Reviewed by David Cote
Ruhl's subject is rich with comic possibilities, many of which, I'm glad to report, she elegantly and thoughtfully teases out. More, she doesn't just point at historical ignorance and cackle…
Ruhl's subject is rich with comic possibilities, many of which, I'm glad to report, she elegantly and thoughtfully teases out. More, she doesn't just point at historical ignorance and cackle…
So now, dear reader, we put the question to you: What unrecorded musical from the past ten years would you most like to see get a cast album?
In its bravery, scope, creativity, extremity and sheer generosity of spirit, The Lily's Revenge, to my mind, surpasses any American theater in New York this year.
Text and presence are supplied by live actors, but all the jump-scares come courtesy of William Cusick's ravishing, cinematic video.
This elegiac monologue, a dual portrait of Redgrave and her long-dead grandmother, burns with an unsteady flame.
Love Child is birthed before our eyes in a labor of love, and the labor pains are evident: By the end of their two-man show, Daniel Jenkins and Robert Stanton are both drenched in sweat.
Such an expressionistic investigation of language and memory could be engaging and even affecting, but one never gets around to caring about Walsh's afflicted wraiths.
None of the show's apples fall far from the twee.
Idiot Savant is vintage Foreman: ravishing, perplexing, scary, a sensual and intellectual massage for those weary of causality and psychology.
When the piece isn't obsessing about death, it is delving into erotics, but Wilson's frigid aesthetic makes the enterprise about as sexy as a Popsicle.