Thom Geier — Theater Critic

Kim is a deceptively captivating actor: friendly and chipper one moment, calm and reserved the next. You can see how she managed to endure the hardships that her family hurled at her, maintaining a brave face of composure through even the most brutal acts of cruelty. Her writing, too, is marked by a similar restraint. Time and again, she lets the words and actions of others speak for themselves rather than raise her voice or add rhetorical flourishes. She prefers to embrace the euphemisms that can convey a dictionary of subtext. Hers is a story that would rightly prompt many to scream in anger; she chooses to whisper and carry on with an admirably steely resolve.

Kim is a deceptively captivating actor: friendly and chipper one moment, calm and reserved the next. You can see how she managed to endure the hardships that her family hurled at her, maintaining a brave face of composure through even the most brutal acts of cruelty. Her writing, too, is marked by a similar restraint. Time and again, she lets the words and actions of others speak for themselves rather than raise her voice or add rhetorical flourishes. She prefers to embrace the euphemisms that can convey a dictionary of subtext. Hers is a story that would rightly prompt many to scream in anger; she chooses to whisper and carry on with an admirably steely resolve.

I suspect there’s a really tight 90-minute show buried in here, one with a razor-sharp focus on what modern audiences should take away from SNL‘s origin story. (Personally, I’d watch an entire show about Garrett Morris, especially with Grimes proving such a riveting portrayal of a hyper-talented man who seemed forever just ahead of his time.) In addition to that revealing blow-up doll sketch, I admit that the show did have a second laugh-out-loud scene — but this one was entirely unscripted, when Proctor’s Chase pratfalls into the table where Michaels is sitting during auditions and breaks the tabletop loose from its central stand, forcing Bouillion and Nate Janis (who doubles as NBC exec Dick Ebersol) to prop it up with their knees for the remaining auditions. It’s a reminder of the antic mayhem that exemplifies SNL at its best, a willingness to just roll with it that’s only fitfully captured in Not Ready for Prime Time.

But this is no lumbering pageant. Despite the overstuffed plot, you find yourself getting caught up in the plight of characters whose efforts to get ahead in life are thwarted by prejudice and whose response to the obstacles they face varies from quiet persistence to anger to vengeance. DeBessonet’s thoughtful staging underscores why Ragtime is still worth revisiting. As we approach the country’s 250th anniversary, it’s good to remember that harmony can only happen when we bring disparate voices together, and that doing so is a public act worth cherishing. And preserving. Great music can grease the wheels of the American Dream.

There’s so much to admire about Caroline and how it skillfully raises issues about whether we can truly make amends for our past mistakes — or rebuild our trust in those who have betrayed it. In the end, it’s the precocious title character who has the most insightful read on the situation. Sometimes it takes a child to lead us.

Hayden is mesmerizing as Dave, confident and combative one moment and then gradually revealing hidden depths of remorse and resignation as the story unfolds. Sharing his story — or as Emily would put it, “his truth” — really does seem to have a cathartic effect on the man. The Irish have always had a gift for spinning yarns, after all, and The Honey Trap underscores how hard it is to pin down something as subjectively elusive as the truth.

Like many a writer who’s built a world on abstract ideas, Nelson doesn’t quite know where to take his fascinating premise — which leads to a short coda of a second act that’s puzzling, perfunctory, and largely unsatisfying. What’s worse, it represents a betrayal of Marvel’s heroine, the reluctant advocate for old-fashioned values of justice and logic who’s so suspicious of surrendering to technology that she wields a pen and paper notepad throughout the first act, unlike the tablet-wielding bureaucrats she’s challenging. While Nelson doesn’t stick the landing, And Then We Were No More spotlights the dangers that our justice system faces from new technologies, corporate interests, and our own passivity.

Like many a writer who’s built a world on abstract ideas, Nelson doesn’t quite know where to take his fascinating premise — which leads to a short coda of a second act that’s puzzling, perfunctory, and largely unsatisfying. What’s worse, it represents a betrayal of Marvel’s heroine, the reluctant advocate for old-fashioned values of justice and logic who’s so suspicious of surrendering to technology that she wields a pen and paper notepad throughout the first act, unlike the tablet-wielding bureaucrats she’s challenging. While Nelson doesn’t stick the landing, And Then We Were No More spotlights the dangers that our justice system faces from new technologies, corporate interests, and our own passivity.

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.