Sara Holdren

It’s a mark of Williams’s savvy—combined with the expert calibrations of his adaptation’s solo performer, Sarah Snook—that neither this moment nor any other in the show is approached with the heavy highlighter of relevancy. Wilde, with his withering disdain for moral snobbery, would have hated that, and this Dorian Gray stays true to its originator’s brilliant ghost, even as it winkingly inserts a phone selfie here and a creepy TikTok filter there. The show arrives on Broadway trailing acclaim from its London run, including an Olivier for Snook, and it works because it is, first and foremost, a sensory feast. Fast, clever, delicious, and performed by Snook with the giddy virtuosity of Simone Biles executing a floor routine, it reaches the gut and the heart lightly, thrusting like a fencer, by way of its playfulness and spectacle. It doesn’t need a bullhorn to talk about the now — just a great story and an acrobatic actor.

Operation Mincemeat isn’t exactly blazingly clever—the jokes fly thick and fast, and they tend toward broad grin-crackers rather than breathless zingers—but it overflows with good humor and heartfelt commitment… While some moments certainly sizzle more than others, there’s more than enough sincerity and goofy charisma on stage to keep the show powered.

To its creators’ great credit, the show’s form registers not as a celebrity stunt—or even, whatever the reality, as one of the many solo performances producers have gravitated toward in the era of COVID-altered theater—but as an intimate and sincere actor’s laboratory, a chance to turn one of Chekhov’s rangy, yearning ensembles into a kind of revelatory Russian doll, messing about with his inimitable voice in order to channel it to thrilling effect.

What makes Mescal’s performance so riveting is that, without ever blunting or apologizing for Stanley’s cruelty, he also reveals the soft belly of the role, the vulnerability and hurt that, for a man in his world with his upbringing, can naturally lead to violence. 'When we first met, me and you, you thought I was common,' he reminds Stella, who was raised with Blanche as part of the fading Southern aristocracy, at a former plantation called Belle Reve. 'How right you was, baby. I was common as dirt. You showed me the snapshot of the place with the columns. I pulled you down off them columns and how you loved it… And wasn’t we happy together, wasn’t it all okay till she showed here?

Jack O’Brien’s new attempt on Ibsen’s reviled and—eventually—revered truth-bomb doesn’t so much answer that question as sub it out for another less interesting one: What happens if you put a bunch of famous people in the show and, for the majority of its 110 minutes, play it pretty straight? In a streamlined, surprisingly low-key new translation by the Irish playwright Mark O’Rowe, this Ghosts doesn’t exactly founder, but it doesn’t haunt or horrify either. It feels stuck between times and impulses: 1880s Norway or now? Stylized or not? Unashamedly tragic or vaguely ironic?

More compelling is the play’s main subplot, which follows the relationship between Fumio (Red Concepción), a middle-ranking wrestler at the heya, and Ren (an imposing Ahmad Kamal), the hardest worker in the stable, top in the rankings underneath Mitsuo and an infinitely more humane soul. Some of Dring’s finest work happens in her exploration of the love between these two men — secretly romantic in nature — and of the wider, platonic yet intensely physical love shared by all the rikishi. As an implicit celebration of big bodies and of varying, deeply feeling masculinities, Sumo is at its most beautiful.

Mindell is a third-year student in Columbia’s playwriting MFA, and On the Evolutionary Function of Shame is receiving a full production as part of Second Stage’s Next Stage Festival, which is dedicated to supporting early-career writers. That’s great — and, at the same time, even given space to breathe on Signature Center’s big Irene Diamond Stage, the play still feels like it’s searching for itself. Along the way—and this is the real rub—it’s too eager to show its work while, at the same time, not having done quite enough of it.

The stage of Grangeville is never flooded with light — Hunter’s characters never reach so complete a catharsis — but something does grow out of the darkness. Two men who began with an ocean between them now share a pool of light. It’s not nothing, and who knows how it may grow.

I hate to be a Grinch at Christmas, but it’s not a good sign when your Broadway show has more than one Reddit thread asking if it’s a scam. So things currently stand for Simon Rich’s All In: Comedy About Love. Bothered by the lack of indefinite article there? I hear you, but alas, for All In to qualify as a comedy about love, it would actually have to be a play. Instead, it’s an expensive staged reading with a rotating cast of celebrities.

Despite its indestructible book and score and several strong performances, the show Wolfe has built never quite hangs together. Its gestures at times feel stock, at other times scattered, and as in much of Wolfe’s work with Loquasto, there’s a sense of getting stuck somewhere between worlds. Is this a scrappy production, or isn’t it? Well, of course it isn’t, but one gets the sense that somewhere along the line, it might secretly have wanted to be.

Hecht and Gray are excellent here and throughout, as is Shapiro’s whole company. They’re not clowning — though there’s a delightful wink of a moment in which Irwin’s Don waxes misty-eyed over the “actually quite subtle” mime work of a former colleague. Rather, they’re performing that crucial aspect of theater, its function as a space of civic practice, quite literally a place where we rehearse the hardest conversations, where we experiment with how to put together a community. In his script’s epigraph, Spector quotes from Eula Bliss’s On Immunity, where Bliss herself cites a doctor who describes a certain vaccine as “important … from a public health standpoint” but “not as critical from an individual point of view.” “In order for this to make sense,” writes Bliss, “one must believe that individuals are not part of the public.” It’s this cognitive dissonance, so widespread and so clamorous and so tragically American, that theater, by its very nature, is always addressing, and in Eureka Day that essential refutation takes on explicit and eloquent form.

As The Blood Quilt lumbers toward its finish, Hall keeps loading it up with revelations, each one more ostensibly shocking than the last. Except that, inside the formulaic container she’s built, none of them is really a shock at all. The inevitable storm blows in, but by that point, its blows and buffets are too artificial to rattle us. There is, however, an element to the production that transcends that feeling of schematic craftsmanship: the quilts themselves.

Shit. Meet. Fan.’s ostentatious awfulness just comes off as incurious and hacky. Is it any surprise that the few shreds of humanity and solidarity in the play will almost always be displayed by Logan and Hannah, the two members of the group who aren’t white? Or that they’re the only ones able to walk out of the flaming wreckage with some dignity intact? What exactly is revelatory at this point about “Men Suck,” “White People Suck”? Honestly, I might still pause for “Rich People Suck,” but the play is more interested in identity than in economics. In the end, Shit. Meet. Fan. feels almost like some kind of bitter prank: Get a bunch of famous TV actors together and use them to tell the audience “Shame, shame, shame.” What a waste of theater’s tools; what a sour, narrow use to put them to.

In turning the Avett Brothers’ take on this gruesome true story into a musical, Logan and director Michael Mayer were facing a strangely paradoxical task. On the one hand, the events are there, the songs are there, and the central characters and situations are just waiting to be brought to three-dimensional life. Conversely, that very straightforwardness is a potential trap. A piece of theater assembled from preexisting songs, or charting a known historical event, can wind up feeling by-the-numbers: The things we expect to happen happen, and along the way folks sing about them (or, more likely, they sing about slightly generalized circumstances adjacent to the specific ones onstage). Despite its creative team’s efforts to lace a capital-T Theme through the work, Swept Away often falls prey to this roteness. Logan, with the support of Scott and Seth Avett and their bandmate Bob Crawford, has chosen “salvation and redemption” as the play’s big idea, but its deployment is telly not showy — we hear a lot about it, but our pulses never really rise with the stakes.

The blithe big-tent-ism (which also seems to be Elton’s go-to interview stance) feels pat. Clearly the production’s not all that interested in people with serious Christian-conservative leanings, unless they have a whole lot of patience for endless puns about Jesus being “inside her/him/me/you” and “the sound of the Lord, coming right in your ear.” And if you are, to quote Tammy Faye’s version of Jimmy Swaggart, a “liberal-loving Marxist,” you’re probably too heartsick to find all this much fun.

Genre fiction is harder than people want to give it credit for, partly because 90 percent of it is world-building. Watching In the Amazon Warehouse Parking Lot, my brain kept jumping to Severance, a TV dystopia that’s got its t’s crossed and its i’s painstakingly dotted. (Just look at how much time that show spends explaining why a character can’t sneak a written message out of the office, even if she swallows it.) By contrast, Mantell’s characters are surrounded by unaddressed blips in internal logic — if the show were a Dungeons & Dragons game, the players would be endlessly riding the DM about loose ends and loopholes.

Marketing is marketing, and it might not have mattered then, but it certainly does now — now being the moment in which you can see all this high-key, try-hard set dressing clogging up Circle in the Square. At the center of the whole trendy, clubby, stuffed-animals-and-inflatable-furniture jumble is, as Cordelia once said to her dad, nothing. One could be forgiven for walking away from this show’s two (and a half) hours’ traffic thinking that maybe Romeo and Juliet is kind of mid after all. Such is the enervating effect of so aggressively clickbaity and uncurious a production.

Scherzinger’s ravenous performance provides a great part of the adrenaline, but the show is also jolted into new life by the collision of the spartan Lloydiverse with all the plush and purple of Lloyd Webber’s score. Chu described the composer as, in the ’80s, mounting a kind of maximalist coup on musical theater in the name of the operatic notion of primo la musica: “Nothing—neither plot nor character, not social issues, not even good taste—would be more important,” she wrote about his shows, “than what happened when that invisible beam of music shot across the darkened theater into their souls.” Productions of Lloyd Webber’s aspirations to Puccini have long tended to put a hat on a hat. The music throbs and flourishes; so does the stage, loaded up with gondolas and chandeliers, fog and fashion and fur and roller-skates. Lloyd, true to form, runs the other way. He and his collaborators, the set and costumes designer Soutra Gilmour, and the lighting designer Jack Knowles and video designers Nathan Amzi and Joe Ransom, craft a spare, echoing dungeon, girded by towers of LEDs. (This kind of seeming minimalism is its own circus trick, costing as it does millions of dollars.) Inside Gilmour’s vast, deceptively empty box, Knowles, Amzi, and Ransom’s incredible work is, in and of itself, a liquid, high-octane form of scenery. They’ve kept little but the fog.

That fundamental drive — that feeling of questing clarity, of the necessity of returning to an old play to excavate its glowing, undiminished heart — is what Kenny Leon’s new Broadway production lacks. It’s not painful, but it’s far from revelatory. In certain ways it treads safely down the middle of the road — gets in, gets on with it, gets it over with, and gets out. But Leon (like many post-Cromer directors of the play) also seems to be reaching for gestures to make this visit to Grover’s Corners new and different, and the flourishes wind up feeling tentative or hodgepodge-y, never coalescing.

Seventeen years is an eon in theater time, enough to make some plays feel as dated as fondue and Fawlty Towers, but David Henry Hwang’s Yellow Face has aged well. Currently receiving its belated Broadway premiere in a swift, tangy production by Leigh Silverman — who also directed its first New York run in 2007 — the play retains its bite in part because its essential subject, like that of many a good comedy, is human folly. “Are you familiar with the Chinese concept of ‘face’?” asks a character in Hwang’s play — that’s as in “losing face” or “saving face.” Although both the inciting incident and the core conflict of Yellow Face have to do with instances of Asian impersonation by a white actor, there’s a reason Hwang’s title has a space in it. It’s not just about white foolishness — it’s about his own, too.

Generosity is also a key ingredient in the mortar that holds together Good Bones, the new play from James Ijames now debuting at the Public after a run last year at Washington, D.C.’s Studio Theatre. Like Hwang, Ijames is concerned with questions not only of race and bias but of how Americans are perhaps more shaped by the idea of Americanness than shapers of it. Good intentions, hero complexes, defensive individuality, susceptibility to certain ideas of progress — on these fronts, DHH and Aisha, Ijames’s protagonist, might have much to discuss. It’s prickly territory, but, in their different ways, Hwang and Ijames both navigate it with humor and humanity. Fundamentally, and despite plenty of reasons to throw in the towel, they like people.

Whereas The Ferryman had death in its name yet packed the stage with warm-blooded life—animals and children, drink and dance and harvest festivities—The Hills of California, acts as its reverse image. The title, taken from the Johnny Mercer tune, is all glowing, crooning mid-century dreaminess, a life of sunny days and glamorous blue Pacific nights. But those hills are as distant and untouchable as the horizon, and the play they loom over is heavy with death. The result is that Butterworth—who puts plays together like machines, calibrated for passion or pathos at the pull of a certain lever—has less to hide behind. The sheer exuberant maximalism of The Ferryman went a long way toward obscuring, even at times absolving, the show’s overdependence on some pretty trite types and twists. In The Hills of California, Butterworth’s calculations are exposed. He’s cooking with the same stock, but the soup has gotten unappetizingly thin.

With that untreated thorn in its side, The Ghost of John McCain tries to build, instead, a (I guess) joyous bipartisan coalition of political meme figures. As the upcoming election nears, there are drop-ins from Bernie sitting in that chair and Kamala sipping coconut juice — though this is all still happening inside Trump’s head, an Inside Out or Herman’s Head if the characters were all from New Yorker cartoons. The notion must be that there’s something rebellious in imagining Trump’s own obsessions all turning on him, but I found the singular focus on Trump himself tiresome. The musical has nowhere to go except to loop back, continually, to the same jokes about the same man’s mental state. That’s less a rebellion and more like tenancy, and the artistic and imaginative rent this show pays to the concept of Trump is way too high.

This kind of surface-level engagement is all The Roommate can really withstand. Farrow and LuPone are fun to watch — especially Farrow, whose church-mouse character gradually blossoms with the demurely unhinged glee of a midwestern Mephistopheles — and Silverman has written a good number of funny things for them to say. Their chemistry is spicy and real, and there’s nothing wrong with having a straight-up good time. The trouble is that there’s something weird and sour going on in Silverman’s play that precludes uncomplicated enjoyment of its comedy but never quite touches anything really profound. Beneath its veneer, The Roommate is in an on-again, off-again relationship with its own conscience. It doesn’t know quite what it wants to do or say, or, crucially, exactly how bad it wants to break.

That’s why it’s refreshing to see a show like Table 17, which not only includes a program note of encouragement from playwright Douglas Lyons but actually succeeds in creating the welcome physically and theatrically. “Laugh openly …” Lyons writes. “When the characters ask you for advice, don’t be shy, talk to ’em.” On the page, that’s cute — but affecting that dynamic in a space takes a sharp, willing director and actors bold and charming enough to help audiences get psyched, and then flexible enough to take the curveballs when they come. Good thing Lyons has Zhailon Levingston (of Cats: The Jellicle Ball) calling the shots and the rock-solid trio of Biko Eisen-Martin, Michael Rishawn, and the unnervingly excellent Kara Young playing the game. Young — who just took home her first Tony on her third nomination for Purlie Victorious — is so magnetic, so expressive and instinctively comedic, and then so present and moving, that most bodies three times her size don’t contain a fraction of her firepower. (She’s five-foot-two and doesn’t reach Eisen-Martin’s shoulder while wearing four-inch heels, and I would trust her to lift a car.) Meanwhile, Eisen-Martin has plenty of his own charisma, but he’s also able to receive and convert her high-wattage energy with the grace of a good straight man — figuratively and also not: “Ugh, the straights,” sighs one of Rishawn’s characters, a mean-gay maître-d’ named River, with the kind of eye roll that could only be the result of Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000-hour rule.