Michael Sommers

Some may argue that The Adding Machine works fine and needs no retooling, but Bradshaw’s reasonably faithful adaptation will be more economical for theaters to produce than the rarely staged original play. In accordance with the stylized nature of expressionist theater, director Scott Elliott cultivates a cool, slightly bizarre quality to his well-acted, seamlessly staged production.

Whether Titanique proves to be too casual as an entertainment to attract a goodly Broadway crowd to the 1,339-seat St. James Theatre over the next 13 weeks is a prediction thankfully beyond my expertise. Speaking of which, let me assure readers who may fear I don’t know beans about Schmigadoon and The Rocky Horror Show (which I will review next week) that I am versed in Golden Age musicals and I can dance “The Time Warp” better than most.

Unable to cite everyone in the enthusiastic company, let’s briefly note how Sydney James Harcourt’s sizzling Rum Tum Tugger is a major crowd-pleaser, Emma Sofia’s sleek Skimbleshanks is quite a saucy authority figure and probably there’s a blazing star of tomorrow glowing among the corps who goes unmentioned here. It appears to me that Cats: The Jellicle Ball may become one of those legendary Broadway shows that someday you will tell others you were lucky enough to see.

This plotline of villains and deceptions twists with surprises, so small wonder the tone of this modest Red Bull revival often shifts with it, from the formality of a military ceremony all the way over into grim, farcical business involving severed body parts and a monstrous pie. Treating such lurid doings mostly for dark comedy, Jesse Berger, the director, keeps the two-act show’s pacing quick and the emotional temperature reasonably cool with one single jarring exception: A violent assault upon the screaming Lavinia by Chiron and Demetrius is vigorously depicted by the three actors with a physical actuality that’s horrifying to witness.

Jeena Yi makes her Off Broadway debut as a playwright with Jesa. Opening Friday at the Public Theater, Jesa is an enjoyable dramedy about four Korean American sisters, adults in the prime of their lives, who get together one night to honor their deceased parents with a traditional Korean ceremony known by that name.

Ciarán O’Reilly, Irish Rep’s producing artistic director, gives the comedy a handsome production with a cozy setting designed by Charlie Corcoran in greens and tartans. Generally mellow lighting devised by Michael Gottlieb and the costumes designed by Orla Long are so subtly done for the intimate 148-seat theater as to be scarcely noticeable. Yet these visuals contribute to the atmosphere and can provide insights about the characters, such as how Jay, the silver-haired movie star, dresses himself as casually and youthfully as possible in a T-shirt and faded jeans.

Wallace Shawn offers a sorrowful story of estrangement and infidelity in his latest work, What We Did Before Our Moth Days. Closer to a spoken novella than a conventional play in its format, the drama is structured as more than two dozen interlocking monologues performed by four actors, who almost entirely speak directly to the audience rather than to each other. Hope Davis, Josh Hamilton, Maria Dizzia and John Early are the fine artists who sensitively relate Shawn’s woeful modern-day tale under the direction of Andre Gregory in the world premiere opening on Thursday at Greenwich House Theater.

The satirical humor of the sketchy, often obvious script by Amber Ruffin and Kevin Sciretta scarcely arises above the collegiate level: “Our water system has more illegal substances in it than a bathroom at Studio 54.” Several running gags involve face-slapping, the portentous shrieking of a raptor and awkward medical terms. The message regarding the American public’s susceptibility to despicable leaders and crazy notions was sent long ago.

Of course, action-hungry viewers may dismiss The Dinosaurs as one of those watching-the-paint-dry affairs. Theatergoers who savor a smart, subtle use of language or can appreciate the generosity of feelings shared in such support groups likely will find this new play by Jacob Perkins to be a quietly touching show. Certainly there is no question regarding the excellence of the acting or the production as sensitively staged by Les Waters, a director who has helmed the premieres of works by the likes of Caryl Churchill, Will Eno and Lucas Hnath, and surely knows how to effectively present meaningful modern dramas like this one.

Generally, the acting proves spotty. Possibly that thudding, bass-heavy sound design by Brandon Keith Bulls, icy music by David T. Little and an intermittent yellowish atmospheric haze undermines performances. A less than charismatic McKinley Belcher III is a handsome though mostly stolid Coriolanus; speaking the blank verse, he tends to hit the cadences hard. The greater disappointment is the director’s slack, unimaginative shaping of the crucial scenes involving those so-swayable Roman people, who collectively become the drama’s motivating force. Clad in East Village mufti, they’re noisy but scarcely suggest a dangerous Roman mob. Perhaps it would have been wiser to invest more in additional actors and their rehearsal than in tech.

Viewers conversant with the text may be surprised by which sections and folk are highlighted or skipped in this nimbly paced rendition, but that can be fun for Joyce devotees and former English majors. Plenty to talk about afterward. Like the novel, this Ulysses is best enjoyed in patches rather than as a whole. Although Ulysses remains too big a monster for the stage, let’s hope ERS tackles other modernist masterpieces. Are they taking requests? How about Zuleika Dobson, Max Beerbohm’s miniature classic about the Edwardian beauty who killed all those nice university boys?

As agreeably staged and performed as this Amahl and the Night Visitors may be, will youngsters of today enjoy it? Don’t ask me. An elevated work, it remains a worthy though stodgy musical drama developed upon a Christian theme. More practically, will a 45-minute opera prove too long a haul for the TikTok crowd? While the sound design by Marc Salzberg seems sufficiently crisp, the use of supertitles might be necessary for young ears accustomed to headphones. The brief holiday run of the production offers eight matinees. Hopefully Lincoln Center Theater will survey the younger spectators for their reactions.

Prettily dressed in flowery patchwork attire as the spirits who wise up Scrooge is an admirable trio: Ashlyn Maddox possesses a luminous quality and Crystal Lucas-Perry is a fiery, no-nonsense presence spiked with a Caribbean accent, but the weary graciousness that Nancy Opel exudes as a motherly Ghost of Christmas Past is haunting. So touching in her recent Tony-nominated performance in Dead Outlaw, Julia Knitel lends a genuine sensibility to Belle both as a feisty girl and a wise matron. Izzy Elena Rita presents quite a valiant Tiny Tim. The ensemble work by the 15-member company looks as good, if not better, than Broadway standard. Their bell-ringing reprise after the bows sends the audience out with smiles.

Aptly dressed for yesteryear and today by Enver Chakartash, the ensemble offers solid, distinctive performances. Always an audience favorite, Andrea Martin first appears totally authentic as a commonsensical old world grandma who reads the future in coffee cups and then she raises laughter as an opinionated senior citizen not to be trifled with. Nael Nacer lends a dignified presence to his Tatos Cartozian and as a longtime civic leader. Will Brill gradually reveals an irritable streak that festers within the lawyer and the camera guy he portrays. Like their colleagues, Tamara Sevunts, Raffi Barsoumian and Susan Parfour create detailed characters who look as if their lives extend beyond the confines of a proscenium stage.

Last weekend I witnessed the premiere of The Seat of Our Pants at The Public Theater, and found the show to be pretty much a dud both as a musical and a production, only sporadically brightened by lively performances. This bums me out so much that it’s difficult to detail much about the misguided production that opened on Thursday, so let’s be brief before salty tears wreck my keyboard.

Although much happens in Archduke, the ultimately fanciful drama adds up to not so much, frankly, in spite of being bolstered by a glossy, obviously expensive production expertly rendered by designers Alexander Dodge (set), Linda Cho (costume), Matthew Richards (lighting) and Jane Shaw (sound). Tresnjak’s staging rolls it all out smoothly, but the play merely ends and really never resonates.

The excellence in writing, performance and staging cited above applies to nearly all of The Burning Cauldron of Fiery Fire as it explores the human dynamics chafing within this commune. Then in the final 10 minutes or so of the drama, Washburn suddenly rockets the story off – by way of a trial-by-fire pageant the kids have enacted – into a brief, blazing world of allegory and symbolism the meaning of which baffled me completely. Several too-cute puppets suddenly emerge, too, but no lie, I don’t know what any of it signifies. Hopefully, colleagues with deeper insight will be able to clue me into what the fiery hell that ending was all about.

Although the pointless story erupts inside a Hell’s Kitchen apartment, the sweeping Central Park views from the picture windows of designer Alexander Dodge’s living room setting firmly situates the comedy some 50-odd floors atop Billionaire’s Row in midtown Manhattan. The geographical misplacement might be construed as a comment upon the accuracy of Droege’s satirical depiction of contemporary gay culture.

While Kyoto offers striking scenes and moments, often staged at a quick clip by its directors, the play remains a weighty work that’s not always engrossing in spite of the excellence of its actors, who do plenty of heavy lifting to keep it moving along. Once the show suddenly ends, the play’s somewhat foregone conclusion may well leave you flat, with only a bitter taste in your mouth.

Now that I am done telling friends to grab tickets to Little Bear Ridge Road, let’s tell you about Samuel D. Hunter’s latest drama, which opened on Thursday at the Booth Theatre. Little Bear Ridge Road is a touching, quietly lovely play about a few lonely people tentatively—and painfully—making emotional connections. The intimate 95-minute work is sensitively interpreted by Laurie Metcalf, Micah Stock, and others in a fine, strategically understated production keenly directed by Joe Mantello.

Sometimes drenched in vivid colors or accented by dramatic beams of lighting from designer Japhy Weideman, the atmospheric performance space of The Distillery lends both novelty and intimacy to Beau the Musical. Director and choreographer Josh Rhodes seamlessly meshes the production’s many moving parts while inspiring enthusiastic performances from his company. Although the musical’s contents ultimately taste more like sweet tea than moonshine, the show itself gives audiences quite a nice contact high.

Opening on Wednesday following its 2024 premiere at Baltimore Center Stage, Oh Happy Day! turns out to be, oh well, not such a happy event for theatergoers due to its overabundance of content and an underwhelming resolution. The show looks to be none too pleasant a time for Cooper either, who struggles with a strenuous leading role.

Hey there, straight adults: Atlantic Theater Company offers Let’s Love!, a trio of short, not-so-sweet comedies on heterosexual affairs. Oh, the rest of us can enjoy the program, too, since love’s emotional confusions are known to most people, one way or another. Neil Pepe, the company’s artistic director, stages the plays in a typically neat, well-acted Atlantic production that premiered on Wednesday. All that, plus an impish Nellie McKay has been engaged to stroll out and croon little tunes at a baby grand between the acts. There’s no intermission, so you’ll be in and out of the theater in 90 minutes.

Thanks in part to its striking production by Matt Torney, who makes an impressive directing debut at Irish Rep, The Honey Trap offers some highly engrossing theater. Leo McGann’s drama might be more fully expressed as a screenplay, but for now hot acting and potent atmosphere help to make it quite a satisfying show.

No doubt the show’s makers intend to celebrate McQueen’s ideals and achievements in the face of awesome challenges. Rather than mount an overstuffed hagiography, surely a daring, provocative artist like McQueen deserves some sort of outrageous theater treatment. Perhaps McQueen’s life might be better told as a black comedy or a surreal romp that mocks the yawns of biographical yarns. Gosh, where’s Taylor Mac when you really need him?