In their best moments, the mezzo and pianist Ted Sperling were near-ideal Bernstein-isti.
What R. B. Schlather’s visually arresting production has to do with the opera remains a mystery.
For sheer charm, I doubt this production will be equaled this year, or for many to come.
Fine voices and musical values here far outshine a cliché-ridden production.
Perhaps unintentionally, Rick Foster’s hagiographic one-hander captures just what’s wrong with America’s most beloved actress.
Peter Sinn Nachtrieb’s play, meant to be funny, shocking and poignant, seems instead to be trying too hard.