Giant (The Music Box)

 By Harry Forbes

John Lithgow’s Olivier Award–winning portrayal of Roald Dahl—creator of such cherished works as James and the Giant Peach, Matilda, and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory—arrives with considerable advance acclaim, and it proves entirely justified. Lithgow captures, with unnerving precision, the writer’s tangle of contradictions: genial and playful one moment, prickly and imperious the next, and shadowed throughout by the troubling specter of entrenched antisemitism.

That final aspect forms the crux of Mark Rosenblatt’s provocative drama, set during the summer of 1983, when Dahl found himself under mounting pressure from his British and American publishers to issue a public statement addressing accusations sparked by his comments on Israel’s 1982 invasion of Lebanon. Dahl maintains that his critique, voiced in a review of Tony Clifton’s God Cried, was aimed solely at Israeli policy, not at Jewish people. Rosenblatt’s script keeps the question deliberately unsettled through most of the play's two acts, inviting the audience to wrestle with Dahl’s intent as much as with his impact.

Aya Cash brings initial hesitancy and then mounting urgency to Jessie Stone, the American publishing executive dispatched to secure a damage-controlling apology. Elliot Levey is equally compelling as Tom, Dahl’s British publisher, whose own Jewish identity sits nonchalantly alongside a lifetime’s encountering casual prejudice. Rachael Stirling lends warmth and steel to Felicity Crosland, Dahl’s fiancée, who believes she can manage him—until we learn she can’t.

The household staff, including David Manis’s long-serving gardener, are more than background figures. In particular, Stella Everett’s cheerful but observant housekeeper gradually emerges as a moral witness, her restraint giving way to quiet assertion.

Under Nicholas Hytner’s assured direction, the ensemble delivers finely calibrated performances, allowing the play’s arguments to unfold with clarity and tension. Bob Crowley’s detailed set—a well rendered Great Missenden home mid-renovation—grounds the action in a tangible, lived-in reality.

At the center stands Lithgow, navigating a role that demands both magnetism and repulsion. He manages that balancing act with remarkable control, never softening Dahl’s edges nor reducing him to caricature.

If, as Lithgow has suggested, this may be his final stage appearance, it serves as a fitting capstone to a distinguished career that has spanned stage, film, and television since his Tony Award–winning Broadway debut in The Changing Room in 1972. Here, he leaves the stage much as he has occupied it for decades: commanding and comple.

(Music Box Theatre, 239 W. 45th St.; gianttheplay.com; through June 28)

Photo by Joan Marcus:  John Lithgow

Dog Day Afternoon (August Wilson Theatre)

By Harry Forbes

This engrossing stage adaptation of the classic 1975 film places Jon Bernthal (The Bear) in the Al Pacino role of Sonny, a desperate, ill-fated bank robber attempting to hold up a Brooklyn Chase Manhattan Bank. At his side is his volatile accomplice Sal, played by Bernthal’s Bear co-star Ebon Moss-Bachrach, while a third partner, the jittery Ray Ray (Christopher Sears), loses his nerve and bolts almost immediately.

Pulitzer Prize winner Stephen Adly Guirgis, adapting both the film and P. F. Kluge and Thomas Moore’s Life magazine article “The Boys in the Bank” (itself based on true events), has crafted a script that proves highly effective on stage. It injects more humor than the film without sacrificing tension, and under Rupert Goold’s taut direction, the piece sustains a gripping momentum throughout.

There have been earlier stage versions—I recall a modest 2008 Off-Broadway staging by the Barefoot Theatre Company—but this production operates on an entirely different level.

Bernthal, making his Broadway debut, is onstage nearly the entire time and delivers a commanding, deeply felt performance. Moss-Bachrach, also new to Broadway, matches him with a vividly drawn Sal. The supporting cast is uniformly strong: Michael Kostroff as the beleaguered bank manager Butterman; Danny Johnson as security guard Mr. Eddy; and the bank tellers, including Elizabeth Canavan (doubling effectively as Sonny’s wife Gloria), Paola Lázaro, Wilemina Olivia-Garcia, and Andrea Syglowski; and especially Jessica Hecht, who gives a gem of a performance as the tightly wound, domineering Colleen.

Outside the bank, John Ortiz’s NYPD detective Fucco and Spencer Garrett’s FBI hardliner Sheldon -- both actors convincing -- spar over how to handle the crisis—Fucco favoring empathy, Sheldon pushing for force—adding another layer of tension to the standoff.

A standout among the supporting players is Esteban Andres Cruz as Leon, Sonny’s partner, whose desire for gender-affirming surgery provides the robbery’s emotional impetus. Their second-act phone conversation—tender, awkward, and marked by painful miscommunication—is one of the production’s most affecting moments.

David Korins’ revolving set, evocatively lit by Isabella Byrd, shifts between the bank interior and the surrounding streets, creating a vivid sense of place. Occasional action spills into the aisles, and while there’s no formal audience participation, the crowd is invited to join Sonny’s iconic cry of “Attica,” the production’s most direct nod to the film’s charged public spectacle.

Set in 1972, the production benefits from Brenda Abbandandolo’s spot-on period costumes and Guirgis’s commitment to era-authentic language, free of contemporary overlay. Goold sustains that period texture throughout. Cody Spencer’s richly detailed sound design, along with well-chosen music from David Bowie and Marvin Gaye, further enhances the atmosphere.

Some may argue that the production cannot match the film, but that misses the point. Working in a different medium, Guirgis has created a piece with its own integrity and theatrical force. Judging by the enthusiastic response at the performance I attended, audiences are more than willing to embrace it on its own terms.

(August Wilson Theatre, 245 W. 52nd Street; dogdayafternoon.com) 

Photo by Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman: (l.-r.) Jon Bernthal, Danny Johnson, Jessica Hecht

Monte Cristo (The York Theatre)

By Harry Forbes

The latest in a long line of musicals drawn from Alexandre Dumas’s endlessly adaptable 1844 novel arrives at the York Theatre Company in a handsome, well-appointed production. With polished staging and a cast of seasoned Broadway professionals—Sierra Boggess, Norm Lewis, Karen Ziemba, and Adam Jacobs among them—this Monte Cristo makes a strong initial impression.

It follows close on the heels of the recent French film and the PBS Masterpiece miniseries, joining a crowded field of adaptations stretching back to the 19th century. Among those is the version by Charles Fechter, whose work—along with Dumas’s original—serves as source material here. Composer Stephen Weiner and librettist/lyricist Peter Kellogg, who previously collaborated on Penelope, or How the Odyssey Was Written at the York, reunite for this effort. Their score is consistently pleasant and occasionally stirring, but on first hearing, only intermittently memorable.

In aiming for a Les Misérables-style sweep, however, this Monte Cristo strays too far from the spirit of its source. Most notably, it softens the novel’s moral architecture. The three conspirators—Villefort (Lewis), Fernand (Daniel Yearwood), and Danglars (James Judy)—whose betrayal condemns Edmond Dantès (Jacobs) to 18 years in the Château d’If, are here recast as remorseful figures. The shift blunts the story’s central engine: righteous vengeance.

Other alterations prove equally misguided. The scheming innkeeper Caderousse (Danny Rutigliano) and his wife Carconte (Ziemba) are reduced to broad comic relief, as if imported from a 1950s musical comedy. Rutigliano and Ziemba are undeniably entertaining, but their material belongs to a different show. Even the comic Thénardiers in Les Misérables retain their menace; here, the tonal imbalance undercuts the drama.

To be sure, Dumas’s sprawling narrative demands judicious trimming. But what has helped adaptations like Les Misérables and The Phantom of the Opera endure is not just compression, but fidelity to the emotional and moral stakes of the original. In sanding down those edges, this Monte Cristo sacrifices much of its gravitas.

Visually, though, the production is a clear success. Anne Mundell’s set, Alan C. Edwards’s lighting, and the elegant period costumes by Siena Zoë Allen and Amanda Roberge combine to create one of the most striking environments the York stage has seen in recent memory.

The performances are uniformly strong. Jacobs and Boggess bring vocal warmth and emotional conviction to the central love story, their duets among the score’s highlights. Lewis lends gravitas to Villefort, particularly in his reflective “A Great and Noble Man.” Rutigliano, despite the misjudged characterization, makes a vivid impression in his two roles, including the Abbé Faria.

At the performance reviewed, Madison Claire Parks stood out as Haydée, the young woman Dantès rescues, delivering a compelling second-act solo and a poignant duet with Boggess. The production also incorporates a queer subplot—drawn from Dumas and highlighted in recent adaptations—through Danglars’s daughter Eugénie (a spirited Kate Fitzgerald) and her attraction to Haydée.

Under Peter Flynn’s brisk direction, the narrative moves fluidly through its many episodes, supported by David Hancock Turner’s music direction and Marcos Santana’s choreography. If the storytelling ultimately lacks the weight it seeks, the production’s craft and performances still offer much to admire.

(Theatre at St. Jean’s, 150 East 76 Street; https://www.yorktheatre.org/monte-cristo-2025; though April 5)

Photo by Shawn Salley: (l.-r. Sierra Boggess, Adam Jacobs)

Antigone: This Play I Read in High School (The Public Theater)

By Harry Forbes

Playwright Anna Ziegler reframes Sophocles’ Antigone through a feminist lens, yielding an absorbing drama with unmistakably contemporary urgency. In place of the original conflict—whether the heroine may bury her brother Polynices —Ziegler centers the story on bodily autonomy: Antigone (Susannah Perkins), daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta, defies her uncle Creon (Tony Shalhoub) over her decision to terminate a pregnancy resulting from her relationship with his son Haemon (Calvin Leon Smith).

Here, Creon is less tyrant than hesitant bureaucrat, insisting that Antigone must publicly repent or face a law that mandates death for the forbidden procedure—even if it means condemning his own niece. Haemon, along with Antigone’s dutiful sister Ismene (Haley Wong), argues passionately against such severity.

Ziegler establishes Antigone’s fierce independence early on, in a provocative flirty encounter with a bartender, Achilles (Ethan Dubin). From the outset, she is unwavering in her resolve. By the second act, having carried out her decision, she confronts Creon head-on, articulating her claim to bodily autonomy in stark, unflinching terms—after a backstreet clinic proprietor (Katie Kreisler) reveals the truth.

Framing the action is a contemporary figure known as “Chorus” (Celia Keenan-Bolger), a pregnant woman in her forties who becomes fascinated by a fellow airline passenger (also Perkins) reading Antigone. Long captivated by the mythic heroine, she searches for clarity about her own dilemma, linking the ancient narrative to present-day anxieties.

The second act is particularly charged, driven by a series of taut and lively confrontations—between Antigone and Creon, Antigone and Haemon, and Antigone and a comically unhinged palace guard (Dave Quay). These encounters give the play some of its strongest dramatic momentum.

The performances are uniformly solid. Perkins is compellingly resolute; Keenan-Bolger brings nuance to the conflicted observer; and Shalhoub captures Creon’s wavering authority with palpable unease. Kreisler, Quay, and Dubin double effectively in lighter roles as palace guards, providing moments of comic relief.

While this Antigone may not achieve the same imaginative heights as the current reworking of Oedipus uptown, it remains a thought-provoking and often persuasive reimagining. Ziegler’s fusion of ancient and modern worlds does not always cohere seamlessly, but it underscores the enduring relevance of Sophocles’ themes.

Director Tyne Rafaeli makes effective use of the former Anspacher’s intimate playing space, framed by three-sided stadium seating. The spare design by David Zinn keeps the focus on the actors, while Jen Schriever’s lighting adds texture and variety.

(Barbaralee Theater at The Public Theater, 425 Lafayette Street; publictheater.org; through April 12)

Photo by Joan Marcus: (l.-r.) Keenan-Bolger, Perkins

About Time (Marjorie S. Deane Little Theater)

By Harry Forbes

Veteran songwriters David Shire (music) and Richard Maltby Jr. (lyrics)—collaborators for an astonishing 71 years—return to their most congenial form, the musical revue, with About Time. The show follows Starting Here, Starting Now (1977) and Closer Than Ever (1989), completing what now stands as a distinguished trilogy.

The earlier revues traced the arc of adult life: the first reveling in youthful romance, the second probing the complications of maturity. As its title suggests, About Time turns its gaze toward later chapters—memory, retrospection, and, inevitably, aging. Yet for all its poignancy, the duo’s wry, clear-eyed humor about human frailty remains firmly intact. As ever, Maltby and Shire prove themselves deft miniaturists, crafting songs that play like fully realized playlets.

In keeping with their earlier ensembles, an exemplary cast—keenly attuned to the Maltby-Shire sensibility—delivers these gems with polish and precision: Allyson Kaye Daniel, Darius de Haas, Daniel Jenkins, Eddie Korbich, Sally Wilfert, and, returning from Closer Than Ever, Lynne Wintersteller. Though the revue has no overarching narrative, each performer fluidly inhabits a range of characters, shifting tone and persona with impressive ease.

Following Korbich’s jaunty title number, which neatly frames the evening’s themes, the highlights unfold as a series of sharply etched vignettes: Jenkins on creeping forgetfulness; Wilfert recalling a childhood first love; Wintersteller revisiting a long-ago illicit affair; and Daniel and de Haas capturing the giddy romance of falling in love at the movies.

Jenkins’s “Smart People” offers a sly catalog of Jewish identity markers without ever naming them outright, while the women gleefully embrace double entendre in the bawdy “Over Ripe Fruit.” Korbich’s “Kensington Kenny,” an English music hall pastiche with a gender-bending twist, feels somewhat imported from another show, even with some added contemporary resonance—but it’s executed with such flair that objections quickly fade.

Among the more reflective numbers, Daniel brings touching restraint to a song about leaving her lifelong home for assisted living, and Jenkins’s “I Like Jazz,” a valentine to analog record collecting, is buoyed by a supple onstage riff from musical director and arranger Deniz Cordell, who, along with Annie Pasqua, provides lively two-piano accompaniment throughout. Scott Chaurette offers further support on bass. Not all the material lands as cleanly: de Haas’s “What Do I Tell the Children?”—addressing today’s political malaise—tips into didacticism despite a committed performance. Both it and “Kensington Kenny” appear in a somewhat less cohesive but still enjoyable second act.

Maltby’s direction is, as expected, definitive, complemented by seamless musical staging and choreography from Marcia Milgrom Dodge. The production design is understated but effective: a simple set by scenic consultant James Morgan, anchored by a couch and a door; unobtrusive, well-judged costumes by Tracy Christensen; and sensitive lighting by Mitchell Fenton.

Originally developed and produced by Goodspeed Musicals, About Time stands as a graceful, often moving capstone to a remarkable collaborative legacy—one that continues to find fresh meaning in life’s later passages.

(Marjorie S. Deane Little Theater, 10 West 64 Street; www.abouttimemusical.com; through April 5)

Photo by Julieta Cervantes: (l.-r.) Daniel Jenkins, Allyson Kaye Daniel, Eddie Korbich, Sally Wilfert, Darius de Haas, Lynne Wintersteller.

Every Brilliant Thing (Hudson Theatre)

By Harry Forbes

Daniel Radcliffe returns to Broadway in Every Brilliant Thing, his first stage appearance since his Tony-winning turn in Stephen Sondheim’s Merrily We Roll Along. As he has in each of his New York outings, Radcliffe proves himself a formidable stage presence.

Here, however, his skills are tested to the limit: Every Brilliant Thing is a one-man show. Even with generous audience participation, it is Radcliffe who must guide—and control—every moment.

Written by Duncan Macmillan with Jonny Donahoe and directed here by Jeremy Herrin and Macmillan, the play first premiered to great success a decade ago at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe before transferring to New York, where Donahoe also starred. Since then it has been performed in some 80 countries and filmed for HBO with Donahoe. The current production stems from a recent West End run that featured stars including Minnie Driver and Lenny Henry.

The premise is simple but affecting. Radcliffe plays an unnamed narrator reflecting on how his mother’s suicide attempt when he was a child shaped the course of his life. When she returns home from the hospital, he begins compiling a list of everything—small or large, trivial or profound—that makes life worth living. Over the years, as he grows up, falls in love, and marries, the list grows as well, helping him cope not only with his mother’s recurring crises but with his own bouts of melancholy, until he finally arrives at a kind of reckoning.

Before the performance begins, Radcliffe and several stage managers circulate through the theater, distributing numbered cards—each bearing an item from the list, ranging from “ice cream” to “a really good sneeze.” Audience members call these out when Radcliffe cues the numbers. A handful of volunteers seated onstage take on slightly larger roles, portraying figures such as the narrator’s father, his teacher, and eventually his spouse.

While the device creates an atmosphere of inclusivity that many in the audience clearly relish, it can also grow a bit wearisome, particularly when some participants deliver their lines flatly or inaudibly. Still, at a brisk 70 minutes, the show hardly overstays its welcome.

Radcliffe remains the evening’s undeniable engine, shifting nimbly from breezy good humor to moments of genuine emotional reflection. Yet the production’s buoyant, participatory tone sometimes sits uneasily alongside its darker themes of suicide and depression.

Along the way, the script offers some pointed observations about how we speak—or fail to speak—about suicide. In keeping with that focus, the production has partnered with the mental-health nonprofit Project Healthy Minds, which provides resources for those who may need them.

Vicki Mortimer designed both the thrust stage (effectively lit by Jack Knowles) and Radcliffe’s increasingly sweat-soaked costume, while Tom Gibbons supplies the sound design.

For all its structural quirks, Every Brilliant Thing ultimately rests on Radcliffe’s shoulders—and he proves more than capable of carrying it.

(The Hudson Theatre, 141 W 44th Street; everybrilliantthing.com; through May 24)

Photo by Matthew Murphy: Daniel Radcliffe.

The Monsters (Manhattan Theatre Club)

By Harry Forbes

Don’t be put off by the possibly alarming title or the martial-arts milieu. At heart, The Monsters is a tender and highly absorbing story about the reunion of a brother and his much younger half-sister, separated for 16 years, and it serves as a showpiece for two extraordinary performances.

In the Off-Broadway premiere, beautifully written and sensitively directed by Ngozi Anyanwu, Aigner Mizzelle plays Lil and Okieriete “Oak” Onaodowan plays Big. During their long separation, Lil has developed a fascination for fighting and has followed her older brother’s exploits on the local mixed-martial-arts circuit. She has done so from afar—until the moment the play begins, when she unexpectedly appears in Big’s locker room.

Big is wary at first, assuming she must want something from him. But Lil insists she has come only to reconnect. Though the taciturn Big is hardly the most demonstrative of men, he gradually begins to trust her and to reclaim the role of protective older brother. Later, when Lil reveals her own interest in fighting, he offers to train her.

What unfolds is a sibling love story, one which builds to a redemptive and satisfying ending.

Dialogue scenes are interspersed with flashbacks to the pair’s childhood, deftly performed by the actors as they seamlessly shift from adults to ages six and sixteen in an instant. The play also incorporates workout and boxing sequences superbly choreographed by Rickey Tripp and executed with convincing intensity.

Andrew Boyce’s scenic design, effectively lit by Cha See, captures the sweaty ambience of the boxing world, while Mika Eubanks’ costumes are perfectly suited to the characters. Sound designer Mikaal Sulaiman provides atmospheric original music. Equally crucial to the production’s authenticity are the contributions of fight director Gerry Rodriguez and MMA consultant Sijara Eubanks.

The Monsters is a world-premiere co-production with Two River Theater.

(NY City Center Stage II, 131 West 55th Street; www.nycitycenter.org; through March 22)

Photo by T. Charles Erickson:  (l.-r.) Aigner Mizzelle as Lil, with Okieriete Onaodowan as Big