Robert Hofler — Theater Critic

Jim Barne and Kit Buchan wrote the songs and the book for this rom-com two-hander, and they begin “Two Strangers” with real promise. The young man Dougal (Tutty) is newly arrived at JFK from London and eager to meet his American father for the very first time. Dad’s getting married and the bride’s sister, Robin (Pitts), picks him up at the airport. As meet-cutes go, this one turns very problematic in Act 2, if not before.

The humor depends entirely on 20-20 hindsight. The scientist, the divorcee and her obnoxious niece (Kayli Carter, being obnoxious) visit a fair exhibition that predicts what the world will be in the year 1960. They all receive an “I Saw the Future” button. No surprise, the scientist knows what’s really going to happen, and his oblique but spot-on remarks about the future provoke mild giggles of recognition from the audience.

David Cromer directs, and a hallmark of his many stellar productions is the actors’ comic timing. No one directs comedy better than Cromer; he invariably finds the humor in adversity. And there’s something else that makes him one of the great directors: He champions and takes on plays by writers even an avid theatergoer has probably never heard of. This autumn, he preceded “Cartozians” with the exquisite “Caroline” by Preston Max Allen. If Cromer is directing, you know it’s worth seeing.

The biggest pleasure of this prestige production is watching how Icke pastes these modern references onto a classic story. It’s often fun to watch, but never more than clever. Icke also panders to one of the theater’s largest demos by having one of Jocasta and Oedipus’ sons, Polyneices (James Wilbraham), be outed by his brother, Eteocles (Jordan Scowen), at a family dinner. Because he’s such a wonderful father, Oedipus reassures Polyneices of his love and support by delivering a speech written by someone at PFLAG.

Based on the Marcel Pagnol film, “The Baker’s Wife” was supposed to open on Broadway in 1976, or thereabouts, but shuttered on its way to New York City, the most likely culprit being the abominable showman-producer David Merrick. Productions have popped up here and there over the years, and fortunately for New Yorkers, a stellar production of “The Baker’s Wife” opened Tuesday at the Classic Stage Company. It’s by far the year’s best revival of a stage musical. If there’s any justice, this long-neglected musical by Joseph Stein and Stephen Schwartz will finally make it to Broadway with this great ensemble completely intact.

The bad news for Trump is that Obama now has a musical dedicated to his time in the White House. It’s aptly called “44: The Musical,” and opened Thursday at the Daryl Roth Theatre. The good news for 45 and 47 is that the show is “awful,” as in the original definition of the word, which is “full of awe.”

“Kyoto” had its U.S. premiere Monday at Lincoln Center’s Vivian Beaumont Theater, and it is yet another British import filled with Big Ideas served up on a sterile monolithic set that screams “prestige” even before you sit down.

Samuel D. Hunter’s latest begins as a very funny two-hander comedy in which Laurie Metcalf plays another of her sharp-tongued curmudgeons and Micah Stock brings to the stage a more svelte version of Brendan Fraser’s obese recluse from “The Whale,” also by Hunter. We know Metcalf can be a hilarious bitch. What’s fun is that Stock’s tortured schlub of a nephew turns out to be just as skilled at throwing the insults back at her.

When Schiff’s book disappoints by simply regurgitating her screenplay, the original score by Gwendolyn Sanford and Brandon Jay provides the necessary fresh energy. It’s nothing more than bubblegum, but like Hubba Bubba, the songs come in a wide variety of flavors and colors.

When Bess Wohl’s “Liberation” opened Off Broadway all the way back in February, it would have been ridiculous to grace it with best-of superlatives. Now that “Liberation” has opened on Broadway this Tuesday at the James Earl Jones Theatre, it’s entirely apt to write that it’s the year’s best play. There are only a few other new plays to open in 2025 and I’ve seen most of them in previews. Bank on it: “Liberation” remains the best.

“Ragtime,” like “Les Miz,” gives anthems a very bad name. DeBessonet emphasizes their excessiveness by having her cast, especially Joshua Henry in the Coalhouse role, hold on to a note well passed its sell-by date. It’s difficult to tell if people are applauding mid-song because they’re impressed by Henry’s lung power or if they just want him to get off the note and finish the song. DeBessonet’s blunt direction only encourages us to applaud before the actors have finished singing.

For Cooper, “Oh Happy Day!” is not so much a step forward from “Ain’t No Mo’” as it is a step sideways. It shows that he can also write a full two-act 130-minute family drama. Not that this playwright has abandoned his irreverent comic streak. God takes many forms in “Oh Happy Day!” and the ones that can be written about in this review are the fiercely attired (costumes by Qween Jean) girl group that features Holy Divine (Tiffany Mann), Mighty Divine (Shelea Melody McDonald) and Glory Divine (Latrice Pace). They sing so many great gospel-inspired songs, by Donald Lawrence, that “Oh Happy Day!” at moments turns into a rollicking musical.

What’s very entertaining about “Let’s Love!” and even a bit jolting is that three of the female characters (Mary McCann, Aubrey Plaza, Mary Wiseman) get all the dirtiest lines. In other words, Cohen is writing female characters like no other playwright today. In light of all this feminine off-color, it’s no surprise that four of the male characters (Chris Bauer, Dion Graham, Noah Robbins, CJ Wilson) emerge as very reactive, if not a little colorless at times.

Which brings this review to River Lipe-Smith. If I’ve ever seen a more accomplished performance from a child actor on stage, I can’t think of it. Over and over again, this young actor delivers a zinger with the comic timing of a veteran stand-up comic. It’s one of the great things about Allen’s writing and Cromer’s direction: They know how to win an audience’s sympathy not through tears but laughter.

There’s something else that Penford does that’s really grating. Even though he has 10 actors on stage, he relies on leads Clark and Robards to play minor characters with a mere switch of a hairdo or a shirt. It’s especially unfortunate to see Clark, a fine actor, resort to cheap tricks to go from playing the levelheaded mom to the cute grandma to some rowdy young street urchin.

Regarding the broken link in this ensemble, what Reeves does have going for him is a look. The late theater illustrator Al Hirschfeld would have drawn him with a minimum of very long lines. This Gogo is so tall and thin as to be suffering from severe desiccation, the eyes small beads of black glass, the body so starved for another of Didi’s carrots that hair has sprung out all over his face in a kind of hirsute protest. Gilmour’s costumes emphasize this physical starkness by making Gogo’s suit too small, Didi’s suit too big. Of course, there are the Laurel & Hardy black derbies, also worn by Pozzo and Lucky. Gogo and Dido aren’t so much big and thin as they are tall and short. They are also the stomach and the brain, the id and the ego. But a look only goes so far. It is not a performance, and Reeves very studied and mannered delivery of his lines is enough to ban the word “staccato” from Webster’s.

The new theater season has its first must-see musical. It’s “Mexodus,” written and performed by Brian Quijada and Nygel D. Robinson, which had its New York City premiere Thursday at Audible’s Minetta Lane Theatre after a few regional productions. You’ll be entertained, but you might learn something, too.

The three stars appear to be having great fun even when their respective characters are at each other’s throat. It doesn’t matter that Yasmina Reza wrote stick figures rather than characters for her play “Art,” which won the Tony Award for best play back in 1998. She instead sets up a series of premises in which Marc (Bobby Cannavale), Serge (Neil Patrick Harris) and Yvan (James Corden) are able to sound off against each and take sides. Friendship triangles like this one are made so someone feels left out. The current revival of “Art” opened Tuesday at the Music Box, and it is a reminder of how far the theater has traveled since the late 20th Century.

Cloud’s play is a series of snippets, told out of order, that are grabbed from Rick Lazes and Seth Koch’s McQueen biography. Every scene is so short and undeveloped that the title character emerges as a jumble of clichés produced by an abusive father, an adoring mother, snobbish employers, and HIV-infected lovers.

The self-proclaimed “Roastmaster General” made his Broadway debut Monday at the Nederland Theatre in a one-man show titled “Jeff Ross: Take a Banana for the Ride.” It may be the most sickness and death focused show ever put on a stage and that includes the Pulitzer Price-winning plays “Wit,” by Margaret Edson, and “Angels in America,” by Tony Kushner.

The “Mamma Mia!” that opened Thursday at the Winter Garden is a touring production, and at intermission I was not thinking of the recently destroyed World Trade Center. I went much further back, to the 1970s when vanity productions like “Angel,” “Doctor Jazz,” “Got tu Go Disco” and “Platinum” took up their brief residences on the Rialto among now-classic shows by Sondheim, Kander & Ebb and Lloyd Webber. The current “Mamma Mia!” remains under the control of its original director, Phyllida Lloyd; production designer, Mark Thompson; and other creatives. Frankly, the show looks so tacky that it could be the original 2001 production with a not-very-good paint job.

It doesn’t mean anything to call “Prince Faggot” the best play of the 2025-26 theater season, which is only about six weeks old. It does mean something to put Tannahill’s play in the same august company as Bess Wohl’s “Liberation,” Branden Jacobs-Jenkins’ “Purpose” and Emil Weinstein’s “Becoming Eve,” all of which opened earlier this year. As with these American writers, Tannahill, a Canadian, is a great storyteller, and he runs fast and furiously with this riveting narrative: What happens if a contemporary prince comes out as gay and marries another man when he’s finally king?

Roger is angry, but as cunningly played by Krasinski, he is also kinda sweet, which is why, I think, the laughter from the men in the audience may be far less pointed in its attack. Krasinski expertly dons lamb’s clothing to play a man who’s basically a pig. Krasinski is also very effective at playing all the people in Roger’s life. He makes us want to go to the ‘Angry Alan’ website, to which Roger has become addicted and to which he even donates one month of child support.

Great novels and great movies rarely translate into great musicals, much less very good ones. When it comes to suitable source material, a second-rate book or film often makes a more successful transition to the stage. If a novel or a movie is classic, it fits the chosen medium to perfection. Adapting them to the stage automatically destroys what’s great. In scene after scene, Lisa Loomer and Nell Benjamin’s book for the new musical “Real Women Have Curves” is a vast improvement on George LaVoo and Josefina Lopez’s screenplay, which is based on Lopez’s play. Where the 2002 film dawdles, the musical defines and drives with great narrative precision its timely tale of Latina immigrants who make dresses in a Los Angeles shop.

Get ready to book the Palace, the Palladium, the Hollywood Bowl and the Baths of Caracalla! “Just in Time,” the new Bobby Darin bio-musical that opened Saturday at Circle in the Square, makes it clear that headliner Jonathan Groff is ready for his own solo show on any of the world’s most famous stages