Tim Teeman — Theater Critic

The play doesn’t want to end sourly; at beginning and end it returns to the uniting power of song—the family’s warring members brought together by music. The unity is nice to see, but after all we have seen it also rings false. As formulaic as some of the issues in the play feel (addiction, faith, prejudice, acceptance), the performers are so good—and Cullman such a great conjuror-of-activity as a director—it would be more effective for Cult of Love to stay true to its best, most uncompromising scenes, and deliver an unhappy ending.

The relentless, deliciously played, perfectly directed hilarity of Death Becomes Her (Lunt-Fontanne Theatre, booking through August 31, 2025) distinguishes this skillfully executed riot of a Broadway musical. Based on the 1992 movie starring Meryl Streep, Goldie Hawn, and Bruce Willis, the musical sees life-long frenemies Madeline (Megan Hilty) and Helen (Jennifer Simard) fight to beyond-death in their body-punishing and mangling struggles to stay young and beautiful, and to one-up each other.

In a play of twists, it is not surprising that just as an eclipse feels like a surreal moment outside our everyday, so—it finally turns out—the play we have been watching may occupy its own unique orbit. Finally, as three characters silently stand on the terrace in the shadow of the eclipse, a wordless point is well-made: in a world where so much goes unsaid, the most destructive of personal and cultural poisons silently multiply.

In a play of twists, it is not surprising that just as an eclipse feels like a surreal moment outside our everyday, so—it finally turns out—the play we have been watching may occupy its own unique orbit. Finally, as three characters silently stand on the terrace in the shadow of the eclipse, a wordless point is well-made: in a world where so much goes unsaid, the most destructive of personal and cultural poisons silently multiply.

In this 90-minute show, directed by Michael Mayer, the folk-rock score of the Avett Brothers is a rich pleasure (and sung beautifully by a talented cast, particularly its four principals). However, the story (by John Logan) and staging of the ill-fated sailors—on board a whaling ship that leaves New Bedford, Massachusetts, sometime around 1888—creaks a little more ominously.

Elf: The Musical passes an important test of a seasonal Broadway show. It passes the wide smile/slightly moistened eyes/ridiculous amount of falling snow test, and—more significantly—passes the far more difficult actually-not-annoying-for-kids-and-adults test.

Elf: The Musical passes an important test of a seasonal Broadway show. It passes the wide smile/slightly moistened eyes/ridiculous amount of falling snow test, and—more significantly—passes the far more difficult actually-not-annoying-for-kids-and-adults test.

The structure and messaging of the musical is a puzzle. At moments, it wants to be as gleefully salacious and irreverent as The Book of Mormon with songs like “He’s Inside Me” featuring Brayben and Christian Borle (Jim; both excellent of voice) imagining God physically inside them. “God’s House/Heritage USA” also revels in the technicolor, surreal lunacy of the Bakkers constructing a Christianity-centered theme park. Here, the musical briefly, and successfully, revels in how excessive their subject matter is. The rest of the songs—shockingly, given the musical bona fides of their creators—are earnest, forgettable duds, with a story surrounding the Bakkers that becomes more and more ill-fitting as the performance progresses.

There is no “maybe” about it when it comes to the brilliance and winning charm of Maybe Happy Ending (Belasco Theatre, booking to May 25, 2025). Visually, theatrically, and musically, Maybe Happy Ending, directed by Michael Arden with a nuanced delicacy and lightness of touch, is the most original and innovative show on New York’s main theatrical drag this autumn—and it dazzles with subtlety rather than bombast.

However, the orchestrations and arrangements (by Branford Marsalis) are rich and delicious; the choreography and musical staging by Rickey Tripp similarly slick. Perhaps this is enough for Armstrong devotees; a boisterous “Hello, Dolly!” which returned Armstrong to fame later in life and a restrainedly luminous “What a Wonderful World” both bring the evening to a resounding close. But have we gotten to know Armstrong as a musician, husband, cultural force, his politics, his passion for music, his strengths and frailties? Not fully—this is a soft biography, with a soft landing, leaving us feeling just as fuzzily-good as Armstrong’s lovely voice leaves us feeling on the stroke of midnight every new year.

However, the orchestrations and arrangements (by Branford Marsalis) are rich and delicious; the choreography and musical staging by Rickey Tripp similarly slick. Perhaps this is enough for Armstrong devotees; a boisterous “Hello, Dolly!” which returned Armstrong to fame later in life and a restrainedly luminous “What a Wonderful World” both bring the evening to a resounding close. But have we gotten to know Armstrong as a musician, husband, cultural force, his politics, his passion for music, his strengths and frailties? Not fully—this is a soft biography, with a soft landing, leaving us feeling just as fuzzily-good as Armstrong’s lovely voice leaves us feeling on the stroke of midnight every new year.

Think bright lights, pumping rock and pop from an onstage band, and fabulous costumes. All the awards should go to Marco Marco for a parade of ever more incredible creations, including a personal favorite lime-green lampshade-shaped dress with two crying eye emojis WORN FOR A FUNERAL. Yet, featuring stars of RuPaul’s Drag Race, this musical—for all its flash, jokes, poppy standards and bitchy one-liners—is, similar to antecedents like Torch Song Trilogy, Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, and The Birdcage, really about love, pride, identity, and family, both biological and chosen.

Think bright lights, pumping rock and pop from an onstage band, and fabulous costumes. All the awards should go to Marco Marco for a parade of ever more incredible creations, including a personal favorite lime-green lampshade-shaped dress with two crying eye emojis WORN FOR A FUNERAL. Yet, featuring stars of RuPaul’s Drag Race, this musical—for all its flash, jokes, poppy standards and bitchy one-liners—is, similar to antecedents like Torch Song Trilogy, Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, and The Birdcage, really about love, pride, identity, and family, both biological and chosen.

This sequence first feels rushed, and a too-late story-changing add-on. However, like all the other things that should not work in a long play, this finds its smooth right spot in the adept hands of Pepe and his very good cast, led by Driver. The actor masters the art of quiet bafflement and existential muddle. His furrowed brow is broken only by one extended moment of menace; when that happens, primed for a Driver explosion of some kind, you anticipate, ultimately in vain, the inevitable detonation. Instead, Hold on to Me Darling retains its subtle mischief, gentle unspooling, and dry execution right to the end, scoring a true original in the process—in this role, Adam Driver doesn’t go off.

In Nanette, Gadsby spoke movingly about the interplay of punchlines and tension, and the need they have to tell their stories properly—beyond jokes, and beyond making themselves the subject of those jokes. In Woof!, whether that be about coming out, gender identity, the oppression of Netflix, or the meaning of whales, it means Gadsby has written and edited every word and sequence with care, despite the appearance of off-the-cuff-ness. By deploying these words with such dazzling acuity Gadsby means to fight ignorance, stupidity, easy reads, dumb conclusions, and expected tropes. Accordingly, you listen to every word as—right in front of you—they bloom into so many laughs, gut-punch sighs, and vivid meanings.

In Nanette, Gadsby spoke movingly about the interplay of punchlines and tension, and the need they have to tell their stories properly—beyond jokes, and beyond making themselves the subject of those jokes. In Woof!, whether that be about coming out, gender identity, the oppression of Netflix, or the meaning of whales, it means Gadsby has written and edited every word and sequence with care, despite the appearance of off-the-cuff-ness. By deploying these words with such dazzling acuity Gadsby means to fight ignorance, stupidity, easy reads, dumb conclusions, and expected tropes. Accordingly, you listen to every word as—right in front of you—they bloom into so many laughs, gut-punch sighs, and vivid meanings.

This closing cavalcade of gotchas somewhat dilutes the potency of what has gone before. But perhaps the real power Yellow Face proposes is of minority voices not just delivering sober-minded rebuttals to bigotry, but—in occupying spaces like a Broadway theater—offering those rebuttals with irreverent humor and pointed swagger while playing with audiences’ perceptions and expectations as freely as possible.

The play doesn’t come down on one side of the gentrification debate or another, but neither does it both-sides the issue. It remains rooted in character, and its conflicts are played out in good faith; its piercing ending is, in miniature, a nudge for us all to reject fear and open our doors and minds, and, most importantly, to fully live in the communities where we live.

The play has been reportedly significantly rewritten since its London West End run, but it is still just over three hours, and unlike the Tony and Olivier Award-winning Butterworth’s memorable, deservedly award-winning plays (Jerusalem, The Ferryman), The Hills of California is a sludgy drag in which not enough happens, and not enough familial depth and grit examined, to merit such a long performance. If one had a brutal red pen in hand, the first act could be scythed completely; the play would rattle along better at just under two hours.

Yes, hilarious—but for the stretches where Foster isn’t on stage, you sure do miss her. The other actors serve up some appealing light comedy and subplots to keep the motor puttering, but in act two this all amounts to one flimsy diversion after another. Once Upon a Mattress is mostly alright, then at moments—thanks to Foster and the others—very funny, but never stunning. After this Broadway run it heads to Los Angeles. Its producers should be very grateful to Sutton Foster.

For this (I think!) one-time only participant, Life and Trust was always beautiful to look at, and occasionally captivating as an experience, but without a cohering story to unfurl and something narratively to mold in my mind, it was also frustrating, tiring, and—after hours of wandering around, despite all the striking visual stimuli—thoroughly, teeth-grindingly irritating. This a fun and beautifully, impressively rendered playground, but you will need a lot of time, money, and sensible shoes to make proper sense of it. Its own Faustian bargain, you might say.

The delights of Oh, Mary! (Lyceum Theater, booking to Sept 15) are many, varied, and all-winning. If, like many, the world and life in general has left you tense, this Broadway show—transferred by way of rave reviews and celebrity visitors from an award-laden sold-out run at the Lucille Lortel Theatre downtown—will liberate waves of plentiful laughter from within. In the best way that only theater can, the hilarity is communally shared by your fellow audience members, who are losing it merrily all around you. For 80 minutes, the Lyceum is a rumbling sea of giggling and guffaws.

The delights of Oh, Mary! (Lyceum Theater, booking to Sept 15) are many, varied, and all-winning. If, like many, the world and life in general has left you tense, this Broadway show—transferred by way of rave reviews and celebrity visitors from an award-laden sold-out run at the Lucille Lortel Theatre downtown—will liberate waves of plentiful laughter from within. In the best way that only theater can, the hilarity is communally shared by your fellow audience members, who are losing it merrily all around you. For 80 minutes, the Lyceum is a rumbling sea of giggling and guffaws.

The poetry and staging combine both expansion and contraction; Home only lasts 90 minutes, yet it feels a grander sweep than that. Arnulfo Maldonado’s clever and simple design matches this; as if seen on a cinema screen, the frames of walls shrink and expand to the shapes of home and church.

But that crackling charge you hope from Uncle Vanya—the sense of a hot summer and the alternately comic and tragic cauldron a family adrift and questioning and interrogating themselves individually and as a unit—feels unmet here. Neugebauer’s loose direction—so different from the sharp and precisely realized Appropriate—doesn’t give the characters space to breathe, but instead an unintended void in which to lose themselves, and our attention.