Simon Stephens’ remarkable Heisenberg generates all the potency and disarming immediacy on Broadway that it conjured off Broadway.
The production’s traveled flawlessly in the hands of director Mark Brokaw. What’s more Mary-Louise Parker and Denis Arndt have managed the actors’ magic of bringing Georgie and Alex to fresh life, seven shows a week, on the same pillow and chairs, a few blocks south.
This version of one of the Bard’s signature cross-dressing, love-will-out, and nobody-really-dies-in-a-shipwreck comedies, is more fun than a barrel of monkeys — and a barrel of monkeys is pretty much the only gimmick the company did not employ.
As the production resolved, and the sheer weight of all the destruction — not just the rape and brutality but the lifelong humiliation and guilt girls and women who are abused carry —settled on me and brought me to tears.
This comedy is really fun. The first act is a cascade of surprising arrivals, telling anecdotes, bitchy exchanges. It is fast paced and genuine. Unlike so much new theater, Out of the Mouths of Babes avoids second act problems; the second act is every bit as much fun as the first.
It’s a very big play on a very short run in a very small house. If you can get a ticket, I can promise you two hours of fresh, original theater in Di and Viv and Rose.
An Act of God is only sort of a play; it’s more stand-up comedy leashed to a talk show couch. That God is a short Jewish gay man with vast perspective comes as a surprise, not an unwelcome surprise, but an amusing turn of events. Seeing God gifted with Hayes’ comedic timing is kinda neat.
There are laugh lines — even laugh-out-loud lines — though much of what’s funny may well be unintentional.
The twenty-seven-year old-daughter, Carol (Jessica Digiovanni), who still lives at home, engages in a curious and quite funny passion for real-estate brokers, “young men dressed like Mormons,” who manage literally to get her off by spouting “real estate porn” — Carrara cladding stone, sweeping views from wrap terraces, room-sized showers with scores of body jets — well, you get the idea.
American Psycho has more than second-act problems; it has what’s-the-point problems.
I cannot suggest you will enjoy The Father, now playing at the Manhattan Theatre Club. But I promise you, you will be moved—perhaps wounded.
As the colorful two-faced rogue, Steven Pasquale, as Jamie, brings the heat. He is every woman’s bad boy—at once hot and funny. He’s Zorro and Butch Cassidy. Yes, you fall in love. Well, as it is only 90 minutes, perhaps it’s lust, but he grabs you early and keeps you close.
Bottom line – I had a good time. I knew the songs. I wore the clothes. I liked the silliness and the way, way overdrawn parodies. Cheesy? No question. Fun? Yep.
Playwright Laura Hirschberg takes a powerful swing at making an original theater piece out of an oft-told-tale. Verona Walls comes off as fresh and fun—even clever.
The Helen Hayes was alive with laughter—belly laughs, laughs of surprise, and knowing laughs of “oh-yeah-been there!” There were moments of giddiness, near-giggling. Still, you cannot call The Humans a comedy.