The long-neglected composer’s work anchored a concert dedicated to exploring personal identity through music.
This charmless, shrill Dolly did not have me at Hello!
Seen and heard here, Donizetti’s late work was stronger on vocal power than bel canto nuance.
The electric current that needs to run through Sam Shepard’s great play is curiously low-voltage here.
At 48th and Baltimore, a performance worthy of a Tony, and an enchanting show.
Pretty is its own reward, but it has its limits. This recital showed both.
Director Eric Tucker’s production seems like an exercise in “épater la bourgeoisie” smart ass-ness.
I’ve heard starrier performances, but none that made a more powerful case for this masterwork.
With predictably Eurotrashy design elements, playwright/director Simon Stone reduces Euripides to soap opera.
Days later, I’m playing over scenes in my mind—loving some, scratching my head over others.