Michael Sommers — Theater Critic

Certainly the show is a must-see due to Audra McDonald’s beautifully sung and fiercely acted portrayal of Bess. Sporting a scar on her cheek, fire in her eyes and plenty of star power, McDonald fleshes out a believably human portrait of a flawed, fallen woman struggling to get back on her feet. Extra thrills that McDonald delivers include her spooky rendition of “Leaving for the Promised Land” and a deeply-felt “I Loves You, Porgy.”

The show occasionally jolts but it generally fails to electrify viewers or inspire much pity for its hard-luck protagonists. Perhaps a full-blown operatic treatment is the only way to illuminate a story as dark as this one.

Opening with 'Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,' Jackman expertly cavorts through several tuneful medleys, most notably a high-kicking salute to classic movie musicals. A freely-interpreted 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' and a resonant journey through Billy Bigelow's 'Soliloquy' from 'Carousel' are other standouts, while a segment involving the Australian outback and its native musicians offers a soulful change in mood.

John Turturro staged the plays. Because the material is so poor it’s impossible to assess his work. Three-time Tony-winning designer Santo Loquasto provides a trio of homely settings. Since each play involves unattractive characters being unpleasant, these environs prove to be relatively appropriate.

Evidently “The Mountaintop” was taken very seriously last year in London, where it won an Olivier Award. Frankly, I think the play is well-meaning rubbish that trivializes an extraordinary man.

Sure, Roundabout Theatre Company's 'Man and Boy' revival may be dismissed as merely so much cheese and ham by some viewers, but I find it yummy. Anyone with a taste for old-fashioned Broadway theatrics richly furnished will enjoy the production that opened Sunday at American Airlines Theatre.

Watching this elaborate if numbing attraction at the Foxwoods, theatergoers with long memories may recall the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical “Starlight Express,” which opened in 1987 and was the most expensive-ever show of its day. Costing a cool $8 million, the musical involved roller-skating performers impersonating trains running on tracks laid around the auditorium, lasted 700-odd performances and never paid off its investment both commercially and as satisfying theater for adults. While there is certainly a significant audience for junk food-style entertainment on Broadway, I wonder whether the million empty calories represented by “Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark” will be tasty enough to attract sufficient customers for a very long time.

Meanwhile, those vintage song hits just keep on coming and Baby Boomers who are pushovers for nostalgic entertainment may well be diverted by “Baby, It’s You!,” which is synthetic in composition but thoroughly expert in delivery.

Directed by George C. Wolfe and Joel Grey (who took over the role of Ned from Brad Davis during the original run), the production clearly is a labor of love. Under their guidance, the company’s acting is bold and powerful, with a genuinely raw edge to its emotions that rubs the starch out of the play’s overtly socio-political contents. The look is appropriately stark, with a white box of a set subtly designed by David Rockwell that gradually grows darker with the play’s mounting toll of mortality.

Newcomers to “The House of Blue Leaves” are unlikely to see beyond Cromer’s misguided staging to appreciate the play itself while people who know and love it are advised to skip this unworthy occasion.

Cynics may feel they're watching an animated civics lesson, but the play's plentiful humor drowns their doubts in laughter. Kanin’s potent mix of mirth and truth is expertly served by Frank Wood as the glib, self-hating attorney, Terry Beaver as the uneasy Senator up for sale and Patricia Hodges as a sporty Congressional matron. Never removing his fedora in the 'cherce' role of the junkman's cousin and slavey, Michael McGrath lopes around like a guy out of Damon Runyon.

An award-winning hit in London, “Jerusalem” is very, very, very English in its cultural references and significance. As the play wends its garrulous way towards a baleful conclusion, some American viewers may wonder why they should care about Johnny, a messy wastrel who idly corrupts adolescents. But that would be missing the higher pretensions of Butterworth’s drama and certainly not appreciating Rylance’s deeply-immersed depiction of Johnny.

Regarding the buffet of new Broadway tuners concocted from recent movies: If “Priscilla Queen of the Desert” is too hot and “Catch Me If You Can” is too cold for the taste of middle-of-the-musical-road consumers, then “Sister Act” is juuuuuust right.

Bowing on Sunday at the Marquis Theater, “Wonderland” sports good performances, snazzy costumes and even some attractive tunes by Frank Wildhorn but writer-director Gregory Boyd’s approach proves pointless because it sheds no bright or at least interesting 21st-century insights on the Victorian material.

The production's truly magical component is provided by Handspring Puppet Company, which created the life-sized animals. The russet-colored Joey, his wartime comrade Topthorn and more creatures, equine or otherwise, are exquisitely-detailed creations that amazingly come to life both through their design by Adrian Kohler with Basil Jones and the remarkable animation given them by their puppeteers.

Shapiro directs her actors to play the comedy very truthfully but quickly on an impressive setting designed by Todd Rosenthal that rapidly flips between three different apartments. A metal staircase that zigzags towards the heavens, a vertical slice of Manhattan skyline and a vast, empty billboard frame looming above the action lends visual grandeur to a human comedy that some viewers are likely to recognize as being all too close to home.

A thoroughly professional endeavor, “Catch Me If You Can” is not the most brilliant or original musical ever to land on Broadway, but it confidently provides audiences with a tuneful diversion that flies along very agreeably.

Others perfectly in tune with the 1930s period include frisky John McMartin as a tipsy tycoon, a properly ripping Adam Godley as a British nobleman (who tears into “The Gypsy in Me” hilariously) and cutie-patootie Jessica Stone as the gun-moll who slays most of the crew. Speaking of whom, the ensemble is uniformly fleet in performance and sweet both to the eye and ear. Costume designer Martin Pakledinaz dresses everyone beautifully according to their characters and physical types. (Loved Reno’s perky halo hat worn when she boarded the boat!)

Depicting the philosophical tiger with grim humor, a gruff-voiced, soulful Williams submerges his bravura skills into the ensemble work of his fellow actors. Respectively playing the conflicted translator and increasingly cerebral Marine, Moayed and Fleischer unerringly chart their characters' evolutions. Titizian suavely portrays the amoral Uday's ghost - who totes his dead brother's head in a plastic bag - with a jaunty ferocity that's scary.

The featured players are good but their performances appear to be dialed down somewhat in deference to their star. John Larroquette makes an affable J.B. Biggley and Rose Hemingway looks pretty in pink as Rosemary. One wishes that Christopher J. Hanke provided a more eccentric spin on Frump but Tammy Blanchard’s relatively subtle turn as the helplessly sexy Hedy is sweeter than the usual vixen caricature. A droll Rob Bartlett is an endearing fellow both as a mailroom drudge and as a ranking tycoon.

The wonderful zest that everybody packs into their performances suggests that they love doing this brilliant show, and who can blame them? Let’s pray that the Messrs. Parker and Stone are dreaming up yet another original musical to brighten up dear old Broadway.

Devoted fans of John Leguizamo are likeliest to appreciate 'Ghetto Klown,' his latest solo piece, which opened Tuesday at the Lyceum Theater. As for everybody else, well, witnessing Leguizamo as he talks on and on - and on - for nearly two and a half hours regarding his well-known Latin-Queens roots and his spotty film career and his messy private life turns out to be an increasingly tiresome example of an egocentric actor getting so wrapped up in his lovely self that he forgets to be entertaining.

A wildly flashy musical version of a 1994 cult film, “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert” sashayed into the Palace on Sunday, all fun, fantastic frocks and fabulousness – but not really all that much heart.

The revival’s design aspects are handsome – Donald Holder’s lighting nicely eases the transitions in time – while composer Corin Buckeridge’s piano music adds greatly to the show’s increasing wistfulness in mood. Keeping the play’s underlying emotions rather on the cool side, Leveaux grievously errs by usually pacing the conversations at a hasty clip. No doubt the director knows the play very well but he should not assume that American audiences can follow its British and Stoppardian intricacies quite so easily.

For all of their at times strenuous emoting, the actors cannot shout down the drama’s heavy creaking. Give “That Championship Season” another few decades to, well, season, and perhaps it will improve with further age. Unfortunately for now, it’s a former winner that should have stayed in retirement.