Nicole Serratore

There is a windup of rightous outrage that is meant to lead us from honoring a history of men lost too soon to AIDS to connect to a rage we should feel about our government today. These are generation defining moments, but the show does not build towards this. Instead, there is more of a sudden catapult of political ideas that just get launched towards us at the end. Rage about AIDS, our government, and the violence all around us. It wants to be a meaningful call to action, but how did we get here?

As for the play itself, this is a story of 20th century media, egregious government overreach and speaking truth to power. In a way, it is both timely and yet an outdated product of the past—a dichotomy I could not shake.

O’Rowe’s adaptation is sharp and clarifying. He cuts down some of Ibsen’s verbiage but it never sounds overly contemporary. He shaves away some of the one-the-nose-ness and excess from Ibsen. He lets the actors and performances fill in where Ibsen might explain.

O’Hara doesn’t seem all that interested in these characters’ relationships. They are simply the métier to present this thesis on white privilege and toxic masculinity—two topics I am very interested. But the delivery of the material makes it hard to hear the message he’s getting at. Reading the play afterwards I think some powerful moments got totally lost on stage. O’Hara keeps throwing this high-pitched bitchy-toned chum into the water to stir up these non-stop shark fights. But the constant sharpness undercuts the real human nature at issue.

Artist Larry Sultan spent 10 years photographing his parents in their southern California home and analysing their home movies for his 1992 photo memoir. Now, playwright Sharr White dramatises Sultan’s efforts in a play of the same name, directed by Bartlett Sher. Frustratingly, whatever complexity Sultan’s memoir holds translates into oversimplified family squabbles in White’s script, and is flattened into diluted comedy by Sher. Yet Nathan Lane and Zoë Wanamaker deliver strong character performances.

The cast does its damndest. Paymer and Crystal exude palpable brotherly warmth. Graff is the show's most valuable player, her comedic delivery almost upstaging Crystal. Bean sings the bejeezus out of her ballads. The cast members who cover multiple roles - Jordan Gelber, Brian Gonzales and Mylinda Hull - craft incredibly quick, precise sketches of their characters, ranging from Gelber's hulking Rod Steiger impression and slow-shuffling elderly actor to Gonzales' 10-year-old child. Harmon, meanwhile, is a bubbly pleasure, although underused. Scott Pask's scenic design mixes physical sets with helpful projections (the Borscht Belt map illustrations are colourful and zany). Paul Tazewell and Sky Switser's costume designs are accurate and fun, with over-the-top 1950s TV show costumes including a dancing hotdog and pack of cigarettes, and spot-on 1990s-era baby-doll dresses for Susan.

This is the first US production not to use Jerome Robbins' iconic choreography. In its place choreographer Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker creates frenetic energy using gymnastic flips and hints of breakdancing. Even though some of the elements feel strained, Van Hove's production successfully refreshes this classic by treating it as something both monumental and mortal.

Alex Timbers' production looks suitably Burton-esque while also attempting to give more of a backstory to the characters. Despite lots of solid laughs, some clever fourth-wall-breaking, and some strong performances, the middling rock-pop score and the unwieldy, sorrowful storyline sap some of the vitality from the original.

Macdonald extracts humour from the play but the outlandish disintegration in the second act does not quite come off, in part due to Dano's reticence. His introspective approach works well in the first act, but he is less convincing when he lets loose. Hawke, however, is superb. His Lee is a lizardy con man with limited hustle who's desperately playing his only hand. Belly jutting out, covered in sweat and filth like nothing could ever wash him clean, Hawke physically digs into the role. With an obscene finger gesture or a subtle slump in his posture, he alternatively radiates helplessness, shame, innocence, predation.

Though it boasts a stellar ensemble and considered direction by Rebecca Taichman, the production struggles in the first act which is played too broadly. But Taichman tightens things up in the second act...The performances are strong. Parry and Ebert exude quiet suffering. Brooke Bloom radiates energy as the lively socialist sister who disintegrates under her mother's cruelty. Elizabeth McGovern's frivolous matriarch is a little less varied but in keeping with the piece while Steven Boyer, as an ardent working-class suitor, becomes terrifying as his character ages.

With contrived accents and mannered performances, Terry Kinney's production of Arthur Miller's The Price lacks genuine dramatic punch. The tension in this family drama does not accrete, with each performer working against each other in tone and approach.

Jake Gyllenhaal has proven in plays, on and off Broadway (Constellations, If There is I Haven't Found It Yet), that he is an adroit stage actor. In his Broadway musical debut in Sunday in the Park with George, he demonstrates he can sing a notoriously challenging Sondheim score very well too. Gyllenhaal plays George Seurat, the artist too obsessed with his work to hold onto love. Annaleigh Ashford is Dot, his adoring model. She's full of comedic verve and is shattered by Dot's disappointments. Gyllenhaal's performance is one of quiet brooding and delicate anguish. He gives an achingly beautiful, self-reflective rendition of Finishing the Hat. His voice does not have the depth of some but he elucidates George's pain in his performance.

Those clamouring for Glenn Close's musical return to Broadway won't be disappointed. She gives a suitably grandiose performance as the reclusive screen legend Norma Desmond in Lonny Price's production of Sunset Boulevard. Close more than matches the fiery energy of the 40-piece orchestra. With extravagant gestures, sensationalised poses, and enough shiny, lavish leisure wear to bedazzle Liberace, she makes certain Desmond will forever loom large, even if the pictures around her got small.

Written in 1979 and first staged in 1982, the eighth play in Wilson's Pittsburgh cycle has never been performed before on Broadway. It collects the stories of these men at all stages of life who congregate in this ramshackle station. Ruben Santiago-Hudson's at times over-bright production saunters to a jazz score with the voices of colourful characters who reminisce, gossip, and argue.

The complicated narrative, with overwrought romantic plot, is kept in check by delightfully self-aware humour in the direction. Rousing ensemble numbers and delicate ballads sung by Groban and Benton are Malloy's strongest compositions, but many expository songs drag. Malloy's music often feels more coolly intellectual than gripping.