Peter Marks

In “Hell's Kitchen,” they've crafted a perfectly nice musical out of the soul-fired songbook of Alicia Keys.

Barry Manilow and Bruce Sussman had been striving for years to acquaint Broadway patrons with this group’s true story. Their stick-to-itiveness finally paid off with “Harmony,” the efficient if formulaic “new” musical that marked its official opening Monday night at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre.

The sinewy, wired Abbott embodies Danny’s necessary thuggishness. Plaza, too, has an affinity for a feral character desperate for a safe haven. Still, like Danny and Roberta’s bond, the production is unfinished business.

The talent in this kid-friendly extravaganza is estimable, nevertheless, starting with a charming Nichelle Lewis as Dorothy: Her slippers may be made of silver rather than rubies, but she’s still wending her way to the Emerald City on the Yellow Brick Road in the company of the Scarecrow (Avery Wilson), Tinman (Phillip Johnson Richardson) and the Lion (Kyle Ramar Freeman). The vocal prowess abounds in this trio — and so at times does the hamminess.

We’ve been through sharper existential crises with convergences of Sondheim characters over the years: the painted figures stuck forever together on the Seurat canvas in “Sunday in the Park with George,” the fairy-tale denizens wandering bewildered in the forest of “Into the Woods.” We’re consoled in “Here We Are” with one more chance to gather together with Sondheim, to hear his irreplaceable voice on a stage. The resulting evening might not be stranded at square one, but it doesn’t satisfactorily cross the finish line, either.

The musical that is “Gutenberg! The Musical” will never be mistaken for “West Side Story,” but that is really not the point. Brown and King have packed the show with numbers that manage to be both entertaining and as clunky as a ’67 station wagon. And composed a piece that might be a bit more fitting in a cabaret than a Broadway theater. That is, of course, until you secure the services of the cutest couple on Broadway.

The playwright does at the end of this wickedly entertaining evening give in to the urge to highlight her characters’ plights a bit too baldly (sorry). Other than that, though, she and White so skillfully orchestrate her workplace comedy that you’re put in mind of the beauty parlor in “Steel Magnolias,” or, more potently, of a master such as August Wilson portraying the cabbies dispatched from a Pittsburgh storefront in “Jitney.”

The production is a lot more charming when it sidesteps ego and Etheridge just lets loose. Sprinkled in among her own songs, she includes “On Broadway” by Barry Mann, Cynthia Weil and Leiber and Stoller, and Joplin’s “Piece of My Heart.” I liked it especially when she came off the stage and wandered the audience, singing to enraptured theatergoers.

A godawful White character prowls “Purlie Victorious” — the extremely funny anti-racist farce receiving its first Broadway revival — and Jay O. Sanders is having the time of his life playing him. In fact, everyone in director Kenny Leon’s zanily vivacious production — including Leslie Odom Jr. as a dashing preacher, scheming for the money to found his own integrated Georgia church — seems rhapsodically absorbed in the mechanics of Ossie Davis’s wise 1961 comedy.

I was glad I chose a spot on the floor. Things do get a bit crowded, although nowhere near as claustrophobic as the original downtown version of the show in 2013. Fatboy Slim’s jolting tunes, melodic and insistent, send scintillating vibrations through your nervous system; you can’t help but plug into the production’s current. Since the show is more party than parable, the management might want to consider a few more minutes of music after the curtain calls. Because “Here Lies Love” is the kind of stimulant that makes you believe you could dance all night.

On Broadway, it’s the summer of Alex. Edelman, that is. As the headliner of “Just for Us,” Edelman confirms he’s one of the funniest minds of his generation. Or maybe any generation. By virtue of numerous engagements — off-Broadway, across the sea, on NPR, at D.C.’s Woolly Mammoth Theatre — “Just for Us” has been chiseled to diamond-cut perfection. It had its official opening Monday night at the Hudson Theatre, a joyous 90-minute excursion through Edelman’s insights and autobiography. And framed by an event Edelman thrust himself into, horrifying and fascinating and pathetic, that gives “Just for Us” a riveting topicality.

The Madrids attempt to express the declarations of freedom and defiance in the Spears songbook through their angular movement, but there’s no particular development of choreographic style over the show’s 2½ hours. The exhilaration wears off as the moves repeat again and again. Too much tutting, and a show set in a fantasyland starts to look like a recycled concert routine.

But apart from Laurie Metcalf’s enjoyable portrayal of an inscrutable mountain woman, and a set by Scott Pask out of the Grimms’ grimmest fairy tale, the play itself exists in a sort of gray zone — neither particularly terrifying nor profound. It belongs in that lesser rank of thrillers that whip up suspense by withholding vital information, the kind that requires gullible characters to take the bait and audiences to wait for clarification before the final bows.

It’s lovely to look at, courtesy of David Bengali’s virtuosic video wall and Arjun Bhasin’s gorgeous costumes. Vishal Bhardwaj’s melodies are consistently sprightly, and the show boasts some appealing performances, especially in Salena Qureshi’s Aditi and Deven Kolluri as her banker husband-to-be, Hemant, from Hoboken, N.J. Still, there’s something pat about the whole enterprise, redolent of the canned characters and contrived plot twists of a vintage family TV comedy, that stops 'Monsoon Wedding' short of specialness.

They paint a city of pink sunsets and bland cliches. And though they dance up a storm, all we get is a haze.

I was captivated the first time I saw Comer perform this piece last year, in London’s West End. I was even more mesmerized the second time. The act is prodigious in every respect. Framed by set and costume designer Miriam Buether’s wall of case-filled binders — illuminated from time to time by Natasha Chivers as if they’re sacred manuscripts — Comer unspools Tessa’s nightmare at breakneck pace. A manic energy is apparent, a compulsion to relate the character’s experience with the precision of a member of London’s Inns of Court.

DeBessonet's approach suits the musical’s prescriptions so well, because the concert format strips away many of the usual embellishments. The story is all. David Rockwell’s ingenious set plants the 17-member orchestra, conducted by John Bell, in the middle of the woods, with birch trees descending from the heavens as the characters embark on their forest quests. Tyler Micoleau illuminates the backstage wall in ethereal ombré hues of pinks and greens, and Andrea Hood’s amusing costumes walk a runway existing somewhere between chic and Grimm.

Warning: Do not re-watch the 2000 movie “Almost Famous” if you plan to see “Almost Famous,” the new Broadway musical. Because the movie is so good. And the stage version is so less good. Comparisons are anathema but seem unavoidable in the case of this musical, which marked its official Broadway opening Thursday night at the Bernard Jacobs Theatre. Cameron Crowe, who wrote and directed the movie, starring Billy Crudup and Kate Hudson, recycles the screenplay, including large chunks of dialogue, for the Broadway incarnation. And though Tom Kitt — winner of a Pulitzer Prize for his own, highly original musical, “Next to Normal” — collaborated with Crowe on some new songs, the show is not much more than a wan rewind of what transpired on-screen.

Make no mistake: After an evening on Broadway with Corey Hawkins, Yahya Abdul-Mateen II and the electrifying theatrical crossfire of 'Topdog/Underdog,' you'll never again think of three-card monte as a mere money-grubbing street hustle. Thanks to the wild imagination of Suzan-Lori Parks - who won a Pulitzer Prize for the play in 2002 - the game is engineered as the centerpiece in the blistering struggle between Hawkins's Lincoln and Mateen's Booth, brothers possessing little in life and even less to hope for.

The remarkable revival of '1776,' cast entirely with female, transgender and nonbinary actors, is not as much about the pronouns as it is about a verb. Because the delightful ensemble owns the script and score of this 1969 musical as if the story of the signing of the Declaration of Independence were written explicitly about them. That sense of new ownership joyfully pervades this splendid production, which opened officially Thursday night at Broadway's American Airlines Theatre. Directors Jeffrey Page and Diane Paulus adhere to the philosophy of 'Hamilton's' Lin-Manuel Miranda, the founding father of the proposition that all men (and women and trans and nonbinary people) are created equal when it comes to serenading us about the birth of the country.

I also know from long experience that every Holocaust work ends, spiritually or physically or philosophically, at Auschwitz. But that knowledge - and Stoppard's immersing an audience in a story whose every plot point essentially has been documented before - did not prevent me from erupting in heaving sobs after 2 hours and 10 minutes in the Longacre Theatre, where the play marked its official opening Sunday night.

When Lea Michele launches missile-like into 'Don't Rain on My Parade,' she doesn't just bring down the house. She brings down the whole darn block.... Face it, though: This is the Lea Michele Show, and her presence has the effect of setting the playhouse in order. 'I'm the Greatest Star,' with its pulse-quickening affirmation of a young woman of enormous appetites and gifts, is delivered now with the full-throated confidence that leads easily to the conclusion that, yup, this is a star. Equally potent are Fanny's torchy 'The Music That Makes Me Dance,' and a finale in which Fanny pulls herself out of an emotional cellar, proof of the preternatural resilience that defines a mortal who thrives in the limelight.

The scintillating new revival of 'Into the Woods' is rendered so harmoniously and meticulously, you'll swear you even hear the punctuation marks in the lyrics. Here at the St. James Theatre, where the musical had its official Broadway opening Sunday night, the memory of the late Stephen Sondheim is honored in the best way possible: by actors who really know how to sing, and singers who really know how to act.

The songs in the 90-minute show take us from blistering satire to bracing self-discovery, so the evening evinces a profound emotional range; our thoughts turn not so much for sustenance to Usher's Thoughts, though, as to Usher himself. That's activated, under Brackett's guidance, by Spivey's keenly permeable portrayal. Usher affects a superior air about art and is so down on himself that he sabotages his opportunity for meaningful intimacy. Even so, his honesty and pain render him entirely lovable. And the musically gifted Spivey, with his dynamic presence and openheartedness, proves the ideal vessel for docking an audience buoyantly in Jackson's thoughts. The composer-lyricist already has that Pulitzer, but now he deserves the Tony. Spivey should get one, too. Heck, give 'A Strange Loop' a lot of Tonys. That's only just, for the best Broadway musical of the season.

Given the pedigree of the brassy 'Don't Rain on My Parade' - one of those killer damn-the-torpedoes anthems that reliably raise heart rates - Feldstein has the immense task of sending the audience into intermission on a literal high note. She sings her heart out, and if it were just heart that was called for, she'd be a Fanny Brice for the ages.