Betty Buckley: Quintessence

I never pass up the chance to see Betty Buckley live. She's one of the most forceful and dynamic stage presences, and a truly flawless song stylist. She didn't disappoint tonight at the Allen Room, where she sang songs of love in honor of the upcoming holiday. Bathed in the beauty of the Upper West Side, Buckley delivered favorites old and new: a jazzy "No One Is Alone"; a haunting "Anyone Can Whistle"; and a definitive rendition of Brenda Russell's "Get Here". Her encore, the blues classic "The Down Don't Bother Me", brought the audience to its feet and the house down. I can't wait for Ms. Buckley's new solo show, Singing For My Supper, at Feinstein's next month. The interim will seem intolerable.

Follies

Do I even need to write anything? Is it necessary in this case? For one, I'd gladly give up smoking, sex and Maker's Mark on the rocks if Victoria Clark would come to my apartment and sing "Losing My Mind" to me every night. Secondly, Donna Murphy is our Merman and Michael McGrath our Mickey Rooney. Victor Garber is probably the last old school leading man. Everything really is possible. I wish I could be articulate, but I can't. I'm still reeling.

A Very Common Procedure

This play is more than just common; it's downright bad. I was crying on the inside for my girl Lynn Collins. So brilliant as Rosalind in NYSF's As You Like It two summers ago, girlfriend is now saddled with a solipsistic and stupid play about a woman who falls for the doctor who performed a surgery that ended up killing her infant daughter. Courtney Baron wrote Ms. Collins' character as a shallow and mean-spirited nightmare of a woman, and she receives absolutely no sympathy from the audience. You know there's something wrong when a woman who has lost her premature baby comes out as more villain than victim. To quote an elderly gentlemen in earshot when leaving the theatre: "Just give her 300 milligrams of Motrin and she'd get over it!"

Lynn, I still love you, though. Please get someone to revive Cat on a Hot Tin Roof for you.

Mary Rose

J.M. Barrie's Mary Rose is a beautiful play, full of poetry and lyricism. Tina Landau's production for the Vineyard Theatre highlights this by having the formidable Keir Dullea read Barrie's lush stage directions to the audience between scenes. They read like a novel. Sadly, Landau's rendering suffers from some major miscasting: celebrity scion Paige Howard is all wrong for the title role of a young woman who vanished from a mystical Scottish island as a girl, only to return rather touched twenty days later with no recollection of what happened. Howard could not maintain her British accent to save her life, and seemed quite uncomfortable onstage. Despite some fine moments in the play's gorgeous final scene, it's an uneven and regrettable performance, and I spent most of the play wishing that Samantha Soule wasn't tied up doing The Voysey Inheritance. However, other fine performances abound, most notably Dullea and Darren Goldstein, as Mary Rose's adoring husband. More than ever, though, the play really is the thing. Get yourself down to Union Square and marvel at what dramatic language can achieve.

I Puritani

Over the past decade, Anna Netrebko has done what very few opera performers can: she has become a viable crossover artist. In Europe, her records top both the classical and pop charts, and her renditions of "Musette's Waltz" and "O mio babbino caro" receive music videos. Still, her fame has cost her the respect of opera purists, who don't seem to take her as seriously as her more classical peers. Last night though, singing the difficult role of Elvira in Bellini's I Puritani, she won me over as a lifelong fan. In the years that I've been going to the opera, I don't think I've ever seen such a magnetic presence on the stage of the Met. For the famous Act Two mad scene, "Vien, diletto", Netrbko laid on her back, on the foot of the stage, with her head hanging down into the orchestra pit. Say what you will about her, but she has guts. The men last night were less successful, especially the weak Gregory Kunde as Arturo, who didn't truly come alive until well into Act Three, but that didn't really matter. You couldn't take your eyes off of Netrebko.

Summer and Smoke

Julie White, Angela Lansbury and Vanessa Redgrave should be thanking their lucky stars that Michael Wilson's production of Summer and Smoke isn't on Broadway. If it were, they would all be out of luck come Tony time, when Amanda Plummer would wipe the floor with them and every other serious contender. Plummer so fully inhabits the role of Alma Winemiller, a homely and repressed minister's daughter lusting after the hedonistic doctor next door (the terrific Kevin Anderson), that you barely get a chance to catch your breath while watching her emote. Summer and Smoke is one of Tennessee Williams' best (and rarely produced) plays, and it's really wonderful to see a brilliant production of it. Next stop, Broadway? Let's hope so.

The Jew of Malta

Theatre for a New Audience had a rare opportunity to expose theatregoers to Christopher Marlowe's brilliant, rarely performed The Jew of Malta. The play, arguably the greatest work of Shakespeare's only formidable contemporary, has been butchered beyond belief by director David Herskovits and dramaturg Michael Feingold. The cast is led by F. Murray Abraham as Barabas, the vengeful title character out to set right the wrongs done to him by his Christian countrymen. However, he is a far too natural actor for the role; there's no fire there. The ensemble that surrounds him is even worse: a JCC in Branson could put together a better group of thespians. By the end of the play, I was jealous of Barabas for being burned alive.

Howard Katz

Alfred Molina is giving a career-best performance in Howard Katz, receiving its American premiere by Roundabout at the Laura Pels Theatre. The comedy-drama is easily Patrick Marber's most satisfying play, peppered with snappy dialogue, interesting characters and a compelling story. In the past, Marber has produced these desirable characteristics, but never all at once. Molina is supported by an extremely able supporting cast, which includes veteran Beckett interpreter Alvin Epstein, Tony winner Elizabeth Franz, and best of all, the peerless Jessica Hecht. Here is an actress that, no matter how little stage time she has, always makes an impression. One facial expression from her is worth more than an entire performance from most other actresses in New York. She's our Julie Harris.

The Coast of Utopia: Salvage

What happened? Voyage was a delightful romp of a Russian soap with philosophy and fun facts thrown into the mix. Shipwreck was brilliant, profound and totally moving. And now, we have Salvage, which is, on a whole, unsalvageable. Taking place mostly in London, where Alexander Herzen took up residence after the death of his wife, child and mother, the final installment of Tom Stoppard's Coast of Utopia trilogy seems as if it was culled from throwaway moments cut from the first two better plays. The lack of interest here extends to Brian F. O'Byrne as Herzen; he could, no pun intended, coast through Voyage and Shipwreck because they were so well-written. However, the flaws of this play really heighten the fact that he is so utterly miscast as Herzen that it's almost embarrassing. The only positive touches here are Josh Hamilton and Martha Plimpton as Nicholas and Natasha Ogarev; both of these talents have spent most of the trilogy on the sidelines and now finally get a chance to shine.

Anon

Kate Robin's play really helped me. Some could say it changed my life. You see, as I sat in the darkness of Atlantic Theatre's brand new Stage 2 bored out of my mind, I decided to drop a class that will seriously cut down on my school workload. Theatre really can have a profound impact on you!