Steven Suskin — Theater Critic

Harold Pinter's Betrayal has returned to Broadway less than six years after the play's last starry, smashingly successful visit. Don't let that dissuade you: The new production at the Jacobs is equally excellent, equally exciting, and likely to be a premium-ticket sellout for the duration of its 17-week engagement. This thanks to incisive performances from Tom Hiddleston, Charlie Cox, and Zawe Ashton, plus an intriguing and often surprising production from director Jamie Lloyd.

Terrence McNally's 1987 two-character play observes a pair of mismatched middle-aged misfits who are stunned to discover-in the light (clair) of the Manhattan moon (lune)-that the future they've both long given up on might just be found in the other's imperfect arms. Mismatched characters, yes; played here by the mismatched but equally brilliant Audra McDonald and Michael Shannon, Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune positively soars.

The roaring lion against the timid lamb. The giant Goliath against defenseless David. The Fleet Street hierarchy against an Aussie sheep farmer. Everybody loves the underdog. James Graham, in his play Ink, spins a yarn for our times about a true underdog. A foul, grasping, immoral, and altogether despicable underdog. Against all odds, Graham gets us to vehemently root for this antihero-whose name is, yes, Rupert Murdoch-and vicariously share, from the edge of our seats, in his improbable early victory.

Is this a potential addition to the list of classic Broadway musicals? No; but Tootsie is fast and funny. Very funny, with a rapid stream of jokes and gags and some of the most mirthful choreography since those Mormon boys went to Uganda. Plus, it's got no fewer than five skillful comedy performances. After months in the mirthless Broadway musical desert, let's be appreciative of the evening's accomplishments.

After two years, the revival has finally opened at the same theater but with a different star and different producers; the director behind the project, Michael Mayer (of Spring Awakening), remains. What is revealed is a facile but overdrawn comedy-drama which is highly entertaining much of the time, with too much of that time spent on wild theatrics and glib characters cracking wise.

And mind you, the show is all special effects. But while there is a good deal of machinery and a greater deal of millions behind it all, the specialest effect that shines through-and, truly, makes Cursed Child what it is-is high-grade theatrical imagination. We can easily list the admirable production staff: Christine Jones (sets), Katrina Lindsay (costumes), Neil Austin (lighting), Finn Ross and Ash Woodward (video), Gareth Fry (sound), Jamie Harrison (illusions and magic), Carole Hancock (hair, wigs and make-up) and Imogen Heap (composer and arranger). It is not quite so easy, though, to separate their accomplishments: everything blends in to create this wizardrous mélange. Prime among Tiffany's team is 'movement director' Steven Hoggett, of both Once and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Cursed Child is a true collaboration between Tiffany and Hoggett, and quite something to see.

Wouldn't it be loverly to have Lerner & Loewe's magical My Fair Lady back on Broadway? And wouldn't it be 'warm and tender' if it were a tasteful staging which captured the style and grace of the fabled original? Well, Bartlett Sher's new staging at the Vivian Beaumont is and does. The Lincoln Center Theater My Fair Lady is absobloominutely loverly, and you can quote me on that.

Mantello once again demonstrates his sensitive touch for high drama, as in The Humans and Other Desert Cities. He and set designer Miriam Buether have some tricks up their joint sleeves, about which the less said the better the surprise. (Mantello was very much on my mind entering the Golden, having spent the prior two evenings at Angels in America-in the original Broadway production of which he vibrantly created the role of Louis Ironson.)

This is plenty enough to put Farinelli and the King on the highly recommended list. But the drama, I'm afraid, doesn't match the rest of the evening. The plot is intriguingly promising, yes; but the execution is merely functional. After a while, we begin to think that the play is built around the star's performing strengths, as opposed to the performance being built to support the play. Rylance's strengths are myriad, of course; and his wife/collaborator knows every trick he has in his overflowing sack. Sure, why not give him a role which displays them all? Only we feel like we are watching him display them all. And we know, from years of watching excellent actors, that they are likely at their best when they are not simply playing to their strengths. Rylance is delightful and delicious and exuberant and altogether lovable here; but we are seeing the actor, not a dramatically-realized version of Philippe V. Rylance is altogether excellent; the fault, to paraphrase Cassius, is not in our star.

And here, from Manhattan Theatre Club via the Royal Court, comes another doomsday play. Lucy Kirkwood's The Children is a sturdy drama; interesting, arresting, and enigmatic enough to hold interest for its almost two-hour running time. It has crossed the sea intact, importing director James Macdonald, his design team, and his cast of three. All do a fine job, making The Children a worthwhile evening in the theatre. But is worthwhile, one wonders, enough?

What, you might ask, does it signify when we start our discussion of a new musical by praising the sets and costumes? Well, just what you think it signifies. My guess is that SpongeBob SquarePants will be a favorite with its target audience, sending enchanted crowds pouring forth from the playhouse agog with delight and loaded down with show merchandise. Which, I suppose, is the goal of new Broadway musicals of this ilk. So everyone should be delighted, except for those who aren't.

Leguizamo talks a lot about bullies, some of whom are explicitly identifiable (and result in suitable reactions from the partisan crowd). The man knows his audience, and his Latin lesson is a treat.

There's music in the air at the Barrymore: sweetly lush, jasmine-scented melody which bathes the stage-and the audience-in an evening of enchantment. The Band's Visit is the title, from composer/lyricist David Yazbek, bookwriter Itamar Moses and director David Cromer. A uniquely unconventional musical told in a new manner, it follows pretty much in the steps of Fun Home, Hamilton and Dear Evan Hansen: which is to say, it is another musical which tracks a new, different and exciting path.

All this aside-and despite our thorough admiration for the career and life of the eighty-nine-year-old Prince of Broadway-the entertainment wears thin in the second act. Here we have a show which only exists by virtue of song selections from the Prince catalog, written by three dozen fellows. (While one woman-Betty Comden-is credited on the title page, there isn't a word of hers in evidence.) In such a venture, some material is likely to be included for reasons other than suitability. You could indeed do all Sondheim, all the time-but then that wouldn't be Prince of Broadway, would it?

As the Bard once said, or nearly so: 'To thine own audience be true.' Michael Moore, that renowned, brashly-impudent political provocateur, knows his audience. He has always been keen at smelling fresh blood in the air, usually facing off against one Goliath or another; and he is known for ambushing his particular bogey man with lacerating skill and buoyant relish. Setting his sights on you-know-who-the nominal leader of our great land, presently in self-imposed exile from his abode twelve blocks up the avenue from the Belasco-Moore plucks his prey, like a pre-Thanksgiving turkey; stuffs a juicy crabapple in its mouth, like a Christmas suckling pig; and sets the roaster on slow burn.

Almost thirty years later, Six Degrees is something of a period piece. Guare illustrates in a roundabout manner how the cellphone and the Internet have thoroughly changed the world we live in, as the plot stands on circumstances that would be instantly resolved with a quick call (or e-mail) and a Google search. Conversely, Guare's jabs at the Broadway musical Cats remain uncomfortably and wickedly current.

Mark Bell has directed, and under his expert hand the performances all go wrong; the scenery goes wrong, to catastrophic effect; even the sound cues go wrong, and when was the last time you heard sound cues generating applause? All told, The Play That Goes Wrong goes uproariously right.

Ruffalo is likable, honest and direct, more plebeian than the other Victors I have seen (although I did not see Pat Hingle, who had already left the original production before I got there). Shalhoub, the former TV actor who has demonstrated his stage-worthiness with searing performances in Golden Boy and Act One, is a marvel as the successful brother. Walter almost sheens with success, on the surface; but the actor from the first allows us to see the depths that work beneath. Shalhoub can express his character's psychology by simply buttoning and unbuttoning his suit jacket; by play's end, he is gnawing at his fingernails.

Significant Other does not sound like a traditional Broadway comedy hit in the manner of-say-Neil Simon, given that the leading man is desperately seeking a man to love. But the play is about friendship and loneliness, neither of which have gone out of style; and the good-natured feelings just about spill over the footlights to envelop the audience. Mix Harmon's warm-hearted script with Glick's superb performance and the artfully flavorful assistance of Mendez and Barrie, and you've got an exceedingly winning Broadway comedy.

Gyllenhaal is very good; so good, in fact, that we needn't say 'very good for a movie actor.' George-James Lapine and Stephen Sondheim's musicalized version of the pointillist painter Georges Seurat-is an introverted and anti-social fellow, who seems to only find comfort when he is at canvas or sketchpad. Gyllenhaal, while properly self-absorbedly as he perennially tries to 'finish the hat,' gives George an inner gleam of vulnerability and sensitivity which is sometimes overlooked in the role. (Hidden in the script is the comment that the women 'all wanted him and hated him at the same time.') Gyllenhaal shows us this inner layer, which has not always been visible in past productions, and properly carries it over to the 20th century George in Chicago.

This free adaptation of an early and not-quite-finished student play by Chekhov is a homegrown effort from the Sydney Theatre Company, an indication of the sort of fiery work Upton and Blanchett (who have been married since 1997) did during their recently-ended term as co-artistic directors. Three of Upton's other STC adaptations-Hedda Gabler, Uncle Vanya and Genet's The Maids-have made brief New York visits, thanks to Blanchett's star-power. Her presence in The Present makes it an instant event on Broadway; but the play and production are more than worthy, thank you very much. What's more, the excellence of the entire acting company of thirteen makes it abundantly clear why the U.S. producers went to the expense of importing them from Australia.

The formerly promising young songwriters Pasek and Paul, who created an interesting score for Dogfight and a surprisingly accomplished one for the holiday show A Christmas Story, are promising no more; their talent is thoroughly realized with Dear Evan Hansen, one of the strongest scores in years. The songs are not merely tuneful and funny and touching; Pasek and Paul can plumb the inner depths of their characters and rip through emotions in words and music. And as contemporary as their new score is, it should be added that their three musicals have demonstrated that they are equally adept in varied musical theatre styles.

A Bronx Tale is unlikely to work without a strong performance in the central role of the gangster Sonny. (Palminteri played all the roles in the one-man show; he was Sonny in the film version.) Fortunately, Nick Cordero carries the musical with aplomb. This is the actor who appeared out of nowhere in 2014 and practically nabbed a Tony in the Woody Allen-Susan Stroman Bullets on Broadway, as the bodyguard Cheech. (Not incidentally, this role was created in Allen's 1994 film version by: Chazz Palminteri.) Last season Cordero appeared as the villain-of-a-husband in Waitress, a role with which he could not do much. In Bronx Tale, Cordero is smooth as glass with a jagged edge, with charm to spare.

A Bronx Tale is unlikely to work without a strong performance in the central role of the gangster Sonny. (Palminteri played all the roles in the one-man show; he was Sonny in the film version.) Fortunately, Nick Cordero carries the musical with aplomb. This is the actor who appeared out of nowhere in 2014 and practically nabbed a Tony in the Woody Allen-Susan Stroman Bullets on Broadway, as the bodyguard Cheech. (Not incidentally, this role was created in Allen's 1994 film version by: Chazz Palminteri.) Last season Cordero appeared as the villain-of-a-husband in Waitress, a role with which he could not do much. In Bronx Tale, Cordero is smooth as glass with a jagged edge, with charm to spare.

This production, happily, fires on all cylinders. We can't exactly call the cast of twenty-one (plus bit player/understudies) an all-star cast; they are not, all, what we might consider stars. But they are comic all-stars, anyway. To say that Walter Burns-that iconic, hard-boiled city editor who set the mold for hard-boiled city editors on stage and screen for the last eighty-eight years-is played by Nathan Lane is to give you a pretty good idea of what director Jack O'Brien has in mind. No matter that Lane doesn't enter, in the flesh, until well into the evening; his presence permeates the play from the moment we hear him bellowing over a battered and bruised candlestick phone.