Eleanor Burgess’s thought-provoking, intelligent play was a balm to my wounded soul.
Blanka Zizka’s high-concept production consistently tries too hard.
Nearly everything about America seems to frighten this playwriting snowflake.
We’ve moved on from Harold Pinter’s pregnant, tedious pauses. Who has the time?
Jez Butterworth’s epochal play provokes feelings of exhilaration and mourning.
A charming and unusual song program showcased AVA’s rising group of singers.
Two highly satisfying evenings, more evenly drawn than I had expected.
Anthony Lawton’s adaptation takes a familiar tale and electrifyingly gives it new life.
Bryan Cranston’s brilliant performance aside, this adaptation proves even more problematic than the original film.
Take my yeast—please!