‘Kiss Me, Kate’ ~ ‘Nylon’ ~ ‘Actually, We’re Fucked’


Kiss Me, Kate 
Dear Roundabout: More Broadway revivals like Cabaret, fewer like Kiss Me Kate She Loves Me On the Twentieth Century Holiday Inn etc. etc. etc. ad infinitum. And for Pete’s…er…Scott’s sake, let Ellis direct something other than nostalgia. The question that occupied my mind for most of the revival’s driveling duration: So if Brooks Ashmanskas is Nathan Lane-Lite, and if Brad Oscar is Lane-Uber-Lite, does that make John Pankow Lane-Litest? (The Manskas might share an ancestry with Michael Urie as well). Let the record show that, despite the unfavorable comparison of this common Write All Nite formulation, sharing a lineage with one of THE stage actors of my lifetime, no matter how far from its forebear, is a compliment all down the line.

A soap-opera in a serious relationship drama’s clothing. A comfortable, unremarkable one-act that frays and knots from being erroneously stretched and tangled into a muddled full-length, whose second half loses the plot by expanding and expounding upon it. Stray Take: Is Nora’s Door the most overused homage in the history of symbolic endings?

Actually, We’re Fucked
A sitcom premise executed — I use the verb loosely — too seriously. A dramedy of manners in which the drama stalls the comedy, and the comedy gets in the way of sufficiently developing its ideas. The play requires the chemistry zing of top-tier talent its quality will fail to attract.

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