Abe Koogler’s play moves almost imperceptibly between realism and a poetic alternate reality.
J. T. Rogers’ complex play demands to be seen—but who can afford to produce it?
At the Met, Carsen and company reduce metaphor to melodrama.
Hamish Linklater’s bumpy, overwritten play never finds an anchor.
Revisiting Annie Baker’s new play confirmed some of my impressions and changed others.
Martin Sherman’s play is both a sweet romance—and a platform for Harvey Fierstein to shine.
There are many wonderful things in Annie Baker’s new play, but it loses its way.
John Guare’s still-wonderful play deserves better than Trip Cullman’s glossy, shallow revival.
This playful take on Agatha Christie’s mystery delivers more chuckles than chills.
I disagree with many of Sam Gold’s directorial ideas—yet I’ve never seen a production that feels so devastatingly right.