Tim Teeman — Theater Critic

The first surprise is that Girl From the North Country, which marries the resonant, deeply felt playwriting of Conor McPherson and music and lyrics of Bob Dylan, doesn't major on Dylan's raw folkiness. You'd think it might. The play, opening Thursday night at Broadway's Belasco Theatre (booking to Sept. 27) and directed beautifully by McPherson, is a gorgeous, moving, thousand-times improved transfer uptown from the Public Theater. It is set in the threadbare, Depression-era year of 1934 in a boarding house in Duluth, Minnesota, full of characters variously luckless, desperate, loving, scamming, and scrabbling.

However, most shockingly, van Hove's West Side Story is not shocking; it is tame and impatiently brisk, having ejected songs like 'I Feel Pretty.' It is also a strange mélange of the good, bad, and baffling-especially in what it seeks to coherently say (or sing, when it comes to 'Gee, Officer Krupke') about the hot-button issues of 2020 it zeroes in on, like racism, immigration, and police brutality. Its engagement with those issues-more on this below-comes to feel lazy and manipulative, rather than shocking or shattering.

As Nancy, Alexander applies a wry, sometimes lacerating, perspective to everything around her. Grow up, she tells everyone around her, as she shucks off all the expectations of wife- and motherhood. This critic hopes Alexander earns a Tony nomination for Grand Horizons; her performance is a many-shaded joy to watch.

The Second World War rumbles on, overseas and unseen in Charles Fuller's A Soldier's Play, which won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1982. Within the play, another war on bodies and minds-still as corrosive today as it was then-plays out, as the poison of racism and oppression turns both inward and outward on a group of black soldiers. This Roundabout Theatre Production (opening tonight to March 15 at the American Airlines Theatre), almost 40 long years since the play's creation, is also its Broadway debut: an indictment of prejudice in and of itself.

The award-laden Laura Linney can spin gold from pretty much anything, as proven in projects as diverse as Tales of the City, Ozark, and The Big C. Not just that, she can make that gold intelligible, epic, and also everyday. Her latest Broadway play, My Name is Lucy Barton-opening tonight (to Feb 29, Samuel J. Friedman Theatre)-features a commanding solo performance (by Linney) in service of an underpowered play.

Sad to say, the passion promised in the Playbill, the love and reverence Connick Jr. claims to feel for Porter, doesn't translate or come alive on stage (the performance runs through Dec. 29). It flickers, but never roars, and often just feels lost and aimless. The big band, led by Andrew Fisher, sounds great. The dancer Aaron Burr gives us an amazing tap show. But it is Connick Jr. who seems off-kilter and disjointed in his performance. The very opposite of joy and reverence flows from him. The 90-minute concert feels like work, and hard work at that.

Sad to say, the passion promised in the Playbill, the love and reverence Connick Jr. claims to feel for Porter, doesn't translate or come alive on stage (the performance runs through Dec. 29). It flickers, but never roars, and often just feels lost and aimless. The big band, led by Andrew Fisher, sounds great. The dancer Aaron Burr gives us an amazing tap show. But it is Connick Jr. who seems off-kilter and disjointed in his performance. The very opposite of joy and reverence flows from him. The 90-minute concert feels like work, and hard work at that.

It's a double Christmas miracle. Broadway has a new star-Lauren Patten-and a jukebox musical that really is different and sets a standard for others to aspire to the same; and one that is as provocatively written as it is beautifully performed.

The Inheritance is big, it aims to be everything and say everything. For all its faults it gives its all to tell its stories, both big and small. It is about history and also love, but not of the romantic kind. In keeping with an earlier reference to the work and beliefs of the poet and activist Edward Carpenter, the love at the end of the play-the love The Inheritance wants its characters and us to aspire to-is fraternal and honoring.

The traditions of clowning in the show-where sitting at a chair at an angle, then falling off a chair multiple times, can seem puzzling and hilarious-are fascinating. The cast are marvelous. Not much happens, then a lot happens. If you find clowns endlessly enchanting, this is the show for you; if you find clowns unaccountably menacing, these preconceptions won't be entirely obliterated

The traditions of clowning in the show-where sitting at a chair at an angle, then falling off a chair multiple times, can seem puzzling and hilarious-are fascinating. The cast are marvelous. Not much happens, then a lot happens. If you find clowns endlessly enchanting, this is the show for you; if you find clowns unaccountably menacing, these preconceptions won't be entirely obliterated

The show is a call to come together, and a call for change. Byrne is seen as a quiet man, wry and cerebral, but the political era we are in has made him determinedly loud, an activist even. Don't let the grey suit and beautiful theater curtain fool you. This excellent show isn't a misty harkening to an 'American utopia,' but a charged, focused challenge to create and maintain one. Cynicism and defeat haven't yet claimed Byrne. As this show makes resoundingly, eloquently clear, Byrne believes in his vision. He knows how tough the fight will be to achieve it. He still thinks we can do it, and he still believes in its beauty.

Maybe the rosy-colored flamingoes are an echo of this too, this warm throbbing color of life and promise. Whatever, Elliott and Tomei play their stuttering progress to romance with both flare and sensitivity, as well as for belly laughs. She wants to do something but can't. He wants to respect her space but isn't sure she wants him. And their body language tells the audience everything about how hot they are for each other.

On Broadway, necessarily, the play is bigger in every way; to this critic, some things are gained, others are lost in the increase in this scale. The performances are larger and broader, particularly in the deliberately off-kilter theatrics of the play's first segment. But the new, spectacle-sized aspect of Slave Play on Broadway also muffles some its most chilling moments and some of its most disturbing tableaux.

The Height of the Storm is written by Florian Zeller, translated by Christopher Hampton. Most recently in New York, we saw Zeller-translated-by-Hampton's The Mother, starring Isabelle Huppert, and in that-just as here-a blur of time and perspectives adds a general sense of bafflement to the drama on stage.

Of course, it's impossible to write about Derren Brown's show without writing about Derren Brown's show. He would smile at that. He's a wonderfully dry host for this evening of surprises, a skillful overseer of magic and illusion (he strenuously denies that he is a psychic). He toys with people, but not cruelly. He is charming, wry, brisk.

Of course, it's impossible to write about Derren Brown's show without writing about Derren Brown's show. He would smile at that. He's a wonderfully dry host for this evening of surprises, a skillful overseer of magic and illusion (he strenuously denies that he is a psychic). He toys with people, but not cruelly. He is charming, wry, brisk.

Pinter-and the brilliant trio of actors here-treat this uneasy dance as a particularly British game, where everyone is terrifically polite and sporting when they should be shouting, screaming and throwing suitcases out of windows. Instead, here a life-changing revelation is followed by a clipped inquiry into favorite books and summer holiday destinations.

As its two stars and title suggests, this is a production of dualities, and so the question of who does it better may depend on how you respond to either of these men and their stories.

Not that the thumping, pumping Moulin Rouge allows you to dwell on its misogyny. This is musical as spectacle, so if you don't exactly feel the peril and passion of Christian and Satine's doomed romance, then no matter, because another visual bonbon will be thrown at you soon enough.

Not that the thumping, pumping Moulin Rouge allows you to dwell on its misogyny. This is musical as spectacle, so if you don't exactly feel the peril and passion of Christian and Satine's doomed romance, then no matter, because another visual bonbon will be thrown at you soon enough.

Not that the thumping, pumping Moulin Rouge allows you to dwell on its misogyny. This is musical as spectacle, so if you don't exactly feel the peril and passion of Christian and Satine's doomed romance, then no matter, because another visual bonbon will be thrown at you soon enough.

Two thoughts occurred while watching the Broadway revival of Terrence McNally's Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune, which opens Thursday night at the Broadhurst Theatre (booking to Aug. 25). Why couldn't this have opened a few weeks ago and been eligible for the Tony Awards? It would have been a strong contender for Best Revival of a Play, and its two stars, Audra McDonald and Michael Shannon, likely contenders for Best Actor/Actress in a Play.

If you are a fan of the film, there are plot similarities and divergences. Actually, the story careens all over the place, which doesn't matter because the performances are mostly excellent and the sets by David Korins notably stunning (including a mansion living room seemingly redecorated mid-performance).

It is not as grotesquely majestic as the pile of mannequins-as-dead-bodies in Taylor Mac's Gary, but Bunny Christie's duskily lit, toppling towers of newspapers and filing cabinets in Ink is another design marvel of this Broadway season.