Tim Teeman — Theater Critic

Tootsie as a musical is a confusing mélange, and not for the sexual and romantic attractions and farce-heavy confusions it sets in motion by lead character Michael Dorsey's (Santino Fontana) cross-dressing. The Broadway version of the 1982 movie-which starred Dustin Hoffman as Michael Dorsey/Dorothy Michaels-is both chaotic and apologetic, with a sharper and better book than it has music.

There is the pleasure, for the first half anyway, of Arthur Miller's All My Sons-which opened Monday night on Broadway (at the American Airlines Theatre, to June 23)-of well-executed theatrical convention; the reassurance of a revival done traditionally and done right.

Gary is a farce, a piece of messy circus whose many tones and shades will likely divide audiences and critics. But there is nothing like it on Broadway, and that is to be welcomed. It is an argument for art, and a passionate call for resistance-a pie of clashing ingredients just as is served for tea in the play. All three characters make their own brave moves at the end to effect some kind of change.

Gary is a farce, a piece of messy circus whose many tones and shades will likely divide audiences and critics. But there is nothing like it on Broadway, and that is to be welcomed. It is an argument for art, and a passionate call for resistance-a pie of clashing ingredients just as is served for tea in the play. All three characters make their own brave moves at the end to effect some kind of change.

The play is as zippy as A Doll's House, Part 2, but whereas that felt new, fresh, and subversive, Hillary and Clinton feels like very old and well-trodden ground, a mash-up of every single argument you've ever heard (with very little new insight) in favor and against Hillary Clinton.

Hadestown has so much fun telling, as it puts it, this 'sad tale' that even though this retelling of a well-trodden Greek myth feels slight, it also makes for a joyful performance. Anaïs Mitchell's musical, which opens on Broadway tonight at the Walter Kerr Theatre (to September 1), is delicious to look at and listen to-truly, my new earworm is 'Way Down Hadestown'-even if its story is as wan as its central couple.

As the play ended, this critic thought about another-sadly invisible-play about desire, grief, need, and sexuality standing somewhere off in the shadows, while center stage Burn This stood shakily on its feet, bursting with energy and completely out of time.

You won't leave feeling miserable, but neither will you be slapping your knees. But this production of Oklahoma! feels less 'dark' than sensibly and successfully inquisitive. Fish and his cast ask reasoned questions of a musical that has contained all these questions in plain sight for many years-and in this Oklahoma! those questions are answered with vivid, pugnacious confidence.

You won't leave feeling miserable, but neither will you be slapping your knees. But this production of Oklahoma! feels less 'dark' than sensibly and successfully inquisitive. Fish and his cast ask reasoned questions of a musical that has contained all these questions in plain sight for many years-and in this Oklahoma! those questions are answered with vivid, pugnacious confidence.

The joy of watching Glenda Jackson as Lear in Sam Gold's lean and clear production is that she doesn't approach every well-known speech or phrasing at a grandiloquent gallop. Jackson's most noticeable verbal extravagance is an almost comically elongated rolling of her r's, and so 'crawl' becomes crrrrrrrrrawl.' (She also played Lear in 2016 in the U.K., though in a different, critically hailed production; it too rang with the present-day echoes of Brexit.)

Oh no, the heart sinks, another jukebox musical on Broadway. So many-Cher, Donna Summer-have been varying degrees of cringe. But after leaving Ain't Too Proud: The Life and Times of The Temptations, which opened tonight at the Imperial Theatre (to November 24), a happy revelation: This jukebox musical not only has life, it also has wit, intelligence, while also looking stunning and full of energy.

The sparkling revival of Cole Porter's Kiss Me, Kate on Broadway (at Studio 54, through June 2) is glorious to watch, a sumptuous treat. But whatever gender controversies the musical, originally mounted in 1948, once provoked, whatever issues it raised about male control and female compliance, have been cheerfully erased.

The sparkling revival of Cole Porter's Kiss Me, Kate on Broadway (at Studio 54, through June 2) is glorious to watch, a sumptuous treat. But whatever gender controversies the musical, originally mounted in 1948, once provoked, whatever issues it raised about male control and female compliance, have been cheerfully erased.

Be More Chill feels squawkily split between camp sci fi romp and searing teenage-life-today commentary. The title itself is the last annoying puzzle. If anything the show suggests that we all have to live with our insecurities and other inner demons; the trick is not to let them dominate us.

Both the fun and menace of Sam Shepard's True West-and the latest Broadway adaptation which opened tonight has both in vivid bursts-is to see two brotherly opposites swap sides and spirits.

Choir Boy has grown in theater size since its 2013 off-Broadway success, and some of the elements have grown beautifully in accordance, prime among them Pope's performance. The character never defines himself as gay. He doesn't deny it, and indeed there is evidence later on that he is, or is attracted to men. The shower scenes in the play not only reveal a lot of flesh, but also hidden desires (and more fear). But, he says: 'Sick of people calling me something I ain't doing. I'm just Pharus.'

Daniels' Atticus is folksy and ruffled, without Peck's idealistic though hardened eye. He keeps his head down. He doesn't want to confront anything. Daniels plays him as a man in eternal retreat, even if he is confronting racism in its most dangerous form. Daniels' Atticus is there and also absent, while everyone around him wants him to look up, be present, take a more obvious stand.

You want a big, loud, bright, shiny slice of Vegas on Broadway? The Cher Show, which opened tonight on Broadway at the Neil Simon Theatre, and-then-some delivers, with spangles, fishnets, big wigs, a 35-song strong jukebox of Cher hits primed, and even a fun autotune joke for when she gets to 'Believe.'

This slice of The Prom, directed (and sparklingly choreographed) by Casey Nicholaw, is a fun surf through actorly vanity and ego: the stars are not monsters but opportunists, and it just so happens that this opportunism intersects with a belief in equality they all share

There will be no spoilers here about how all this works out, but the tone and pitch of the comedy changes dramatically toward the end of the 90 minutes. It has to; one of Birbiglia's final revelations is that his new life means he now laughs in a new way himself. You think you could stay there even longer. Birbiglia is the kind of ribald, engaging storyteller you never want to stop.

If you have come for spectacle, you'll love (as I did, with a big, very stupid grin on my face) the impressive and thrilling feats of design and puppetry directed and choreographed by Drew McOnie, who I must presume­­-given the exertions of his leading ape­-has a chiropractor on 24-hour call.

No spoilers here, but that ending and the way the ending is phrased and treated (like a soap opera cliffhanger) instead of feeling real and raw, which I am sure was the intention, feels rushed and horribly exploitative. It struck this critic later that this ending is how the play may have more effectively begun from before peeling the layers away from this 'American Son' and his parents' marriage, and the police brutality and racism the play seeks to skewer and impeach.

But all the characters are set on a rinse-and-repeat sequence of impatience and anguish, which is very real when it comes to caring for a loved-one suffering from Alzheimer's but adds up to a hollow-feeling act of theatre that isn't sure if it wants its audience to laugh or cry, before queasily opting for both.

To be clear: Jez Butterworth's The Ferryman is a rollicking, moving, enveloping masterpiece, an emphatic herald of the strength and power of original playwriting on Broadway. It is deserving of every single award it won in London prior to coming to New York, and every award it should deservedly win while it is at the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre, where it opened Sunday night.

It is intelligent, thought-provoking, and challenging to the audience: the theatre equivalent of the best kind of fiendish board puzzle or chewy dinner-party topic. And yes, the ghost of Trump and his acolytes' words hang in the air, but more pronounced is the focus on what counts as fact and the perception of fact in what we read and visually and aurally consume every day.