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.
Arin Arbus’s gripping, entertaining production misses some of Thornton Wilder’s humanity.
An improbably delightful adaptation of the grimmest of all English-language dramas.
Lots of talk, and ultimately not much heat.
These idiosyncratic, often illuminating productions now at McCarter register in surprising ways.
In an often-dazzling parade of comic shtick, the sentimental side of Neil Simon tends to disappear.