Two new plays, 'The Coward' and 'Break of Noon,' embrace the tradition of lilly-liveredness.
A fallen martyr of our youth retakes the stage, his glory restored, his strangled giggle un-gagged.
When a man eats a lightbulb for your wincing pleasure, you'll follow him anywhere.
In Long Story Short, Quinn skims thousands of year with an autodidact's stentorian emphasis and a drinking buddy's beer-breath bonhomie.
The play tries to expand the scorched-earth self-analysis of Kron's 'Well,' but it's a far more conventional work.
Kander and Ebb's final collaboration, which turns a civil-rights parable into a minstrel show, is, on its own discomfiting terms, utterly successful.
If Baz Luhrman and Laurie Anderson got stoned listening to late-night college-radio electro-pop, this is what they'd hallucinate.
I intuit something deeply personal in Ben Willimon's play, but every aspect of it points to a sloppy wallow in musky self-pity.
Apart from Boyd Gaines, we're treated to two very famous voices, and very little else.
In a whooshing 65 minutes, Maxwell delivers a tremendous theatrical head rush playing a former wing-walker trying to recover from a stroke.
Mark Rylance's goofy set of fake choppers in 'La Bête' are not alone on Broadway, and off.
Even the cheesiest Cheesehead may not find much to move him here.
It's damned hard to resist deploying a "Blade Re-Runner" pun
"There's often a fine line between the stupidest thing you could do ... and the sexiest thing you could do."
Anyone seeking this generation’s true second coming of 'Gatsby' should clear a day for a trip to the Public Theater.
"A more voluptuous Cherry Jones than we're accustomed to."
This feel-good story with a grim social undergirding, from the writer of 'Billy Elliot,' feels far, far less personal.
You enter the house, which is also the main character; you're directed to your room; and things begin to happen — or no happen, as the case may be.
A cabinet of wonders, built atop David Lean's dour 1945 film about an impossible extramarital affair.
"Everything, Scott," he told me, draping a pal-o-mine arm around my shoulders, "is flirting."
This is a rube tragedy — a respectful and honest-feeling one, for a change.
And more from the magazine's critics.
Plus: Tina Brown on the secret to web success, on our regular late-night roundup.