A whole mess of reviews

Yikes! I've gotten behind on the reviews something fierce. Fortunately, this collection should reiterate what so many others have already said: This is a darn good season for plays on Broadway.

A Bronx Tale
The first rule of writing a one-man show, of course, is to have a damn good story to tell. Chazz Palminteri's Bronx childhood has that from the start. His autobiographical romp takes us through a witnessed murder, an unlikely bond with a dangerous mobster and a perilous interracial romance. It also gives us the now well-known date test that, thanks to the advance of automatic car door locks, is no longer relevant, but I digress. While I wouldn’t call Palminteri’s characterizations one-note, there’s just not enough differentiation there to propel the basic underlying conflict between the two centers of the show: Palminteri’s working-class hero father and the smooth gangster Sonny. At times, it’s a bit like listening to a book-on-tape, albeit a darn interesting one.

Is He Dead?
Playgoers, be warned. The dusty relic now on display at the Lyceum Theatre is full of stock characters from the ethnic stereotype warehouse, contrived plot devices and groaners that even Fozzie Bear wouldn’t incorporate into his act. Case in point: German Stereotype Character, after causing his companions to recoil in disgust at his hunk of limburger cheese, pulls a sausage out of his trousers, noting “The wurst is yet to come.” So why is this show so darn entertaining? Credit the fine cast, led by Norbert Leo Butz as Jean-Francois Millet (based on the real Millet about as much as the real Sam Walton was represented in "Walmartopia"), a down-on-his-luck artist who, at the urging of his aforementioned stereotype-laden cadre of pals, decides to fake his own death to jack up the value of his paintings and reappear as his own sister to collect on the estate. “Is He Dead?” is slow to get rolling, but in the hands of Butz and a talented ensemble that includes John McMartin, the chameleonic David Pittu and Marylouise Burke—so delightful as a dotty old spinster that I’m finally ready to forgive her for that bizarre performance in the revival of “Into the Woods” a few years ago—you’ll find yourself sheepishly laughing with, not at, this show. Like a fine team of paleontologists, adapter David Ives, director Michael Blakemore and the cast have taken a few ancient bones and given us a clear picture of the original, charming beast.

Cymbeline
Had the Internet existed in Shakespeare’s time, I can only imagine the legion of angry Internet nerds pounding out scathing reviews following the premiere of “Cymbeline,” a twisted, confusing show that requires a flowchart even to get through the prologue. And then Jupiter comes down and fixes everything, helped by a step-by-step deathbed confession by one of the chief villains. In other words, a copout akin to “a wizard did it.” Still, like the first time I saw a production of the, to put it mildly, much less optimistic “Titus Andronicus,” I couldn’t help feel a little camp appreciation of this wacky work, particularly in the form of the lush production helmed by Mark Lamos at Lincoln Center’s Vivian Beaumont Theatre. The costumes, by Jess Goldstein, are gorgeous and are especially dazzling amongst the minimalist set—rows of gold columns to indicate a forest, for example. A lot of the acting is over-the-top, as it should be, but there’s also some very human performances to be found. Michael Cerveris anchors the show as the exiled groom Posthumus, John Pankow brings a quiet dignity to the proceedings as Posthumus' servant and David Furr and Gergory Wooddell. Martha Plimpton also continues her ascension as a go-to stage darling as the royal Imogen, whose verboten romance with Posthumus drives the action. And Phylicia Rashad and Adam Dannheisser are so much pompously hissing fun as the wicked mother-and-daughter team set out to usurp the kingdom that you’ll almost feel bad for laughing as Dannheisser’s disembodied head is dangled around the stage like a prop lantern.

The Seafarer
It’s hardly a spoiler, I suppose, to reveal in the first sentence of this review that the mysterious Mr. Lockhart, played by Ciaran Hinds in the production of Conor McPherson’s latest now playing at the Booth Theatre, is the devil himself. Even Sharky (Robert Morse), the very man whose soul he’s come to claim in a game of cards, doesn’t seem that surprised by it. Such is McPherson’s brilliance, though. He can so delicately weave in the Irish supernatural with his tragically pathetic characters that I’d probably be willing to overlook it if Jupiter popped in to help out with matters. Set appropriately enough on Christmas Eve, however, this devil has come to earth in a wholly human form and melds in with McPherson’s equally florid and conversational dialogue.. His description of hell is one of the finest original speeches to be seen on Broadway in some time. The rest of the cast is superb, too. Morse gurgles with reserved frustration that makes one fearful of the eventual explosive climax. Conleth Hill is tragicomic gold as a hard-luck oaf, and I’ll also prematurely make the call that Jim Norton, as Sharky's carefree yet ailing brother Richard, will be the man to beat in the supporting actor in a play Tony race this year. Do these characters sound familiar? Yes, “The Seafarer” is typical McPherson. Replace the devil character with a young woman, in fact, and one could pretty much perform the show in perfect repertory with “The Weir.” But it’s definitely on the higher plane of typical McPherson, which is not a bad thing in the least.

Cyrano de Bergerac
This isn't so much a review as a cautionary tale. Never forget about 7 p.m. Tuesday curtains! I had just gotten back from Washington and was relaxing at my apartment, thinking I had time for a little rest and a quick bite before the show tonight. At just a little after 6:40, I glanced at my ticket and realized my error. Somehow, I managed to get from Washington Heights to the Richard Rodgers Theatre in about 20 minutes and missed only about a minute of the action. But I hate latecomers -- even when they're me! Oh, OK. Here's a quick, one-sentence review: Kevin Kline is his usual excellence, Jennifer Garner exceeds expectations and finally seeing Daniel Sunjata made me realize just how much I regret not seeing "Take Me Out" when I had the chance.