ScheckOnTheater

It’s a long weekend’s journey into night at Stick Fly, Lydia R. Diamond’s overstuffed play about an African-American family’s tumultuous reunion at their summer home on Martha’s Vineyard. Featuring an ungainly mixture of social, racial and economic commentary and soap opera-style histrionics about who slept with whom, this comedy/drama wears out its welcome long before the conclusion of its overly long running time. Featuring among its many producers the pop star Alicia Keys, who also contributed the original music, the play will face a steep uphill climb in the currently difficult Broadway environment for new pays sans marquee names in the cast.

Taking place in a lavishly appointed home that the Playbill pointedly informs us in not located in Oak Bluffs, the play introduces us to the LeVay men and the women in their lives. Patriarch Joe (Ruben Santiago-Hudson) is a neurosurgeon who--judging by the fact that he has shown up alone—might be experiencing some marital difficulties.

Eldest son Flip (Mekhi Phifer) is a well-heeled, cocky neurosurgeon who arrives with his new and very white girlfriend Kimber (Rosie Benton). His younger brother Spoon (Dule Hill), who has just finished writing his first novel, brings along his fiancé, Taylor (Tracie Thoms), a graduate student specializing in the study of insects (hence the title).

Also on hand is Cheryl (Condola Rashad), the young and pretty daughter of the housekeeper, who is temporarily filling in for her sick mother. Despite her modest upbringing, she’s been educated at one of Manhattan’s finest private schools.

Immediately, tensions start to flare among the group. The two brothers clearly have a sibling rivalry; Flip and Taylor were obviously once romantically involved in one way or another; and Taylor, harboring not-so-secret jealously, unleashes a racially and socially charged diatribe against Kimber.

But things go downhill even from there, with the revelation of a dark secret that turns all of the relationships upside down and threatens to drive everyone even further apart.

While the juicy melodramatic aspects of the play are entertaining enough, especially with the frequently nasty one-liners (most of them delivered by Phifer’s Flip) constantly being thrown about, the playwright gets in over her head when attempting to delve into deeper sociological issues. And the predictability of the plot twists proves wearisome, although clearly not to the many audience members who were gasping at the not exactly revelatory developments.

Director Kenny Leon is unable to bring any stylistic coherence to the evening, with the result that the proceedings seem to shift wildly between wacky farce and Eugene O’Neill-style drama. And although both Rashad, so powerful a couple of seasons back in Ruined, and Santiago-Hudson, who knows enough to underplay, both shine, the rest of the performers are undone by the broadness of the writing.

Cort Theatre, 138 W. 48th St. 212-239-6200. www.Telecharge.com.

One might think that true-life, murderous outlaws wouldn’t exactly be a likely choice for musical treatment, but then again composer Frank Wildhorn has already put songs in the mouths of such characters as Dracula and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. So it comes as little surprise to encounter his latest effort, Bonnie & Clyde, especially when you consider that the title characters have the advantage of having died while still being young and sexy.

And, boy, is that sexiness accentuated in this musical starring two of Broadway’s hottest new commodities--Laura Osnes (Grease, South Pacific) and Jeremy Jordan (the recent pre-Broadway tryout of Newsies). Each is given plenty of opportunity to show skin: Osnes, displaying the sort of toned, Pilate’s body that wasn’t exactly commonplace in 1930’s Texas; and Jordan, spending much of the proceedings shirtless and glistening with fake sweat.

It’s not surprising that the show would aim for the same sort of appeal to younger audiences that made Arthur Penn’s now iconic 1967 film starring Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway, both at the peak of their beauty, such a hit.

Critics have long used Wildhorn as a punching bag due to his propensity for the sort of vacuous pop ballads that performers love to sing on American Idol. So it’s a pleasure to report that the best aspect of this show is its score, which uses a melodic blending of folk, country, blues and gospel influences to stirring effect. Sure, some of the composer’s usual bombast occasionally rears its head, but such terrific numbers as “”The World Will Remember Us” and “Raise a Little Hell” are ample compensation.

Too bad, then, that the book and lyrics are such letdowns. The former, by Ivan Menchell (The Cemetery Club), provides little in the way of character development or emotional resonance. It settles for such easy devices as having childhood versions of the characters appear in the opening song, “Picture Show,” proclaiming that they want to grow up to be like Clara Bow and Billy the Kid respectively. The banal lyrics by Don Black aren’t any more impressive, although admittedly it wouldn’t do to have the uneducated characters displaying Sondheim-style wit.

Jordan easily displays the charisma that has him marked for stardom, making Clyde far more appealing than he has a right to be. And Osnes once again impresses, if less so for her acting—her Bonnie is fairly one-note—than for her dynamic presence and powerful singing voice, which she shows off to impressive effect in her second act power ballad, “Dyin’ Ain’t So Hard.” Claybourne Elder has little to work with as Clyde’s brother and fellow criminal Buck, but Melissa Van Der Schyff has some terrific moments as Blanche, the sister-in-law who reluctantly gets drawn into the family business.

Jeff Calhoun’s staging and minimal choreography is little more than functional, as is Tobin Ost’s wood-planked unit set. But the latter does provide for the production’s strongest element, namely the extensive projections (designed by Aaron Rhyne) that often showcase vintage photographs of the real-figures involved, culminating in gruesome images of their bloody corpses. They serve as a vivid reminder that this romanticized musical deals not with headstrong youngsters but rather brutal killers who met a fateful end.

Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre, 236 W. 45th St. 212-239-6200. www.Telecharge.com   

There’s a lot of love being expressed at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre. Not only by the audience towards Patti LuPone and Mandy Patinkin, the veteran musical stars who have been performing on New York stages for more than three decades each. But also between the two headliners—Patinkin and LuPone, reuniting here for the first time on a New York time since their respective Tony Award winning turns in Evita, clearly adore each other. If they’re just acting, they obviously deserve additional Tonys.

Unlike Hugh Jackman’s glitzy Broadway concert playing a few blocks away, this show is a decidedly low-key affair. Accompanied by just two musicians—Paul Ford on piano and John Beal on bass—and performing on a set featuring just a couple of chairs and a smattering of ghost lights, the performers deliver a gorgeous program of mostly theatrical songs, of the classical variety. And by that, I mean written by Rodgers and Hammerstein and Stephen Sondheim.

Neither performer is exactly known for their subtlety, and each probably has as many detractors as fans. But for the most part they are uncommonly, and wonderfully, restrained here. Directed and co-conceived (with Ford) by Patinkin, the evening plays to the star’s strengths, namely their ability to fully inhabit the characters singing the songs. Thus, they present mini-versions of several classic musicals--including South Pacific, Carousel and Merrily We Roll Along--that are absolutely stunning in their musical and dramatic impact.

There are also terrific diversions along the way, such as LuPone’s reprise of “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” from her triumphant performance as Mama Rose in the recent revival of Gypsy; a charming duets on Frank Loesser’s “Baby It’s Cold Outside” and Patinkin’s amusing rendition of Jerome Kern’s “I Won’t Dance.” There’s also a very clever dance routine, albeit one that doesn’t actually involve real dancing, choreographed by Ann Reinking.

Naturally, a highlight of the evening is the pair’s delivery of their trademark numbers from Evita. His performance of “Oh What a Circus” displayed the same ferocity as it did some thirty years ago, while her “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina,” despite the sparse instrumentation, was no less powerful as well. (And despite her well-publicized propensity for chewing out rude audience members, LuPone totally kept her cool when a cell phone went off during the climactic moments.) 

The only thing the evening could benefit from is additional stage patter. The one time the performers directly addressed the audience, when Patinkin talked about their first working together in Evita--he even recalled her “great tits,” much to LuPone’s apparent pleasure—was so humorous and charming that one wished there was more of it.

Ethel Barrymore Theatre, 243 W. 47th St. 212-239-6200. www.Telecharge.com.

In the opening minutes of Theresa Rebeck’s new play, four young students nervously await the arrival of a famous novelist who they’ve hired to conduct a series of private seminars on writing. That we know he’s played by Alan Rickman is an immediate clue that they’re going to be in for a tough time. Anyone who’s seen this celebrated actor’s work--whether onstage in Les Liaisons Dangereuses or Private Lives or onscreen in Die Hard or the Harry Potter series—knows that he can devastate anyone with a mere raise of an eyebrow, a sardonic sneer or a perfectly delivered verbal riposte.

But that hasn’t dissuaded this plucky group, which includes cocky Douglas (Jerry O’Connell); insecure Kate (Lily Rabe); shy Martin (Hamish Linklater) and decidedly not shy Izzy (Hettienne Park), who at one point flashes her boobs just to make a point.

Each has paid $5,000 for these private sessions to be conducted by Leonard (Rickman), an internationally renowned writer who has presumably seen his luster, if not his ego, dimmed. Conducted in Kate’s palatial, rent-controlled Upper West Side apartment for which she only pays $800 a month, the weekly sessions quickly turn into exercises of sado-masochism.

Leonard, who can apparently discern a writer’s talent by merely reading the first few lines of a manuscript, decimates Kate’s story, which she has been laboring on for years. He damns Douglas’ effort with faint praise, suggesting that his shallowness would be better suited for Hollywood. He does have kind words for Izzy’s work, although it’s also clear that he wants to sleep with her. As for Martin, well, he’s too afraid to even offer a writing sample.

Meanwhile, personal issues come into the fray, with sex and jealousy further undermining the group’s already fragile interpersonal dynamics.

Rebeck, a veteran of both stage (Mauritius, The Understudy, Omnium Gatherum, The Scene) and television (NYPD Blue, the upcoming Smash), is certainly adept at plot construction and clever dialogue. This 95-minute comedy flows by fairly painlessly and mostly entertainingly, despite its many contrivances requiring that you don’t examine it too carefully.

But the characters, including Rickman’s Leonard--who reveals not so unexpected vulnerability and decency—are purely one-dimensional, and the observations about the literary world, etc., rarely rise above the level of superficiality.

Under the slick direction of Sam Gold, the ensemble does first-rate work. Rickman, who could probably have phoned it in, seems to be working hard to provide depth to his characterization. Linklater, thankfully, shorn of his usual wildly frizzy hair, is terrific as the repressed Martin; Rabe continues her string of impressive recent stage performances as the tortured Kate; Park displays real comic flair as the sexy Izzy; and O’Connell has a relaxed charm in his Broadway debut.

It’s clearly Rickman’s star power that has brought this lightweight work to Broadway. Whether it’s enough to keep it running is another question.

Golden Theatre, 252 W. 45th St. 212-239-6200. www.Telecharge.com.

It’s not surprising that Noel Coward’s Private Lives is so often produced on Broadway. This delicious 1930 comedy, which has been seen here no less than four times in the last three decades, offers absolutely delicious roles for its star players, combining witty one-liners, knockabout physical comedy and, it is to be hoped, sizzling sexual chemistry.

The latest revival, now ensconced in the intimate Music Box, stars Kim Cattrall, no stranger to sex or comedy--thanks to her lengthy run as Samantha in the Sex and the City HBO series and two feature films—and Canadian actor Paul Gross, best known for his starring turns on the acclaimed series Due South and Slings and Arrows. They make a terrific Amanda and Elyot in director Richard Eyre’s stylish production, previously seen in London and Toronto.

Coward’s play about a divorced couple stumbling on each other during their respective honeymoons with their new spouses is by now so familiar to most theatergoers that they can no doubt recite the lines along with the actors. “Don’t quibble, Sybil”; “Certain women should be struck regularly, like gongs”; Extraordinary how potent cheap music is”; I think few people are completely normal really, deep down in their private lives”; the list goes on and on.

Cattrall, looking smashing at age 53 and making her first appearance clad only in a towel, not surprisingly delivers Amanda’s catty barbs with expert comic timing. But she also movingly conveys the character’s vulnerability when confronted with her still passionate feelings for her ex. Those feelings are not surprising, considering that he’s played by the dashing Gross, who combines matinee idol looks with a witty deadpan style that is consistently amusing.

The supporting roles of the abandoned spouses are fairly thankless, but Simon Paisley Day makes the most of his turn as Victor, ratcheting up the character’s hysteria to hilarious effect, and Anna Madeley is uncommonly appealing as Sybil.

The production’s sole misstep is Rob Howell’s set design of a Parisian flat which more closely resembles a modern art museum designed by Salvador Dali, although its inclusion of a large goldfish bowl did provide the opportunity for a funny sight gag.

Music Box, 239 W. 45th St. 212-239-6200. www.Telecharge.com.