ScheckOnTheater

There’s a chill in the air. The tourists are packing the streets. And the Christmas decorations are blanketing the stores. It can only mean one thing. The Radio City Christmas Spectacular is once again filling the halls of the venerable theater with throngs of delighted audience members thrilled to be taking part in a tradition that dates back to 1933.

Not that the production is showing its age. The folks at the Madison Square Garden Company, which now owns the Hall, have been aggressive about bringing the show up to date. To that end, they hired Linda Haberman, who conceived, directed and choreographed a new version several years ago. This year’s edition incorporates some of the changes introduced then as well as adding several additional new elements.

But there can perhaps be such a thing as too much tinkering. While the 2007 retooling brought a renewed freshness and vitality to the proceedings--mainly due to a greater concentration on the wonder that is the Rockettes and a healthy dose of up-to-date technology--this 79th edition features some new elements that are more jarring than uplifting.

Chief among them is a running plotline in the second half in which a mother and her young daughter go to see a department store Santa in search of a sold-out toy. Instead, he whisks them off to his workshop at the North Pole, where they find themselves immersed in “Santa’s Video Game,” featuring plenty of fancy 3D visual effects (glasses are inserted into the program). While thankfully, the game doesn’t involve bloodshed and mayhem ala the best-selling Call of Duty series, the sequence, clearly designed to pander to young videogame addicts, doesn’t exactly fit well alongside such classics as “The Nutcracker” and “The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers,” let alone “The Living Nativity.”

Fortunately, those classic set pieces are still very much on display, as are such more recent and entertaining segments as “New York at Christmas,” in which the Rockettes take a bus tour of a Manhattan decked out for the holidays; “Santa Flies to New York,” a dizzying 3D animated film which is marred only by its egregious product placements; and “Let Christmas Shine,” for which the dancers are decked out in gorgeous crystal costumes.

And let’s face it--it’s the Rockettes that everyone is there to see. And when that magnificent chorus line kicks up their heels in impossibly precise formation, one gets the feeling, if only briefly, that everything is all right with the world.

Radio City Music Hall, 50th St. and Ave. of the Americas. 866-858-0007. www.radiocitychristmas.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.

Thomas Bradshaw’s new play Burning is playing at the New Group’s theater on 42nd Street, but it would have been right at home on the old 42nd Street as well. This sprawling, ambitious tale set in the worlds of art and theater features enough graphic sexual couplings and full-frontal nudity to satisfy any voyeur—even its poster, featuring a close of a derriere, seems tailor-made for the porn crowd.

The playwright, a theatrical provocateur who has won acclaim for such works as Southern Promises and The Bereaved, has previously demonstrated a far more minimalist style than he exhibits here. Running 2 and 3/4 hours and featuring a dozen or so characters, this work set in two distinct eras is practically Tony Kushnerian in its scope.

Unfortunately, Bradshaw doesn’t seem to have Kushner’s ability to juggle so many balls in the air at once. It’s impossible to gauge what he was trying for with this effort, which shifts wildly in tone and seems to border on satire without quite getting there.

The overlong evening features two intertwined storylines. In one set in the present day, Peter (Stephen Tyrone Williams), a black artist, travels to Berlin to participate in a major gallery show, only to run afoul of a neo-Nazi (Drew Hildebrand). In the other, set in the 1980s, Chris, (Evan Johnson), an orphaned teen, travels to New York, where he is taken in by a gay couple (Andrew Garman, Danny Mastrogiorgio) who work in the theater. He soon begins an affair with a playwright (Vladimir Versailles) with whom his caretakers are collaborating, with predictably emotionally messy results.

That brief description doesn’t begin to do justice to the many twists and turns of the labyrinth-like plot, which is positively baroque in its excesses. It mainly seems an excuse for a series of graphic sex scenes--of both the heterosexual and homosexual variety--including Peter’s life-changing encounter with a black prostitute (Barrett Doss) and the neo-Nazi incestuously helping his crippled sister (Reyna de Courcy) achieve a “release.”

Is all of this meant to be funny? It’s hard to say. Certainly it produced a lot of nervous titters from the audience, who were apparently not used to seeing such actors as Hunter Foster (Urinetown, Little Shop of Horrors) on the receiving end of anal intercourse.      

It’s all staged with gusto by director Scott Elliott, the New Group’s artistic director, who clearly doesn’t shy away from this sort of confrontational, in-your-face theater. He’s certainly elicited highly committed, fearless performances from the ensemble, who frequently bare all for the sake of their art.

The playwright clearly has a lot of things on his mind, with no shortage of provocative themes on display. The politics of sex, art and race are all dealt with in one way or another, entertainingly if only superficially. But by the time the overlong work reaches its truly absurd conclusion—I won’t even hint at it, it has to be seen to be believed—it’s long become clear that Bradshaw has wildly overreached.

The New Group@Theatre Row, 410 W. 42nd St. 212-239-6200. www.telecharge.com

There’s a mass seduction going on nightly at the Broadhurst Theatre. In his one-man show Hugh Jackman, Back on Broadway, the Aussie performer has the audience eating out of the palm of his hand. It’s a charm explosion, the sort of dazzling exhibition that would make Al Jolson green with envy and be declared illegal in certain countries. Shamelessly flirting with male and female audience members alike, Jackman offers himself up for our delectation and--judging by the rapturous response--everyone is prepared to take him up on it.

Jackman is not a brilliant actor, singer or dancer. And yet he combines all three elements to fabulous effect in this song-and-dance show that is the sort of old-fashioned star entertainment that has all but become extinct.

From the very first moments, when he sings the opening notes of “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” from offstage, he has the audience in his pocket. Casually strolling onstage while still singing, he cuts such a figure of masculine perfection that he almost seems a parody of himself.

But he effectively plays off his ridiculous good looks with ample doses of good-natured humor. He bumps, he grinds, he does pelvic thrusts and, if you’re sitting in one of the box seats, he might even sit in your lap.

The show, previously presented in San Francisco and Toronto, is essentially an autobiographical nightclub act, combining highlights from Jackman’s career with pop standards and songs from movies and Broadway musicals. The performer is certainly not shy about relating his long list of credits, and even accompanies his rendition of “L.O.V.E.” with a clip reel showcasing his film and television appearances.

Accompanied by an 18-piece orchestra and six back-up female singer/dancers, he rockets through a two-hour program that includes medleys devoted to movie music, dance-themed numbers and the songs of Peter Allen, who he portrayed so memorably in The Boy From Oz. Highlights include a gorgeous version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” in which he’s movingly accompanied by aboriginal singers and musicians, and the first act finale, a magnificent rendition of “Soliloquy” from Carousel.

But it’s his uncanny rapport with the crowd that really forms the heart of the show. For the sultry number “Fever,” he selects an audience member for some hilarious up-close and personal interaction. And whether he’s cracking silly jokes about the short-lived Kardashian marriage and the NBA lockout, showing embarrassing childhood photos of himself or describing his training regiment to play Wolverine, he steals hearts with seeming effortlessness.  

He’s only scheduled for a limited run through the end of the year, and tickets will no doubt soon become difficult, if not impossible, to procure. Don’t hesitate—who knows when this sort of show business magic will come our way again?

Broadhurst Theatre, 235 W. 44th St. 212-239-6200. www.Telecharge.com.