Talley’s Folly (Roundabout Theatre Company)

By Harry Forbes

Lanford Wilson’s 1979 Pulitzer Prize winner couldn’t get a finer revival than Michael Wilson’s first-rate production, featuring as it does such nuanced staging and impeccable work by Sarah Paulson and the ever versatile Danny Burstein as, respectively, Sally Talley, a Protestant upper middle class nurses aide, and Matt Friedman, the Jewish immigrant accountant with whom she had had a week-long romance the year before, and has now returned to Lebanon, Mo., circa 1944, determined to woo her.

The reasons the initial “affair,” as Matt describes it to Sally’s stated discomfort, didn’t click the first time around come out over the course of the evening, with surprising and poignant revelations on both sides. Class and religious differences are obvious obstacles, but we see that these two lonely, damaged souls share a bond that transcends all.

The play is only 97 minutes, as Matt informs the audience in the breaking-the-fourth-wall opening moments, and the denouement is heartwarming, but I must confess that despite the play’s prize-winning track record, I found stretches of it were inordinately talky, and keenly felt the limitations of this being a two-hander. Still, if Wilson’s setup seems more than a little contrived, his banter for Sally and Matt was constructed with skill.

Jeff Cowie’s spacious boathouse setting which its gazebo like structure (the “folly” of the title) provides much visual pleasure, and David Woolard’s period costumes and Rui Rita’s moonlit lighting scheme are lovely.

(Laura Pels Theatre in the Harold and Miriam Steinberg Center for Theatre, 111 West 46th Street); roundabouttheatre.org or (212) 719-1300; through May 5)

Carousel (New York Philharmonic)

By Harry Forbes

The New York Philharmonic’s “Carousel” was, quite simply, a triumph for all concerned, and the best live performance of the work I’ve ever seen, excepting the State Theater’s revival with John Raitt which I fondly recall seeing as a child.

The orchestra on this occasion – gloriously led by Rob Fisher – was a marvel. Never has that opening Waltz, with which Rodgers cleverly opened the show rather than composing a conventional overture, sounded so sumptuous. That was only the first of many goosebump moments. And the pleasures were not only musical, as John Rando’s direction was as finely detailed as for a fully staged production.

Kelli O’Hara, tamping down her trademark blondeness with a long brown wig, was an ideal Julie, perfectly conveying the selfless love of her character, and giving exquisite rein to her classical soprano, in “If I Loved You” and “What’s the Use of Wond’rin?”

Jessie Mueller, who proves her versatility with each new role (“On a Clear Day,” “Into the Woods” (in Central Park), and “The Mystery of Edwin Drood”) was a most delightful Carrie, showing off her soprano capabilities, too.

Opera baritone Nathan Gunn has proven his mettle in musical roles (“Show Boat” and “Camelot”), and so was a logical choice for Billy Bigelow, even if his dark timbre was more in the vein of Robert Merrill and Alfred Drake, both of whom recorded the role, than Raitt or the film’s Gordon MacRae. He earned a stupendous ovation for the “Soliloquy” and delivered another showstopper in the second act with “The Highest Judge of All,” acting persuasively all the while.

The famous bench scene for Julie and Billy was movingly sung and sensitively played, complete with falling blossoms.

Jason Danieley was a refreshingly different Mr. Snow, less “overbearing” and more “young, seafaring” to quote Carrie’s description of her intended. The “When the Children are Asleep” sequence with Mueller was as much a triumph as the Julie-Billy bench scene, and nearly as long.

Stephanie Blythe, such an outstanding Mother Abbess in the Carnegie Hall “Sound of Music” last season, made a formidable Nettie, using her gloriously firm mezzo to spectacular effect in “June is Bustin’ Out All Over” and, of course, “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

In speaking parts, Kate Burton made an ideal Mrs. Mullin, the lusty owner of the carousel, and John Cullum was ideally cast as the Starkeeper and Dr. Seldon (at Louise’s graduation scene), the embodiment of a New England small-town doctor.

Though the songs and underscoring were all intact, “June is Bustin Out All Over” lost its dance sequence, though the relatively short stage version is nothing like the elaborate sequence in the film, and “Blow High, Blow Low” ended without its hornpipe dance. But Louise’s second act ballet – choreographed by Warren Carlyle (with some homage to original stager Agnes DeMille) superbly danced by Tiler Peck in the second act – was nearly complete except for some cuts necessitated by the elimination of some of the Snow children in that sequence.

Still, with the New York Philharmonic in such ravishing form, that missing music would have sounded mighty fine.

Though Hammerstein’s book was modified by Chad Beguelin, this was still a very full, satisfying evening. And it all played out against Allen Moyer’s stylized but perfectly evocative setting, expertly lit by Ken Billington.

Miking, which used to be problematic at Avery Fisher Hall for non-classical events, was well handled in Peter Fitzgerald’s sound design with everything registering cleanly.

At the end, the audience, which had been appropriately effusive in its appreciation throughout, rose to its feet as one.

Thankfully, the magical performance will be telecast nationally on PBS’s “Live from Lincoln Center” April 26.

(Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center; five performances only, Feb. 27 – March 2)

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (Richard Rodgers Theatre)

By Harry Forbes

As far as “Cat” revivals go, Rob Ashford’s current production ranks pretty high in my book. I’d say it’s superior, all in all, to the most recent: the James Earl Jones (mostly) black production. the Ashley Judd version (though, in fairness, I only saw that in London with Brendon Frasier as Brick, pre-Broadway), and going further back, the Kathleen Turner mounting, which is not to say that each of those were without their individual merits.

Best of all, of course, was the 1974 Elizabeth Ashley version which, as I recall, was superbly acted and directed (by Michael Kahn), but also notable for Tennessee Williams having restored some of the text that had perforce been cut in the original production, as well as the famous film which had been further bowdlerized.

The raison d’etre of the present production, as everyone knows, is star Scarlett Johansson. While her interpretation of Maggie could, as many have pointed out, benefit from a more seductive manner, she’s got genuine stage presence, projects her husky voice well, and (in Julie Weiss' stylish duds) comes across like the proverbial million dollars.

Brick, her sexually conflicted, alcoholic husband, is a difficult part, as he's largely impassive, and infuriatingly unyielding both to Maggie and his dying father, Big Daddy (Ciarán Hinds) to whom he’s the favorite son. But Benjamin Walker does a fine job of making the character more than a cipher, and his second act confrontation with Big Daddy is arguably the production’s highpoint.

That’s largely due to the superb Hinds who makes the part his own. Debra Monk’s Big Mama isn’t quite in his revelatory class but she’s very good indeed, as are Emily Bergl and Michael Park as Mae and Gooper, Big Daddy’s opportunistic daughter-in-law and other son.

Christopher Dram’s expansive bedroom set – on that impossibly large Richard Rodgers Theatre stage (the musical house is all wrong for this play) -- is striking at first view, but becomes a bit tiresome as the evening wears on, and Neil Austin’s lighting is moodily muted throughout.

And because the theater is so large, and Ashford goes to town with all sorts of off-stage ambient sound – the no-neck monsters, Negro spirituals, assorted party sounds (it’s Big Daddy’s birthday) – one must strain to hear all the dialogue, through no fault of the cast. For once, I think a little miking would be welcome.

Still, in what is turning out to be a superior season for American classics, “Cat” joins “Golden Boy” and “Picnic” on the roster of revivals well worth your time.

(Richard Rodgers Theatre, 226 West 46th Street; 877-250-2929 or Ticketmaster.com; through 3/30)

Picnic (Roundabout Theatre Company)

By Harry Forbes

The production design may lean a bit towards the austere – the better to conjure the grittiness, as opposed to any nostalgia, for its early 1950’s small town Kansas setting – but visuals aside, the Roundabout’s revival of William Inge’s 1953 Pulitzer Prize winner about a hunky drifter who sets the repressed female hormones raging is an altogether admirable mounting of a still potent period piece.

As far as rethinking of classic plays go, the re-imagining here is nowhere near as radical as in director Sam Gold’s take on the same company’s “Look Back in Anger” last season, nor is set designer Andrew Lieberman’s work here anything like his surreal vision in the Osbourne play.

Gold vividly brings out Inge’s then-timely themes of sexual repression, defiance of social conventions, women’s dependence on men, loneliness and frustration, and as the playwright once put it, “the possibility of our everyday lives.”

His cast is strong across the board. There’s Ellen Burstyn as Mrs. Potts, the neighbor who takes in the buffed (and often shirtless) migrant Hal in the first place and sets the plot in motion. Mare Winningham is Flo Owens, a single mother raising two daughters: 18-year-old beauty Madge (Maggie Grace) and precocious, intellectual younger girl Millie (appealing Madeleine Martin). Versatile Elizabeth Marvel is Flo’s boarder Rosemary, a lovelorn schoolteacher who sets her aggressive cap on the reluctant Howard (Reed Birney). Marvel balances the comic and poignant aspects of her not-always-likable role well.

In the challenging role of Hal -- one that must radiate sex appeal, and ultimately demonstrate a convincingly passionate chemistry with Madge -- Sebastian Stan delivers, and conveys Hal’s vulnerability, too. To his and Grace’s great credit, under Gold’s perceptive guidance, the sparks are entirely believable.

As Alan Seymour, Madge’s solid boyfriend and Hal’s old college dorm-mate (the role originated by Paul Newman), Ben Rappaport provides good contrast, and makes of his character something more than Hal’s "decent-guy" rival.

David Zinn’s costumes and Tom Watson’s hair and wig design immeasurably help sustain the authentic period feel.

(American Airlines Theatre, 227 West 42nd Street, 212-719-1300 or http://www.roundabouttheatre; through 2/24)

The Anarchist (Golden Theatre)

By Harry Forbes

Patti LuPone and Debra Winger (in her Broadway debut) are very much at the top of their game in David Mamet’s mercifully short (70 minutes) play charting the meeting of Cathy (LuPone), a prisoner convicted of murder during a politically-motivated bank robbery, and Ann (Winger), her jailor of the past 35 years.

The conversation -- I might say confrontation but that would suggest a sense of drama sadly missing here -- revolves around Cathy trying to convince Ann that she deserves her freedom for good behavior, and that she poses no threat to society, particularly as her crime was not ultimately judged politically motivated.

Ann reminds her that the families of the two policemen who were killed that day want to keep her in there, and she continues to be skeptical of Cathy’s avowed conversion to Christianity and breaking with her old cronies, including a woman who apparently had been Cathy’s girlfriend.

There is the implication that Ann is about to be transferred, and this may be Cathy’s last chance to win her over.

Both actresses deliver Mamet’s dense and tricky script with dexterity. LuPone has the longest passages, which she handles beautifully, reminding us again what a fine dramatic actress she is. Winger’s demeanor is something akin to Lorraine Bracco’s psychiatrist’s cool, dispassionate probing of Tony Soprano, and she, too, is solidly assured.

The basic argument is reasonably interesting, of course, but it can’t be said that Mamet succeeds in creating the requisite dramatic tension, or making the central argument sufficiently provocative and intriguing. The question of Cathy winning her freedom takes second place to the intellectual argument.

Thus, the chief pleasure is to be found in watching these two pros hit Mamet’s exchanges back and forth as adeptly as they do, under the directorial guidance of Mamet himself.

Much as one may admire that talent on stage, and the skill of Mamet’s writing (and indeed, the writing is never less than intelligent and the meat of the discourse is intermittently interesting), “The Anarchist” demands too much of its audience, and much as one may decry the paucity of serious theater on Broadway these days, the work would – in hindsight -- have been far more sensibly mounted Off-Broadway.

Set designer Patrizia Von Brandenstein (who also created LuPone’s drab prison attire and Winger’s tailored suit) has created a good playing field for the discourse, as lighted by Jeff Croiter.

(Golden Theatre, 252 W. 45th St., 212-239-6200 or Telecharge.com)

Dead Accounts (The Music Box)

By Harry Forbes

In Theresa Rebeck’s latest play, Norbert Leo Butz again proves himself a comic marvel playing New York banker Jack who returns home to his mother and sister in Ohio. Despite his fast-talking evasiveness, he is clearly concealing some mysterious shenanigans back east. Exactly what he's been up to comes out late in the show, so I shan’t spoil it here.

His co-star Katie Holmes is fine as the pragmatic 30-something sister Lorna, the sole sibling still living at home with their devout Catholic mother (Jayne Houdyshell) and ailing (offstage) father. Josh Hamilton is the sweet neighbor who’s loved Lorna since school days but never asked her out as an adult. The cast is rounded out by Judy Greer whose pivotal character appears in the second act.

Rebeck has concocted a promising setup, and for its first half, “Dead Accounts” plays as an amusing comedy of Midwest foibles. But eventually, the funny business gives way to thuddingly serious observations on the purity of Midwestern life versus the immoral, soullessness of the big city and corporate greed, a rather unremarkable – not to mention tired – theme.

Nonetheless, there are plenty of amusing and observant lines, and a couple of priceless instances of overlapping dialogue, as Lorna tries to talk on the phone, while her mother rattles on obliviously. (Houdyshell, always the pro, is a hoot, and she has some good poignant moments, too.)

Butz is a dynamo whose outrageous antics make his every moment enjoyable, from his first appearance where he blithely recounts the lengths to which he has gone to acquire his favorite ice cream after discovering the store was closed. Holmes is completely convincing in a generally self-effacing part, and Rebeck has given her two emotional outbursts that she handles with aplomb.

Jack O’Brien directs with his customary assurance, and David Rockwell’s set, Catherine Zuber’s costumes, and David Weiner’s lighting design are all top drawer.

But for all its occasional pleasures, “Dead Accounts” is awfully thin stuff.

(The Music Box, 239 W. 45th St., 212-239-6200 or Telecharge.com)

Scandalous (Neil Simon Theatre)

By Harry Forbes

Yes, Carolee Carmello is giving an excellent, Tony-worthy performance as Hollywood evangelist Aimee Semple McPherson, although the vehicle in which she shines so brightly is hardly one of the Broadway musicals for the ages.

But credit where credit is due: composers David Pomeranz and David Friedman and lyricist, book writer, and composer of additional music Kathie Lee Gifford have given their star reasonably solid material to work with (or Carmello wouldn’t be able to “transcend” it, as she seems she is doing). Still, McPherson’s story is told way too simplistically, and the songs – on first hearing – don’t grab you as they should, either. They’re perfectly serviceable, but only generic.

The cast is certainly capable. Besides copper-headed dynamo Carmello, who manages to be as delightfully convincing as rebellious teenager as she is as confident preacher, there’s Candy Buckley as her disapproving then supportive mother, Edward Watts and Andrew Samonsky as husbands Semple and McPherson respectively, and later, as men with whom she becomes romantically involved, and at the performance reviewed, Joseph Dellger (subbing for George Hearn) as both kind father and rival preacher. Roz Ryan gets the snappiest lines as a madam turned devoted assistant Emma Jo Schaeffer.

I liked Samonsky’s smooth vocalizing in the second act “It’s Just You,” and would like to hear him in a classic show. And Watts is impressively versatile as a charming Irish preacher Robert Semple in the first act and opportunist David Hutton in the second.

But the narrative is never involving, in the way that “Chaplin,” to name a concurrent 1920s biographical musical, manages to be. And though McPherson emerges as mostly likable and sincere in her motivations, she’s not particularly empathetic in the long run. Charlie Chaplin, incidentally, makes an appearance here. It would be something if Carmello and “Chaplin” star Rob McClure turn out the big winners at awards time in the spring, which could very well might.

Walt Spangler’s unit set, an art deco homage to Aimee’s temple, is imposing and briefly impressive (rather like something out of Oz’s Emerald City), but it becomes ultimately tiresome as it dominates all the scenes. Spangler has fun with the otherwise ho-hum “Adam and Eve” and “Samson and Delilah” tableaux. (But I couldn’t help but think longingly of Ethel Merman belting out the Gershwin’s “Sam and Delilah” in “Girl Crazy” on that very same stage.) Natasha Katz’s lighting provides some variety.

The show has posted a closing for this weekend – always a sad turn when so much has gone into it – but the show’s flaws aside, you just might want to make the effort to catch it before then for Carmello’s star turn.

(Neil Simon Theatre, 250 W. 52 St., 877-250-2929 or Ticketmaster.com)