Thom Geier — Theater Critic

Tyne Rafaeli’s brisk direction helps disguise the infelicities of the script, particularly a descent into magic realism that seems too convenient. McDermott’s performance is so fluid it could snap years of drought with torrential downpours. She’s a beguiling motormouth who responds to doubts about her chosen career with a steady drizzle of words: “I’m a fluffer, I’m a hype man, I’m a used car salesman selling a world we can’t even have.” We could all use a deliciously messed-up Weather Girl to deliver some hard truths and perhaps the hint of a miracle.

What’s unusual about The Brothers Size, and what has enabled it to endure in multiple productions since its premiere, is that it combines the flashy showmanship of a young artist with an unexpectedly polished maturity. There’s a simple elegance to the storytelling, enhanced by shifts into poetic language heightened by Spencer Doughtie’s lighting cues. It’s a work of ambition but also of modesty, willing to explore masculine vulnerability as well as braggadocio. Perhaps that’s the truest reflection of the experience of Black men, whose very bodies have been placed in jeopardy (and behind bars) with such frequency. In the face of such systemic brutality, why not try a little tenderness?

Not that Twelfth Night needs to wave a rainbow flag to succeed. But this production departs from other recent revivals in taking a humbler, less transgressive approach to the various romantic entanglements. Even in the curtain call, when the cast reassembles in colorful new outfits as part of a drag-ball sendoff, the show seems to be conjuring a party atmosphere for which there’s no overarching agenda. The message seems to be: Come as you are, love what you will. And to rechristen a venue that’s both fresh and familiar, a welcome beacon of summer fun, perhaps that’s enough.

He typically punctuates his death-focused anecdotes with punchlines, but there’s an overriding melancholy here that dampens the overall mood. The writing is not as strong as Crystal’s, alas, and the jokes don’t land with the frequency you’d expect. (He scores some of his biggest laughs early on when poking fun at his own alopecia-induced baldness, comparing himself to a “Jeff Bezos blow-up doll” or “Pitbull if he was attacked by a pit bull.”)

He typically punctuates his death-focused anecdotes with punchlines, but there’s an overriding melancholy here that dampens the overall mood. The writing is not as strong as Crystal’s, alas, and the jokes don’t land with the frequency you’d expect. (He scores some of his biggest laughs early on when poking fun at his own alopecia-induced baldness, comparing himself to a “Jeff Bezos blow-up doll” or “Pitbull if he was attacked by a pit bull.”)

Nobody could mistake Mamma Mia! for high art. Cardboard-cutout characters vamp through a ridiculous romantic plot, while beloved disco-era ABBA hits are shoehorned in often as clumsily as Cinderella’s prince struggling to find the perfect fit for the lost slipper of his royal-ball dancing partner. But audiences still thrill to dancing queens. And Mamma Mia!, returning to Broadway nearly a quarter century after it began a long and glorious run at the Winter Garden Theatre (and later the Broadhurst), has an infectious, high-energy showmanship that’s almost irrepressible.

Nobody could mistake Mamma Mia! for high art. Cardboard-cutout characters vamp through a ridiculous romantic plot, while beloved disco-era ABBA hits are shoehorned in often as clumsily as Cinderella’s prince struggling to find the perfect fit for the lost slipper of his royal-ball dancing partner. But audiences still thrill to dancing queens. And Mamma Mia!, returning to Broadway nearly a quarter century after it began a long and glorious run at the Winter Garden Theatre (and later the Broadhurst), has an infectious, high-energy showmanship that’s almost irrepressible.

Ever since its 1997 debut in London (followed by a successful Broadway run two years later), Conor McPherson’s intimate drama The Weir has been hailed as a modern masterpiece. And rightly so. The play, now getting a pitch-perfect revival at the Irish Repertory Theatre under Ciarán O’Reilly’s direction, celebrates the elemental pleasures of storytelling.

Fickman’s familiarity with the material really pays off, because the production has a polish that belies its Off Broadway setting. He laces scenes with wonderful moments in the margins too, as when Ostermeyer’s dim-bulb quarterback has to be prompted to make an exit or when Teeter’s cheerleader Heather delivers a series of defiant high kicks upstage as a wall closes and casts her into darkness. (The choreography is by Gary Lloyd.) The cast also hits the perfect notes to blend believability with exaggerated cartoonishness demanded of any sendup of high school social dynamics

Fickman’s familiarity with the material really pays off, because the production has a polish that belies its Off Broadway setting. He laces scenes with wonderful moments in the margins too, as when Ostermeyer’s dim-bulb quarterback has to be prompted to make an exit or when Teeter’s cheerleader Heather delivers a series of defiant high kicks upstage as a wall closes and casts her into darkness. (The choreography is by Gary Lloyd.) The cast also hits the perfect notes to blend believability with exaggerated cartoonishness demanded of any sendup of high school social dynamics

In the end, Tannahill is less concerned with gossip about a gay royal than in the isolation that any LGBTQ+ person faces in carving a space for themselves after growing up in the constraining embrace of a straight (and straitlaced) family. While Prince Faggot spends most of its time as a kind of speculative work of royal fan fiction, Tannahill cunningly gives the last word to Stewart — who shares a version of her personal story while questioning the very foundations of the drama in which she’s featured. Why should we care about some far-off prince and his supposedly divine claim to the throne? Isn’t the fundamental truth of queer lives the ability to shed the costumes that our parents have given us, and sometimes even the bodies, and to forge a life for ourselves that reflects our true identities?

In the end, Tannahill is less concerned with gossip about a gay royal than in the isolation that any LGBTQ+ person faces in carving a space for themselves after growing up in the constraining embrace of a straight (and straitlaced) family. While Prince Faggot spends most of its time as a kind of speculative work of royal fan fiction, Tannahill cunningly gives the last word to Stewart — who shares a version of her personal story while questioning the very foundations of the drama in which she’s featured. Why should we care about some far-off prince and his supposedly divine claim to the throne? Isn’t the fundamental truth of queer lives the ability to shed the costumes that our parents have given us, and sometimes even the bodies, and to forge a life for ourselves that reflects our true identities?

The main draw here is Smart, and she does not disappoint. The Emmy-winning actress has an easy command of the stage and at 73 convincingly plays a much younger woman, with frizzy ginger hair sweeping down past her shoulders on a series of slightly oversized Walmart-ready outfits (deisgned by Tom Broecker) that underscore her lower-middle-class status. From the outset, Smart uses her down-home chatterbox delivery and upright stature to draw us into her confidence, smoothing over the many contradictions and inconsistencies in the script.

The biggest scene-stealer is Watts, who so dominates whenever he takes the stage that you may wish that Sammy Davis Jr.’s name was in the title. Watts flashes a feral energy that’s truly magnetic, and he moves with a catlike grace around the stage — and occasionally the auditorium. His tap duet with Hill on “Me and My Shadow” (tap choreography by Jared Grimes) is a burst of percussive performance art. Lights Out is a showcase for some wonderful song and dance, but the luster dims whenever the band stops playing.

The biggest scene-stealer is Watts, who so dominates whenever he takes the stage that you may wish that Sammy Davis Jr.’s name was in the title. Watts flashes a feral energy that’s truly magnetic, and he moves with a catlike grace around the stage — and occasionally the auditorium. His tap duet with Hill on “Me and My Shadow” (tap choreography by Jared Grimes) is a burst of percussive performance art. Lights Out is a showcase for some wonderful song and dance, but the luster dims whenever the band stops playing.

While the cast delivers these lines at a rapid clip under Morgan Green’s direction, Five Models seems content to skim the surface of fashion-world satire without going either very deep or broad — or committing to whether it wants to be a drama or a comedy. One moment, Roberta is earnestly teaching Grace how to adjust the aperture of the lens to achieve a perfect balance between light and shadow. The next, Tatiana is revealing that a photographer raped her at age 14 and Alex describes a plane crash in the Brazilian rain forest that forced her “to survive off the condensation of airplane windows” until the shoot itself was canceled because of a local coup.

While the cast delivers these lines at a rapid clip under Morgan Green’s direction, Five Models seems content to skim the surface of fashion-world satire without going either very deep or broad — or committing to whether it wants to be a drama or a comedy. One moment, Roberta is earnestly teaching Grace how to adjust the aperture of the lens to achieve a perfect balance between light and shadow. The next, Tatiana is revealing that a photographer raped her at age 14 and Alex describes a plane crash in the Brazilian rain forest that forced her “to survive off the condensation of airplane windows” until the shoot itself was canceled because of a local coup.

The show gains some momentum in the zippier second act, which features a buoyant Irish-dance number (as Eileen is hilariously mistaken by the Irish American cops as one of their own) and the show’s signature ballad, “It’s Love,” which is well sung by Jackson and Javier Munoz (who catches the fancy of both sisters despite a lack of any discernible onstage chemistry with either). But by then, it’s too late to salvage a revival that seems like a dull and dated throwback best kept in the vault. ★★☆☆☆

The overall result is a visual and aural delight, an affectionate dive into a forgotten chapter from the American past that recalls the having-fun-with-history energy of Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson, but in a way that’s both more grounded and less weighty. Dead Outlaw unearths the corpse of forgotten history — elevating a twisty little yarn into a bizarro-world elegy to how the American Dream can curdle into violence, cruelty, and casual indifference.

The evening’s high-wattage highlight is the title tune, an ode to body positivity prompted when Ana sheds her blouse in the overheated, fan-less factory as the team rushes to finish the big order. Soon she encourages the others to strip down to their skivvies as well, and we see these women work up hte nerve to peel off their layers of shame and self-consciousness to embrace their lived-in bodies just as they are. It’s a genuinely catchy tune, artfully staged with a mirror-tiled dress form overhead like a disco ball, and it carries a powerful message that rightly generated a standing ovation at the performance I attended. Real Women Have Curves tells a simple story with musicality, with humor, with authenticity, and with an embrace of its female characters as fully rounded, three-dimensional individuals. You know, with curves.

The evening’s high-wattage highlight is the title tune, an ode to body positivity prompted when Ana sheds her blouse in the overheated, fan-less factory as the team rushes to finish the big order. Soon she encourages the others to strip down to their skivvies as well, and we see these women work up hte nerve to peel off their layers of shame and self-consciousness to embrace their lived-in bodies just as they are. It’s a genuinely catchy tune, artfully staged with a mirror-tiled dress form overhead like a disco ball, and it carries a powerful message that rightly generated a standing ovation at the performance I attended. Real Women Have Curves tells a simple story with musicality, with humor, with authenticity, and with an embrace of its female characters as fully rounded, three-dimensional individuals. You know, with curves.

While it’s hard to resist Groff’s considerable charms, he struggles to sell us on Darin’s cockiness or the callous way he dumps Sandra Dee (which he does here without obvious venom or even a mistress-in-waiting). You don’t cast Groff for his dark side; he’s an actor who thrives in the spotlight, not the shade. And you can’t help admiring the way he glistens delivering another high kick or flip into his head voice for a deliciously sustained high note. Beyond the C indeed

Hold Me in the Water showcases Haddad’s talents in ways that show off his wit and personality. He’s a real catch, and I hope he finds his true love someday. It’s also a rather slight story about an all-too-brief romance. I also hope that in his future work he again finds ways to look beyond his heartbreak and even his own experience.

The show’s energy flags a bit in the second act, as the plot gets more convoluted and the 13-person orchestra switches between New Orleans-style and more traditional orchestrations almost at random. And yet, by the final number — a modified version of “He Is an Englishman” from HMS Pinafore with very of-this-21st-century-moment lyrics — we’re right back in that joyful space that fans of Pirates have cherished for over a century. (This is the 27th Broadway revival, though the first since Papp’s in the early ’80s.) Pirates! offers only modest concessions to modern times in look and sound, and instead embraces the old-fashionedness of the material in a way that still holds mass appeal. It’s a pirate’s booty-ful treat. ★★★★☆

The show’s energy flags a bit in the second act, as the plot gets more convoluted and the 13-person orchestra switches between New Orleans-style and more traditional orchestrations almost at random. And yet, by the final number — a modified version of “He Is an Englishman” from HMS Pinafore with very of-this-21st-century-moment lyrics — we’re right back in that joyful space that fans of Pirates have cherished for over a century. (This is the 27th Broadway revival, though the first since Papp’s in the early ’80s.) Pirates! offers only modest concessions to modern times in look and sound, and instead embraces the old-fashionedness of the material in a way that still holds mass appeal. It’s a pirate’s booty-ful treat. ★★★★☆