Michael Sommers — Theater Critic

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?

For all of its appeal, the 90-minute attraction somehow seems a smidge overlong; perhaps Ross’ dog stories might be curtailed. Fans familiar with Ross’ skill at insult humor likely will prefer more audience interaction than he offers at present. A few expletives aside, the sincere, even sentimental at times Take a Banana for the Ride proves much more of a family meal than a mere roast.

The sound designers turn up the volume to loud, but not painfully so; the nine musicians in the orchestra pit provide a happy semblance of that distinctively stainless, steely, Swedish ABBA sound; and their hits just keep on coming. Make sure to stick around for the megamix finale of reprises crowned by “Waterloo.”

It is vital for younger generations to realize that one significant reason our present culture is so nasty and decadent is due to the untimely loss to AIDS of multitudes of arts-makers they never knew existed, like Frank Maya, and this show is a good reminder.

Amidst this persuasive environment, a superb company of five actors delivers believably natural performances as their characters talk of supernatural matters and issues relating to existence in a lonely place. Sparked by Dan Butler, whose character’s peppery manner conceals inner regret, the ensemble brings to life an exceptional play handsomely staged in a nice 148-seat theater, and that’s about as solid an Off Broadway experience as anyone can wish for this summer.

Such is the situation for Trophy Boys, which begins as a bright satire of privileged smarties as they strategize sincere or specious gambits for their debate. Matters get darker some 20 minutes into the session when an anonymous Instagrammer asserts how she was sexually assaulted by one of the debaters. So who’s the guilty one? Speculation, accusations, bullying and confessions follow. Mattana packs plenty of story into her tightly-wound play.

An uneven drama, Prince Faggot proves scarcely as meaningful about present and future queer existence as its author intends, although it can be surprisingly entertaining in spots. The swift staging by Chowdhury and solid performances by his ensemble help to make it all seem convincing. Sharp costumes by Montana Levi Blanco, such as Jacqueline’s glam gold and white pants suit (a snap at the Windsor clan’s legendary “men in gray suits”), flexible yet elegant scenic design by David Zinn, effective sound design and music by Lee Kinney and Isabella Byrd’s glimmering lighting appropriately give the production a jewel box quality.

Crafted by British author Penelope Skinner (with a credit to Don Mackay, an actor who created the role of Roger in the play’s 2018 premiere at the Edinburgh Festival), Angry Alan is a character study and not a shocker. It paints in abundant detail an oddly poignant picture of an average-type white guy hanging on the cusp of MAGA times, disappointed by his life, who embraces a radical mindset. Ironically funny as Roger tries to explain and justify Alan’s way of thinking, scary possibilities flicker through his narrative. How tragic will it be? A confrontation proves more subdued than sensational. It is impossible to evaluate the content further without revealing a surprise the production takes care to guard.

Staged nimbly by Pelsue underneath arched Looney Tunes portals airily designed for speedy scenic needs by Stephanie Osin Cohen, the production easily rolls over most potholes in the plot. The lighting designed by Amith Chandrashaker lends color and dramatic shadows to events; a nightmarish “Stop Scrolling” sequence is illuminated cleverly by iPhones. While The Last Bimbo of the Apocalypse is one curiously mixed-up musical, the production is sufficiently entertaining to amuse viewers willing to overlook its somewhat bipolar behavior.

A situation that does not develop its promise significantly, Five Models in Ruins, 1981 features plenty of period name-checking (Basquiat, Ungaro, Prince, Roxy Music, Parker-Bowles, “some girl named Madonna?” et alia), a dance party, a thunderstorm, and a protracted scene of caterwauling misery meant to be cathartic—and possibly even comical—but which mostly appears horrifying. It is difficult, frankly, to determine the author’s intentions because these sequences, the often terse, sporadically amusing conversations and several scenes of parallel action are poorly staged and erratically paced by Morgan Green, the director.

The final attraction of the 2024-2025 Broadway season, Dead Outlaw will remind theatergoers of Operation Mincemeat, the new British musical that likewise spins humorously around a corpse. Both based more or less in fact, they are odd shows performed by small ensembles evoking dozens of characters. The British musical may offer the stronger dramatic arc, but the American shaggy dog comicality of the Dead Outlaw story is strangely appealing.

Sporting mutton-chop whiskers in his dual role as Gilbert playing Major-General Stanley, David Hyde Pierce rattles through several patter numbers with perfect assurance and depicts the retired soldier with a befuddled dignity droll to behold. Robust and roguish as the Pirate King, Ramin Karimloo shows off his magnificent baritone and the gleaming chest from which it comes. Genial as Sullivan, Preston Truman Boyd amiably appears as the Sergeant of Police whose midnight gambols with the Stanley daughters and his tap-happy flatfoot platoon are highlights of the second act. Nicholas Barasch makes a perfectly ingenuous Frederic and sings the role handsomely opposite Samantha Williams’ flirtatious Mabel. Jinkx Monsoon ably cuts her good-natured Ruth along the mildly goofy lines of Andrea Martin, but gets stuck with one of Katisha’s arias from The Mikado reworked as a not so hot torch song; better had they simply given Ruth a new costume for act two. The members of the ensemble perform with fresh voices and considerable vitality. Finally, any child who witnesses David Hyde Pierce reel off “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General,” backed by the ensemble cheerily waving blue and white flags during the choruses, will either wake up screaming some night or will recall this sequence for the rest of their lives. Family audiences: Be warned.

Jordan’s splendid, angelically-pure voice, handsome all-American looks, and still boyish earnestness are perfectly suited to project this character... whose dream to achieve greatness twists into a phenomenon beyond his comprehension or in Floyd’s tragic case, beyond even his line of vision... Floyd Collins is a sorrowful musical drama that is illuminated by often beautiful music reflecting the story’s bluegrass and country & western environs... Although they may ultimately feel the show to be a terribly sad experience, they will not be at all disappointed by the touching performance here from the former star of The Great Gatsby.

These four servings of Churchill are staged extremely well by Macdonald in the varying styles they require. The ten-member company headed by O’Connell and Conlee very naturally enact tricky material. Excellent support is provided by the designers. Miriam Buether packs surprising angles in the scenery. Enver Chakartash fashions clothes that look true to character. Isabella Byrd creates lighting in many moods. Sound designer Bray Poor contributes subtle effects, bright music and clear reinforcement. With this inventive and cogent production of Churchill’s most recent plays, the Public Theater honors a remarkable writer whose mind-bending works have electrified its seasons on and off for nearly half a century.

Written farcically as a quasi-realistic cartoon, the showbiz shenanigans of Smash are meant to amuse, of course, but the unhappy complications of the script soon prove obvious and tiresome. A satirical plot thread mocking the taste of young, clueless influencers gets repetitious. Witnessing darling Ivy twist into a doped-out bitch is sad and doubly so since this crucial plot device dishonors Monroe’s legacy.

Midway through the tale as self-besotted Dorian plunges into a hedonistic rave of cocaine, disco music and fuchsia lighting, Snook raises on high a mobile phone and wildly whirls around the stage, grabbing selfies that light up all of the screens. The camera filters soon blow up Dorian’s features with grotesque lips and eyes; images initially comical and then growing monstrous, especially when projected across multiple surfaces. It is a disturbing, brilliant sequence reflecting the mad narcissism at the heart of the dark tale.

In Tommy, who cheerily proclaims “I’m independent as a hog on ice,” Childress paints a bold portrait of a confident Black woman who asserts she will always be “cussin’ and fightin’ and lookin’ out for my damn self ‘cause ain’ nobody else ‘round to do it, dontcha know.” Olivia Washington’s vital performance reveals Tommy’s sensitive nature glimmering beneath her brash manner. Grantham Coleman’s easy charm makes the rather insufferable Bill somewhat palatable. Brooks Brantly and Lakisha May neatly depict the superficial neighbors. Designer Dede Ayite dresses everybody with a keen eye, while Nikiya Mathis’ wig and hair design proves essential to Tommy’s character.

Extended silliness such as this musical escapade needs to be grounded in a few quiet minutes of genuine emotion, and ironically this moment occurs in Operation Mincemeat when a fake identity for the corpse is being forged. As an item to pack into the guy’s wallet, the starchy spinster Hannah volunteers to produce a letter from his girlfriend, which develops into the tender ballad 'Dear Bill.' As Hannah writes ever more intimate domestic details, it becomes clear she is addressing her own sweetheart who did not return from the Great War. Jak Malone’s simple, oh-so-touching rendition likely nabs him awards later this spring.

Giving authenticity to this latest jukebox show, notable Hispanic artists appear among the dozen musicians who grace a bandstand usually kept at center stage during the proceedings. They masterfully deliver variously swinging or sorrowful or sensual arrangements of vintage heartbreakers like 'Dos Gardenias' that illustrate and/or decorate a nostalgic, at times dramatic, storyline set mostly in mid-1950s Havana as the coming Cuban Revolution smolders. I am no authority on Afro-Cuban anything, but it is wonderfully easy to drown in the dreamy music lovingly being made by the artists who light up the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre.

The playwright, director Sam Yates, and scenic designer Rosanna Vize are credited along with the actor as co-creators of the production. Their fine contributions, plus James Farncombe’s shadowy and strategic lighting design, provide for a seamless staging that showcases Scott’s virtuosity. While Vanya ultimately turns out to be more about Andrew Scott’s performance than Anton Chekhov’s drama, it is unlikely that most spectators will mind.

Much of the play is serious in nature, but just like that heavenly apparition, funny moments sporadically occur. Not all of the elements and themes of The Great Privation meld, nor does the patchy story conclude so much as simply stop when the characters inexplicably erupt into a Shabooya sort of roll call chant that blends into the actors’ bows. Although the playwright cannot (or perhaps chooses not to) tie together its myriad parts, The Great Privation retains interest as an ambitious if not always compelling work. For better or worse, the play represents the kind of challenging composition from a fresh voice that audiences expect from Soho Rep.