Jack Goes Boating

Can it be? The LAByrinth Theater Company, home of dark and brooding plays about dark and brooding people by dark and brooding playwrights, has produced a gentle romantic comedy, and a great one at that? Inconceivable! Bob Glaudini's Jack Goes Boating is not a romantic comedy in the Sleepless in Seattle sense, of course, but its sensibility would seem to be taken from films and plays of that genre. It has moments of dramatic intensity, but at the core of the work, it's heartfelt, sweet-natured and often riotously funny. In the title role, Philip Seymour Hoffman creates a lovable, Marty-esque lug who falls head over heels for an eccentric co-worker of his friend's wife. John Ortiz and Daphne Rubin-Vega offer terrific support as the less-than-perfect married couple Jack pals around with, but this production's real find is Beth Cole as the object of affection. She's pitch-perfect, holding her own and stealing the spotlight from the seasoned pros around her. Some of the dramatic arc needs to be tightened up before the show officially opens, but for a very early preview, it's in great shape.

Simon Boccanegra

The current revival of Giancarlo del Monaco's sumptuous production of Simon Boccanegra is probably the most successful production I've seen all season at the Met. Everything about this staging seems to just work, and after the 3.5 hours are over, you think to yourself that you could easily sit there for three-and-a-half more. Thomas Hampson brings a delicate, marvellous amalgamation of brooding darkness and genuine warmth to the title role, and his duets with the bass Feruccio Furlanetto were thrilling. Angela Gheorghiu triumphs as the doge's long-lost daughter Amelia; I don't think there's another soprano working today who can touch her when it comes to Verdi. This is the first revival of this production since its debut in 1995, with Kiri Te Kanawa and Placido Domingo, and it should become a permanent fixture on the Met season calendar.

Dying City

About a half-hour into Dying City, Christopher Shinn's plodding and generally perplexing new play at Lincoln Center's Mitzi E. Newhouse Theatre, an old man tripped and fell while trying to flee. That was more interesting than anything that happened onstage in the entire play. This isn't one of those "so-bad-it's-funny" plays; it's one of those "just plain bad" ones. Couple that with sophomoric acting from the truly unwatchable Pablo Schreiber and the miscast Rebecca Brooksher, and languid direction from James Macdonald (he had the same problem with his staging of Caryl Churchill's A Number), and you've got one of the most agonizing evenings of theatre in a long time. Chekhovian melodrama at its worst.

Prelude to a Kiss

To be honest, I wasn't really feeling Roundabout's revival of Craig Lucas' Prelude to a Kiss at first. The beginning fifteen minutes seemed a bit too tentative, as a young couple (Alan Tudyk and Annie Parisse) meet at a mutual friend's party, fall in love, and decide to marry after a whirlwind courtship. It wasn't until the scene of their actual wedding, midway through Act 1, that I fell in love with the play and production, and was rapt from then on. Daniel Sullivan is a master at blending genres; here, he has tapped into the realms of loss and redemption and perfectly juxtaposed them. I was on the verge of tears when The Old Man, beautifully played by John Manhoney, delivered an eloquent monologue about the dangers of living too long. Tudyk and Parisse are also ideally cast; they're a darling love match. That's the play, though: a truly darling marriage of style and substance.

Working

The musical adaptation of Studs Terkel's Working isn't very good. It's got a creaky book and half of the musical numbers are garbage. That's why I was scratching my head when it was chosen as the vehicle for an Actors' Fund benefit concert. Gordon Greenberg did his best to cut down on the monotony by reducing the show to ninety intermissionless minutes and cutting as many superfluous songs and characters as possible (he did away with the godawful newsboy bit), but it still came off feeling like Chinese water torture for most of the evening. Luckily, the cast was way better than their material; everyone was on the ball. I feel wrong singling people out in this case, but three stick out in my mind: the brilliant Mary Testa, playing the convivial waitress and blowing the roof off of the Zipper with "It's An Art"; Ed Dixon and his blue-eyed soul rendition of "Lovin' Al"; and Merle Dandridge, whose "Just a Housewife" broke my heart and "Cleaning Woman" brought me to my proverbial feet. Why isn't she in every show?

Kiki and Herb

Kiki on Shawn Hornbeck, the Missouri teen who was kidnapped at age eleven and returned to his parents five years later: "People have been wondering why he never tried to run away, why he never tried to call the police. Honey, if you didn't have to go to school and you were getting all the sex you needed in one place, would you try to run away?"

I heart Kiki.

The Little Dog Laughed

I had to see this show one more time before it closes, and sadly, work reasons are keeping me from tomorrow night's final performance. Still, I'm glad I was able to see it again for my fifth time. The orchestra and mezzanine were packed, something I've never seen for this show before, and the audience was loving it from the minute it started. I'm really going to miss being able to see Julie White's rip-roaringly brilliant performance. Having Zoe Lister-Jones back, even for a finite amount of time, makes me very happy; she brings such depth and humanity to her underwritten role. Too bad she isn't Tony eligible. Tom Everett Scott has gotten stronger with every return visit, and Johnny Galecki is just priceless. I'm sad to see another new American play close, but I will remember Douglas Carter Beane's terrific satire as the best modern day comedy of manners since, well, Douglas Carter Beane's As Bees in Honey Drown. Bravo and brava, company and crew!

Talk Radio

In the age when the Rush Limbaughs and Ann Coulters of the world are more popular and more prevelant than ever, Eric Bogosian's Talk Radio seems as relevant as ever. Robert Falls' crackling revival, currently previewing at the Longacre, is full of fun and livewire intensity. As Barry Champlain, a no-holds-barred shock jock whose Cleveland radio show is about to go national, Liev Schreiber has possibly turned in his best stage performance yet; he's galvanizing and engrossing, but never plays it too over the top. You believe every word he's saying, even when Bogosian's dialogue runs toward the ridiculous, and your eyes remain glued to him throughout the entire intermissionless 100 minutes of the show. He's ably supported by Peter Herrmann and Stephanie March, who delivers the "Barry Champlain is a nice place to visit..." monologue better than anyone I've ever heard before. I'm really loving the play revivals on Broadway this season; each one seems stronger than the last.

King Lear

Kevin Kline is an able Shakespearean, but I couldn't help shaking the thought that he's completely miscast as Lear. His trademark naturalism is all wrong for the larger than life king, and half the time he seems to wander around the stage of the Anspacher aimlessly, reciting his lines as if he were reading a telephone book. And this is before his descent into madness, which came off totally unbelievable. It pains me to write that Kline is lackluster, but he really, really is here.

He's surrounded by several other poor performers: Laura Odeh is laughable as the always laughing Regan, while Brian Avers' Edgar didn't seem to register a single human emotion. Philip Goodwin plays The Fool as if he'd just had a small stroke before walking onstage. Worst of all, though, is Logan Marshall-Green's Edmund; he's an actor with very few tricks, and often finds himself either over annunciating or just plain shouting.

There is some good, though: Kristen Bush is appropriately moving as Cordelia, and Angela Pierce presents Goneril as a proper stone cold bitch. Best of all, though, is Michael Cerveris' Kent; with this performance, he's announcing himself as a rising star of American Shakespearean interpretation.

Jenufa

I cannot shower enough superlatives upon Karita Matilla, currently giving the performance of a lifetime in Leos Janacek's Jenufa at the Met. Matilla is of the school of emotional interpreters, a very rare breed in modern opera. Watching her get down and dirty on stage is a completely fulfilling experience, among the best I've ever had at an opera. It also helps that her co-star is the great Anja Silja, the queen of the emotional interpretation. You could hear a pin drop during their scenes together. For once, the Met has paired their divas with two incredibly worthy leading men: the forceful and fascinating Jorma Silvasti sang Laca with fiery passion, and Jay Hunter Morris, in his company debut, brought an intriguing humanity to the cold-hearted Steva. The production closes this Saturday; do yourself a favor and go. You won't soon find two titans like this sharing the stage again any time soon.