Aladdin. New Amsterdam Theatre (see Broadway). Music by Alan Menken. Lyrics by Howard Ashman and Tim Rice. Book and additional lyrics by Chad Beguelin. Directed by Casey Nicholaw. With Adam Jacobs, James Monroe Iglehart, Courtney Reed. Running time: 2hrs 20mins. One intermission. Aladdin: In brief Disney unveils its latest cartoon-to-musical project: the tale of a boy, an uncorked spirit and an aerodynamic rug. Composer Alan Menken adds new tunes to the 1992 original soundtrack, and Chad Beguelin provides a fresh book. Reputed highlights include James Monroe Iglehart's bouncy Genie and the flying-carpet F/X. Aladdin: Theater review by Adam Feldman What do we wish for in a Disney musical? It is unrealistic to expect aesthetic triumph on par with The Lion King, but neither need we settle for blobs of empty action like Tarzan or The Little Mermaid. The latest in the toon-tuner line, Aladdin, falls between those poles; nearer in style (though inferior in stakes) to Disney’s first effort, Beauty and the Beast, the show is a tricked-out, tourist-family-friendly theme-park attraction, decorated this time in the billowing fabrics of orientalist Arabian fantasy. “It’s barbaric, but hey, it’s home,” sings the genial Genie (a game, charismatic Iglehart) in the opening song, and that’s the tone of Aladdin as a whole: kid-Oriented. As in the 1992 film, the Genie steals the show from its eponymous “street rat” hero (Jacobs, white teeth and tan chest agleam). The musical’s high point i
Theater review by Adam FeldmanBroadway musicals often feature heroines trying to find themselves, but perhaps never as literally as in Anastasia. In 1927 Leningrad, the scrappy, strapping Dmitry (Derek Klena) and the worldly, roguish Vlad (John Bolton) devise a scheme to pass off a street sweeper, Anya (Christy Altomare), as the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nicholaevna Romanov, rumored to have survived the massacre of the rest of her royal family in the Russian Revolution 10 years earlier. But as the con men school her, My Fair Lady–like, in the ways of nobility—hoping to deceive Anastasia’s grandmother in Paris, the Dowager Empress (an elegant Mary Beth Peil)—it emerges that Anya may be the real Anastasia after all. Who knows? Not Anya: She has amnesia. What former self might be nested like a doll inside her, waiting to be revealed? And might there be other dolls inside that one?As Anastasia piles discovery upon discovery, the happiest surprise is how consistently good the musical turns out to be. Smartly adapted by Terrence McNally from the 1997 animated film and the 1956 Ingrid Bergman movie—with Stephen Flaherty and Lynn Ahrens impressively expanding their score from the former—Anastasia is a sweeping adventure, romance and historical epic whose fine craftsmanship will satisfy musical-theater fans beyond the show’s ideal audience of teenage girls. (When I saw it, a second-act kiss was greeted with deafening shrieks of approval.) Director Darko Tresnjak keeps the story swirling
Young Scottish magician Scott Silven drops by the McKittrick Hotel for dinner, whiskey and light hocus-pocus in this elegant variation on dinner theater, which returns this fall after a sold-out run in 2017. Audience members are seated around a large table in what used to be the Heath restaurant, upstairs in the complex that also houses Sleep No More and Gallow Green. The story Silvan threads through his show is on the hokey side, and the magic is largely standard-issue mentalism. (There’s a lot of guessing what people have drawn on pads.) But it’s an enjoyable diversion overall; the intimate candlelit atmosphere, welcoming spirit and delicious food and drinks do the trick.
Theater review by Raven Snook Classic Stage Company is presenting a pair of dramas, The Dance of Death and Mies Julie, under the rubric “Two 19th Century Plays by August Strindberg in Repertory,” but only the former technically fits that bill. Still, both plays are true to Strindberg’s dark vision of human interaction. In the master Swedish dramatist’s versions of romance, there is no chance of happily ever after. As the title threatens, Strindberg's dysfunctional-marriage drama The Dance of Death often feels dizzying and deadly. So it's a treat that director Victoria Clark—yes, the Broadway musical star—leans into the bleak humor in this depiction of a husband and wife so scarily destructive they make the central couple in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf seem cozy. Former stage actress Alice (the invaluable Cassie Beck) and retired military captain Edgar (Rich Topol) live in misery on an isolated isle at the turn of the 20th century. Their 25th anniversary is approaching, but only if they don't kill each other first: Each of them openly pines for the other's demise. When their wedded abyss is interrupted by an unexpected visit from Alice's cousin, Kurt (Christopher Innvar), they're forced to adjust the steps they take as they twirl toward the precipice. Clark's raucous take, immeasurably aided by Conor McPherson's colloquial translation, uses David L. Arsenault's circular stage like a boxing ring, with the sparring partners retreating to separate corners when wounded.
After many years, the sassy and clever puppet musical doesn’t show its age. Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx’s deft Sesame Street–esque novelty tunes about porn and racism still earn their laughs. Avenue Q remains a sly and winning piece of metamusical tomfoolery. Running time: 2hrs 15mins. One intermission.
Updated review by Adam Feldman (2018) Ten months into its Broadway run, David Yazbek and Itamar Moses’s Tony-winning musical remains quietly ravishing: It seems to have almost as much silence as music, and it trusts us to fill in the blanks. Sasson Gabay now stars as Tewfiq, the conductor of an Egyptian band stranded in an Israeli desert town—the role he played in the film from which the show is adapted. His performance is bone-dry and bone-deep, and his scenes with the stunning Katrina Lenk retain the delicate balance she had opposite Tony Shalhoub, with a slight shift in emphasis: Gabay has a more somber and paternal presence, which casts his relationship with wayward trumpet player Haled (Ari'el Stachel) into clearer relief. The richness of the writing, the nuances of David Cromer’s production and the continued excellence of the ensemble cast make each return visit a pleasure. Broadway review by Adam Feldman (2017) In a musical that is full of beautiful moments, perhaps the loveliest is the one shared on a plain park bench by Dina (Katrina Lenk), an Israeli café owner, and Tewfiq (Tony Shalhoub), an Egyptian bandleader stranded for the night in her uneventful desert town in 1996. As members of his ceremonial police orchestra play incidental music behind them, Dina asks Tewfiq how it feels to be a conductor. They each raise their arms, inhabiting an imagined experience together, and the music we have been hearing stops; what they feel is realer, and we are invited to im
[Note: Chilina Kennedy, who replaced Jessie Mueller as King in 2015 and has played the role for most of the run, returns to the production starting January 3, 2019.] Beautiful—The Carole King Musical shares several virtues with its titular singer-songwriter, among them humility, earnestness and dedication to craft. If Douglas McGrath’s book never achieves the dramatic grit or comic zip of Jersey Boys, at least director Marc Bruni’s production avoids being a brain-dead, self-satisfied hit parade à la Berry Gordy’s Motown. Still, it does seem that stretches of Broadway’s newest jukebox musical consist of situations such as this: “Carole, you’ve got to write us a hit!” “I’ve written something.” “It’s a hit!” Yes, Beautiful loves its diligent, long-suffering pop genius, and invites you to do the same. It’s quite an easy task when you have the phenomenal Jessie Mueller in the lead. The effortlessly appealing star cut her teeth on Broadway flops (the mis-reconceived On a Clear Day You Can See Forever) and in supporting parts (The Mystery of Edwin Drood). Now she’s ready to carry a show. As Brooklyn-raised King, who started churning out teenybopper tunes at 1650 Broadway in the late ’50s, Mueller exudes warmth and common sense, playing up King’s old-fashioned modesty and insecurity without becoming a doormat or cipher. And when she wraps her rich, burnished voice around those hits—“So Far Away,” “Will You Love Me Tomorrow,” “It’s Too Late”—they feel as fresh as the day King penned
Theater review by Diane Snyder They were the subjects of a medical experiment and had no control over what happened to their bodies. But the pain endured by the enslaved women operated on by J. Marion Sims—the 19th-century American doctor who became known as the “Father of Modern Gynecology”—led to a breakthrough in obstetric surgery, and it’s the inspiration for Charly Evon Simpson’s harrowing new play, Behind the Sheet. Mixing fictional characters with facts from Sims’s life and work, Simpson delivers an evenhanded portrait of George Barry (Joel Ripka), a white doctor and plantation owner in 1840s Alabama as ignorant about the feelings of African-Americans as he is about the inner lives of women. Although married, he has impregnated one of his slaves, Philomena (Naomi Lorrain), who helps him with his work until a lengthy labor leaves her with a fistula that causes incontinence. Philomena joins other stricken slaves whom the doctor has subjected to surgeries without anesthesia—Mary (Amber Reauchean Williams), Sally (Cristina Pitter) and Dinah (Jehan O. Young)—while another woman, Betty (Nia Calloway), takes her place in the household. It’s at this point that the play reaches its pinnacle. Directed with subtle force by Colette Robert, Behind the Sheet shows these women trying to heal by sharing their suffering. Their pain is not just physical, despite the multiple procedures they have endured; they’re also mourning the loss of children, who either died in childbirth or ha
Theater review by Helen Shaw When you enter the very intimate basement venue for Bleach, a fellow at the door signs you in. “Any trouble at all with being touched by the performer?” he asks, professionally, with his clipboard at the ready to note your likes and dislikes. Dan Ireland-Reeves’s play, a monodrama for a sex worker in mental disarray, doesn’t really have a problem with making you feel uncomfortable. It just wants to establish that all the unclothed proximity ahead is something you have chosen—and paid for. Tyler (Brendan George) will do anything for enough cash. It says so on his business card! That’s how he affords the roomy studio apartment in which eight to ten of us at a time sit on couches and chairs, all pointed toward Tyler’s big, rumpled, rather lonely-looking bed. When Tyler emerges, naked and stretching like a cat, he’s already on the defensive. As he describes his coke-raddled passion for the hustler’s life, he lets slip little hints that all isn’t well. “I know what I did was wrong,” he says. And after many digressions and occasional audience cuddles, Tyler forces himself to admit to us (and to himself) that some of his rough play has gone very badly indeed. Ireland-Reeves’s play takes fewer risks than Tyler does. We’re missing some key part of Tyler’s fall down the morality slide; we learn that he’s suffered heartbreak, but the play asks us to believe a level of self-destruction and cruelty that simply doesn’t gibe with the faunlike performer in f
Three deadpan blue-skinned men with extraterrestrial imaginations carry this tourist fave, a show as smart as it is ridiculous. They drum on open tubs of paint, creating splashes of color; they consume Twinkies and Cap'n Crunch; they engulf the audience in a roiling sea of toilet paper. For sheer weird, exuberant fun, it's hard to top this long-running treat. (Note: The playing schedule varies from week to week, with as many as four performances on some days and none on others.)
Theater review by Sandy MacDonald Eliza Bent’s twee new play Bonnie's Last Flight is set on a plane, but the comedy doesn’t achieve liftoff. The production’s designers do their best, with middling success, to replicate the signifiers of a standard airplane cabin. But the name of the airline, Smelta, is an early clue as to the sophistication level of this 80-minute journey to nowhere. After 31 years on the job, senior flight attendant Jan (Barbara Walsh) looks forward to retiring and embarking on what she’s convinced is her true métier as best-selling “auteur.” Walsh’s accent is part mid-Atlantic, part Brooklyn: It’s as though Barbara Stanwyck had been summoned from the grave to pass out snacks while rattling off would-be-snappy rejoinders. Abetting Jan in her stewarding duties are her longtime colleague Greig (Greig Sargeant, laxly inhabiting the stock role of haughty gay bestie) and a gung-ho newbie, LeeAnne (Ceci Fernandez, who alone summons sufficient brio to pep up the proceedings). Jan’s backstory is as ridden with clichés as her career-reboot scheme, which may be intentional. It’s kindest to assume that the Bonnie’s Last Flight’s generous dollops of sentimentalism—an infant given up at birth, a beloved corgi who lends the play its title—are meant to read as sob-story camp. But it’s a thin line between tongue-in-cheek and just plain dumb. Playwright Bent has a cameo as a time-traveling Mark Twain, who appears to have taken comic-delivery tips from Groucho Marx. Seer
If theater is your religion and the Broadway musical your sect, you've been woefully faith-challenged of late. Venturesome, boundary-pushing works such as Spring Awakening, Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson and Next to Normal closed too soon. American Idiot was shamefully ignored at the Tonys and will be gone in three weeks. Meanwhile, that airborne infection Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark dominates headlines and rakes in millions, without even opening. Celebrities and corporate brands sell poor material, innovation gets shown the door, and crap floats to the top. It's enough to turn you heretic, to sing along with The Book of Mormon's Ugandan villagers: "Fuck you God in the ass, mouth and cunt-a, fuck you in the eye." Such deeply penetrating lyrics offer a smidgen of the manifold scato-theological joys to be had at this viciously hilarious treat crafted by Trey Parker and Matt Stone, of South Park fame, and composer-lyricist Robert Lopez, who cowrote Avenue Q. As you laugh your head off at perky Latter-day Saints tap-dancing while fiercely repressing gay tendencies deep in the African bush, you will be transported back ten years, when The Producers and Urinetown resurrected American musical comedy, imbuing time-tested conventions with metatheatrical irreverence and a healthy dose of bad-taste humor. Brimming with cheerful obscenity, sharp satire and catchy tunes, The Book of Mormon is a sick mystic revelation, the most exuberantly entertaining Broadway musical in years. The high
Theater review by Helen Shaw The “record album interpretations” that make up the current Wooster Group season are exquisitely simple. An LP is played. As we listen to it, so do the performers onstage, wearing in-ear speakers that let them imitate the singers on the recording: every breath, every inflection, every murmured bit of chat picked up by microphones long ago. The actors’ voices are layered over the recorded ones in a form of channeled incantation that in some ways feels less like a show than like a religious practice. In The B-Side: “Negro Folklore from Texas State Prisons”, three men—Eric Berryman, Philip Moore and Jasper McGruder—reconstruct a 1965 album compiled by the documentarian and folklorist Bruce Jackson. In his introduction, Berryman says he pitched the project to director Kate Valk after seeing the Woosters’ beautiful Early Shaker Spirituals (which returns to the stage later this month). Fourteen tracks ensue: sung fables, blues spirituals, work songs, poetic toasts, even a rousing parody of preaching. We never learn who wrote these masterpieces; their authorship has been lost along the fields and roadsides. Berryman presides from a turntable, while Moore and McGruder often sit with their backs to us, their faces caught on camera and shown on a dreamy black-and-white television screen. Berryman also reads snippets from other interviews conducted by Jackson, which emphasize the awful continuity between slavery and hard labor on Southern prison farms. As
Theater review by Helen Shaw Signature Theatre’s legacy seasons usually bring back plays from fairly long ago, so it feels a bit odd to see Lynn Nottage’s By the Way, Meet Vera Stark less than eight years after its premiere at Second Stage. But perhaps the Signature felt this was the right moment to readjust our notion of Nottage as the queen of serious theater. With two Pulitzer Prizes—for the devastating Ruined and the progressive Sweat—the playwright has been turning into Arthur Miller in front of us. Although the Signature production often misses its step, it’s a welcome reminder that Nottage has a tricky pinball brain, capable of whanging through the decades and lighting us up with humor and rage. The postmodern comedy starts in 1933, when Vera Stark (Jessica Frances Dukes) is working as a maid to her longtime friend Gloria Mitchell (Jenni Barber), a dizzy blonde starlet trying to land a role in Hollywood’s latest southern epic. Vera dreams of acting too, but there aren’t many roles for black performers, and she has sworn she’d never play a slave. She and her friend Lottie (Heather Alicia Simms) look at the epic’s script, realize the opportunity at hand (“These are slaves with lines!”), and—while working a gin-soaked party at Gloria’s—try to impress the film’s director. Everyone at the party is faking something: Gloria pretends to be sober, among other things; Vera’s roommate, Anna Mae (Carra Patterson), pretends to be Brazilian. But Nottage’s masterstroke is the two
After more than 15 years at the Waldorf Astoria, Steve Cohen, billed as the Millionaires’ Magician, now conjures his high-class parlor magic in the marble-columned Madison Room at the swank Lotte New York Palace. Audiences must dress to be impressed (cocktail attire is required); tickets start at $100, with an option to pay more for meet-and-greet time and extra tricks with Cohen after the show. But if you've come to see a classic-style magic act, you get what you pay for. Sporting a tuxedo and bright rust hair, the magician delivers routines that he has buffed to a patent-leather gleam: In addition to his signature act—"Think-a-Drink," involving a kettle that pours liquids by request—highlights include a lulu of levitation trick and a card-trick finale that leaves you feeling like, well, a million bucks.
Theater review by Adam Feldman “I’m a goddam Goddess Warrior!” declares the title character—one of them, anyhow—in the camp-carnival musical The Cher Show, and who would dare to argue? If this cultural icon (and newly anointed Kennedy Center Honoree) has managed to hold our attention for more than five decades, it’s been largely on the basis of her kick-ass poise. “You may not be the prettiest, or the smartest, or the most talented,” says her mother, Georgia (a flinty Emily Skinner), in an early scene. “But you’re special”—so special, in fact, that The Cher Show deploys not one but three performers to embody the diva at different ages. This may seem a strange approach to a star defined by her individuality, but it is true to her more-is-more spirit and, on a practical level, a useful device for navigating the vast swath of time that the musical depicts, from 1952 through the very celebration we are seeing. All Chers, mind you, have not been created equal: In this glitzy account, there is Cher and there are Cher-alikes. The oldest of the trio, identified as Star—and played by the terrific Stephanie J. Block in a full-throated impersonation that avoids the trap of the impersonal—dominates the proceedings; she is flanked by two younger ones, Lady (the capable Teal Wicks) and Babe (Micaela Diamond, a very assured teenager). The three of them alternate duties and occasionally argue with each other in limbo, Three Tall Women—style. Some of the scenes are played straight; others
This John Kander–Fred Ebb–Bob Fosse favorite, revived by director Walter Bobbie and choreographer Ann Reinking, tells the saga of chorus girl Roxie Hart, who murders her lover and, with the help of a huckster lawyer, becomes a vaudeville sensation. The cast frequently features guest celebrities in short stints.
Theater review by Adam Feldman The idea of choir boys as paragons of churchly virtue has often been predicated on silence around an open secret: that many of the young men drawn to the ecstasies of religious music are queer. Boys who might elsewhere be shunned can be, in this context, celebrated and rewarded for the same qualities (emotionality, musicality, sentimentality) that would otherwise mark them as other. But what happens when this process, a sublimation into the sublime, becomes visible? In Tarell Alvin McCraney’s absorbing drama Choir Boy, the superb Jeremy Pope plays Pharus, whose beautiful tenor has helped earn him a scholarship to the high-toned Charles R Drew Prep School for Boys. He can’t hide his buoyant effeminacy (he knows he is thought of as “the lil Sweet Boy they been trying to straighten out for years”), which leads to friction with some of his peers at the all-black academy. But the choir gives him space not just to be himself but also to lead others. Within his sphere of swish-fulfillment power, he is ambitious and assertive—to the annoyance of boys like the homophobic Bobby (J. Quinton Johnson). For Pharus, music is both an escape route and a destination unto itself, and Choir Boy is suffused with it. At regular intervals, the choir—which includes the nervous David (Caleb Eberhardt), the immature Junior (Nicholas L. Ashe) and Pharus’s kindhearted jock roommate, Anthony (John Clay III)—performs gorgeous musical numbers, arranged by Jason Michael We
Theater review by Raven SnookLaughs, laughs will keep us together—at least, perhaps, for the length of Colin Quinn's diatribe about the polarized state of our nation. Standing in front of a hazy outline of the United States that is rendered in blotches of red and blue, the former Saturday Night Live star and professional political cynic punch-lines his way through American history, arguing that our demise was inevitable from the start so we’d might as well go out with a rimshot.Quinn begins from a place of understanding. In his view, most people are nice and reasonable, and want the same things; we just can't agree on how to get them. That launches him into a joke-filled takedown of everything from the Founding Fathers to Facebook. He critiques the two-party system and the advent of social media, and muses about the possibility of a civil war and overweight, flip-flop-wearing refugees. He delivers several incisive zingers in his world-weary rasp, and while he evinces no love for Trump, he does express compassion for his supporters. At a time when even middle-of-the-road comics seem to be choosing sides, it's refreshing to hear the no-nonsense Quinn go after political absolutism on both the right and the left. Yet this solo show, minimally directed by Bobby Morseco, lacks a clear narrative through line. Quinn has mined some of the same subjects in previous outings, such as Long Story Short and Unconstitutional, and his routine often seems stitched together, like a parade of g
One of the more unlikely musicals on Broadway this season, Come from Away is the tense but humane story of an airport in Gander, Newfoundland, where 38 planes and more than 6,000 passengers were forced to land on September 11, 2001. The book, music and lyrics are by the Canadian team Irene Sankoff and David Hein. Read the full review.
In this captivating original musical, actual teenager Andrew Barth Feldman now plays the title role of a high school student thrust into social relevance after a classmate's suicide. Benj Pasek and Justin Paul's score combines well-crafted lyrics with an exciting pop sound, and Steven Levenson’s book gives all the characters shaded motives. Read the full review.
Theater review by Adam Feldman [Note: Most of the British cast is scheduled to depart the show on February 17. The new cast includes Brian d'Arcy James, Shuler Hensley, Holley Fain, Emily Bergl, Fred Applegate and, starting April 16, Blair Brown.] Jez Butterworth’s The Ferryman is a tremendously noisy play about silence and its price. Rob Howell’s expertly detailed set, festooned with memorabilia and kids’ drawings, depicts a farmhouse in Northern Ireland in 1981. More than 20 actors stream on and off the stage, including many children of various ages, plus a live baby and a goose; there is music, both traditional and contemporary, and a celebratory dance. The whole thrilling production seems alive, as few Broadway shows do, with the clutter and scope of reality. It is harvest day, and for Quinn Carney (Paddy Considine) it starts with a sweet early-morning flirtation with Caitlin (Laura Donnelly). They seem a happy couple, but we soon piece together that she is not Quinn’s wife and the mother of his seven children—that would be the sickly Mary (Genevieve O’Reilly)—but the presumed widow of his long-missing brother, Seamus. As we have learned in the play’s prologue, Seamus’s corpse has just been discovered in a local bog, and the quietly menacing local Irish Republican Army warlord, Muldoon (Stuart Graham), is intent on ensuring that no one talk too much about how the dead man got that way. Although it is more than three hours long, The Ferryman never drags, in part bec
Theater review by Raven Snook Folksbiene's Yiddish-language Fiddler became an unlikely hit last summer—see our original review, below—prompting multiple extensions and now, a move to a larger theater uptown. Those who get shpilkes imagining what that migration might do to Tevye the dairyman and his brethren can breathe easy. They've arrived with their stripped-down aesthetic and emotionally lucid production intact. In fact, it feels even more resonant thanks to beautifully evolved performances, the recasting of a few key roles and, sadly, a heightened sense of vulnerability due to the recent spike in anti-Semitism. (Be prepared to be wanded at the door.) Once again, Steve Skybell's Tevye is rich and real as he avoids the trap of scenery chewing. (Beowulf Boritt's barely-there set of parchment wouldn't make much of a meal, anyway.) Under Joel Grey's actor-friendly direction, Skybell consistently goes for nuanced naturalism instead of laughs or apoplexy, and he has a lived-in chemistry with newcomer Jennifer Babiak as his anxious wife, Golde. The strong-voiced Drew Seigla as Pertshik, the Bolshevik revolutionary who woos Tevye's second oldest daughter, is another welcome addition. The rest of the returning romantic leads are as charming as ever, making sure never to cross into cloying, and Jackie Hoffman's Yente provides plenty of comic relief without succumbing to caricature. Admittedly, this may not be the most spectacularly sung, danced or designed Fiddler ever to hit the
Theater review by Adam Feldman At the end of the first act of Frozen, there is a moment that zaps the audience to life like a blast of cold air. Elsa (Caissie Levy), the young queen of a Nordic realm, has witchy ice-creation powers that she has been forced to keep hidden; now, self-exiled to a Fortress of Solitude–like castle, she exults in reckless freedom and power. As she belts the show’s takeaway number, “Let It Go,” her heavy royal garments transform, in one thrilling instant, into a shimmery frost-blue party dress. It’s “Defying Gravity” on the rocks, and for the duration of this Wicked-cool number, Frozen breaks free from the forces that keep most of Disney’s latest musical earthbound. Otherwise, there is altogether too little magic in the kingdom of Arendelle, which Elsa’s impulsive younger sister, Anna (Patti Murin), must save from the eternal winter to which Elsa has unwittingly condemned it. In adapting their smash 2013 movie to the stage, Frozen’s creators—including screenwriter Jennifer Lee and songwriters Kristen Anderson-Lopez and Robert Lopez—faced a challenge: Many of the film’s key sequences are adventure scenes (a wolf attack, a giant snow monster, a climactic blizzard) that are hard to re-create onstage. Julie Taymor solved this problem in The Lion King by coming up with a comprehensive aesthetic vocabulary of her own, but Frozen director Michael Grandage’s reach is less ambitious. In lieu of the great outdoors, he moves much of the show to lofty and stu
Self-described “bubble scientist” Fan Yang's blissfully disarming act (now performed in New York by his son Deni, daughter Melody and wife Ana) consists mainly of generating a dazzling succession of bubbles in mind-blowing configurations, filling them with smoke or linking them into long chains. Lasers and flashing colored lights add to the trippy visuals.—David Cote TIME OUT DISCOUNT TICKET OFFER:THE GAZILLION BUBBLE SHOW It will blow you away!!!Tickets as low as $49 (regular price $79) Promotional description: After twenty years as a Master of Bubbles, Fan Yang brought his unique brand of artistry to the Big Apple in 2007 and has since wowed bubble lovers of all ages. The Gazillion Bubble Show truly is a family affair for Fan: His wife Ana, son Deni, daughter Melody and brother Jano all can be found on stage in New York and around the world performing their bubble magic. Audiences are delighted with an unbubblievable experience and washed with a bubble tide; some even find themselves inside a bubble. Mind-blowing bubble magic, spectacular laser lighting effects and momentary soapy masterpieces will make you smile, laugh and feel like a kid again.THREE WAYS TO BUY TICKETS:1. Online: Click here to buy tickets through Telecharge2. By phone: Call 212-947-8844 and mention code: GBTONYF453. In person: Print this offer and bring it to the New World Stages box officePerformance schedule: Friday at 7pm; Saturday at 11am, 2pm and 4:30pm; Sunday at 12pm and 3pm Running time: 1h