans' drama. As the rage boils to a head, the characters (two of whom love saying 'I know myself') find that they never really knew each other, and they're in for a few shocks that are well played by a cast of well-knowns.

There's a lot of talk in Chinglish and keeping up with it, while always looking to the subtitles, makes for a challenging evening. But it's refreshing to see a play that's so willing to communicate the truth about the potential trickiness involved in cross-cultural communication.

Is a serviceable Follies good enough? Yes, because the 1971 classic is such a rich, dark leap into regret, with a witty and poignant Sondheim score--and besides, the Eric Schaeffer-directed production rises to the occasion for Act Two. It's still Follies, and with its go-for-broke emotionalism, this production is definitely worth a visit before they tear down the Marriott and make it a parking lot.

By the end of the masterful revival of Larry Kramer's The Normal Heart--directed by Joel Grey and George C. Wolfe--the audience has been put through an emotional ringer and is almost too shattered to applaud. But they do. They cheer.

Rylance takes it to the max--and the mat. Rarely has an antihero been so antiheroic. His limp alone looks so real I wouldn't be surprised if he let himself get run over by a car for the proper effect...It's a real experience, and though it becomes too ponderous and hard to take, I welcome anything with a statement and the theatrical means to blare it.

But while the film's nun numbers (like 'I Will Follow Him') were giddy and infectious in a more subtle way, this show opts for glitz, line dancing, and absurdity, as the nuns rap, sing about their 'booties,' and practically engage in Busby Berkeley configurations. Less would have been more. The score is uneven (there's a lyric that goes 'If you got stigmata/Show me yours, I'll show you mine'), but Alan Menken has cooked up some pleasing sounds derived from Philadelphia soul and other nostalgic genres, in between homages to Sondheim and to his own 'Beauty and the Beast.' And you watch a lot of the show smiling despite yourself. A work of art? No, it isn't even Priscilla. But you could have way less fun with religious people.

The result comes off overwrought and far from a miracle. It doesn't help that this is the cheapest looking set in Broadway history (including the two folding chairs of A Steady Rain) and that the kid is made to strip and mock-hump Turner in a bit that redefines gratuitous for all time...Alas, for the most part, High gave me a crisis of my own. It made me lose faith in Broadway.

It's fairly lavish and there's occasional cuteness (like a fun if not exactly urgent spoof of boy bands), but it's mostly just lame and episodic, and without the sociopolitical commentary of the original, it seems to belong more in a theme park than on Broadway.

I'll be crucified for saying this, but Sutton Foster is a wee bit miscast as Reno Sweeney. Unlike Merman and LuPone before her, she doesn't summon hard-boiled brassiness with ease. But Sutton's such a pro, with tons of spunk and a great deadpan, and on the numbers she soars and makes the mismatch less of a world crisis.

The show--done by the South Park guys with the help of an Avenue Q writer--manages the high-wire feat of spoofing religion, poverty, and Jesus, while throwing in AIDS jokes and songs about closeted Mormons 'turning it off'--and virtually everyone leaves happy!