Raven Snook — Theater Critic

There are many wonderful exchanges as these seekers clash and sometimes connect. Even the small talk feels epic, and it all leads up to a searing climax that I recalled vividly from the last Broadway revival in 2009. It's just as powerful in this production: a stunning depiction of reconciliation, reckoning and release that makes Joe Turner impossible to shake.

At least this confounding slog of a production looks great at the New Group's new home at the Theater at St. Clement's. Scenic designer Derek McLane's infinite back wall of shelves feels appropriately like a prison, and Jeff Croiter's lighting design smartly employs moments of jolting brightness amid the dark. But unfortunately, given the talent involved, this Adding Machine falls short of the sum of its parts.

I first saw Burnout Paradise in its brief 2024 run at Brooklyn's St. Ann's Warehouse, and it was one of my favorite theatrical experiences of that season. Although the cramped Astor Place Theatre is less friendly to audience participation, revisiting the show provided a welcome rush of kamikaze joy. The four runners—Claire Bird, William Strom, Dominic Weintraub and Hugo Williams—are marvelous multitaskers, as quick with their quips as they are with their pace. Ava Campbell serves as a charming ringmaster, explaining the rules, overseeing the timer, handing out Gatorade and playfully pushing Pony Cam merch. Together, they offer a unique adrenaline-fueled performance every night. Exhaustion has never been so invigorating.

Initiative isn’t flawless. The roles of Tony and Ty are underwritten, and a climactic tragedy seems contrived. And yes, the marathon running time—a rarity amid the current vogue for short, intermissionless works—can feel indulgent and overwhelming. But in a way, that's appropriate: Growing up can feel that way, too. It's a pleasure to get to know Initiative’s appealing characters so fully, and to wonder what might happen to them after the end of the play. Two of them, at least, seem to have made good: They went on to create this ambitious, empathetic, singular theatrical experience.

In a moment of gaping political wounds and sores, a high-spirited musical comedy about Barack Obama may sound like a balm. Sadly, the overlong and tonally befuddled 44—written, directed and produced by TV writer Eli Bauman, who campaigned for Obama in Las Vegas as a young man—is often as much of a slog as the partisan idiocy it mocks.

The big-belting Courtney may not nail Veronica’s sarcasm, but she sounds great in her numbers, especially the wistful "Seventeen.” And Likes's J.D. is a revelation. Best known for playing fresh-faced teens in Broadway’s Almost Famous and Back to the Future, he may have seemed an odd choice for this sinister role. But he manages to make J.D. both crush- and cringe-worthy, sympathetic but ultimately scary. When he woos her with "Our Love Is God," you get why Veronica's smitten, but you also root for her, in the end, to fight back against the seductions of violence. In a new cultural landscape in which cruelty is often the point, the mere idea of choosing kindness over killing makes this Heathers’s message feel radical.

John Proctor Is the Villain has had multiple regional productions since its 2022 premiere, but it's hard to imagine a better mounting than its fast-paced and riveting Broadway incarnation, directed with clear-eyed compassion by Danya Taymor (who also directed The Outsiders, and knows her way around adolescent rebellion). Belflower has a supernatural gift for teenage vernacular and pop-culture touchstones, and the pitch-perfect cast makes you believe in these promising young women as they navigate puberty and the pitfalls of the patriarchy.

But unlike the bouts, which often last less than a minute, Sumo frequently feels sluggish. The humorous sequences are high points, especially a scene of spirited post-tournament karaoke, but the central narrative—leading up to an epic final showdown that pits empathy against aspiration—ultimately feels too pat; a subplot involving a taboo relationship is more gripping than the main story. The play is a solid contender, but it doesn't have quite enough surprising moves to rise to the level of champion.

Good Bones is very different in tone from Ijames's Pulitzer Prize-winning Fat Ham, but the two plays have several themes in common, including generational trauma, conflicting values and ever-present ghosts; exploring these questions from a socioeconomic perspective, not a racial one, shifts the stakes in interesting ways. (Even Earl is complicit in the changes to his community.) Director Saheem Ali, incisive as always, does what he can to animate Ijames’s contemplations of class, code-switching and the corrosive effects of gentrification, and the result is mostly engaging if not always convincing. There may be a great play inside Good Bones, but it needs a bit more fleshing out.

Eddie Izzard's experience as a marathon runner comes in handy in Hamlet, her one-woman workout of Shakespeare's classic. In addition to playing 23 different parts, she sprints around the theater, even up to the balcony, and fights herself in the climactic duel. It's an ambitious undertaking, and her passion for the play is evident. But it's not so much a triumph as a tour de forced.

While Walk on Through is occasionally self-indulgent, it's more often endearing, funny and relatable, and makes you yearn for a cast recording. And it's not all about Creel: Ryan Vasquez and his powerhouse vocals are shown off in a series of small roles, including a wry Pollock and the brooding Russian author Vsevolod Garshin; in a stirring if incongruous number, Sasha Allen blows the roof off the joint as the triumphant subject of Lucas Cranach the Elder's Judith with the Head of Holofernes. Dramatic lighting by Jiyoun Chang and fabulous orchestrations by the band help elevate the show beyond cabaret.

Ariel Levy and John Turturro's stage adaptation of Sabbath's Theater begins with a bang: Over-the-hill lecher Mickey Sabbath (Turturro) and his insatiable Croatian mistress, Drenka (Elizabeth Marvel), schtup with abandon in the opening scene. But the play goes flaccid fast. Despite the transgressiveness of the source material—the late Philip Roth's scabrous novel, considered a masterpiece by some and purely masturbatory by others—the play is an impotent affair, with three excellent actors working awfully hard to screw inert vignettes into a whole.