I’m pretty sure nowhere is feeling the sting of the lulling economy more than Broadway. Cult sensation Rent? Closed. Cute tuner Legally Blonde? Closed. Spamalot? Hairspray? Spring Awakening? Closing. Closing. Closing. Though it may be hard to imagine, the little-show-that-could Avenue Q will soon be the fifth longest running musical still packing audiences into a Broadway theater each night.

Yet, a feat such as this really should not be too difficult to imagine. After all, Avenue Q does what any great piece of theater should do – it transports the audience to a world other than the one they just came from and makes them forget the troubles of their everyday life. The world in question this week is Nashville, where the superb national touring company plays through Sunday. And make no mistake, Music City is a better place for it.

The true genius of the Robert Lopez/Jeff Marx score is that it offers us a delightful slice of non-escapism. That is, the mounting bills and problems at work we are trying to get away from by going to the theater are blissfully lampooned right on stage and we somehow feel better for it. Nowhere is this more evident for me than in the story of Princeton (Robert McClure), a fresh-faced 22-year-old wondering what to do with his newly acquired B.A. in English. I can guarantee that this will be my theme song on May 16, 2009, when I have to figure out what in the world to do with my B.A. in English. (No joke.) At the end of the song “It Sucks to Be Me,” Princeton lightheartedly quips, “This is real life.” It may be difficult to take him seriously because, after all, he’s a puppet. But what makes this show so effective is that he is actually not far off from the truth.

In fact, all of the songs have this great double-edged truthiness to them. Kate Monster (Carey Anderson) is routinely interrupted by Trekkie Monster (David Benoit) as he explains that “The Internet Is for Porn.” Nicky (Benoit) assures his roommate Rod (McClure) of their unconditional friendship in “If You Were Gay.” Perhaps the funniest number is “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist” in which some brightly colored, furry friends chirp, “Ethnic jokes might be uncouth / but you laugh because they’re based on truth.” These characters get away with every last bit of it because it feels as though you are watching children’s television.

Jeff Whitty’s inspired book follows the mold of these familiar programs and pays homage to them in the process. (After all, he’s teaching adults some very valuable lessons here.) My favorite plot device is the insertion of Gary Coleman (Danielle K. Thomas) into the mix as the superintendent of Avenue Q. Didn’t you ever wonder as a child why Gloria Estefan would randomly show up on Sesame Street and teach Grover how to sing “Conga”? So did I. The presence of Coleman offers a knowing wink to the genre but also provides an endless source of searing one-liners regarding the misfortunes of the former child star.

The fact that the actors are entirely visible on stage while handling their puppets is never a problem. It’s impossible not to watch the innocent faces of Princeton and Kate as they stumble into a cute little romance. In fact, it’s really quite fascinating to watch McClure, Anderson, or Benoit navigate a scene in which they play two different characters. Their transitions between voices are often so smooth, it may take a few minutes to realize it is an entirely different handler manning the puppet for whom they are speaking. Overall, this is a testament to the talent of the company as a collective unit.

For the record, the touring cast is an absolute treat, offering crisp performances and impeccable comic timing. Maggie Lakis as one half of the devilish duo known as the Bad Idea Bears offers the funniest turn of the evening as a baby-voiced teddy who encourages Princeton to drink irresponsibly, sleep with his girlfriend, and even kill himself. (She offers the poor guy a noose, for crying out loud.) A joyful irreverence can be found in her delivery and, indeed, in the entire show.

It may not have been the most likely contender for the 2004 Best Musical Tony, but Avenue Q won it for a very legitimate reason. It reinvents what meaningful theater can be while maintaining the basics of stage storytelling. Because it hijacks something as pure and familiar as kiddie TV, it connects with us on an instinctive level, rendering the jokes a little funnier and the moments of meaning a little more substantive. In the hands of the talented traveling company, the material has never shined brighter. Let’s just hope Nashville has the wherewithal to embrace the piece for its wacky brilliance before it packs up to spread its irreverent glee elsewhere.

Four years. If that. That’s how long it has been since the last Broadway revival of Gypsy closed at the Shubert Theatre. Is it really necessary, then, that yet another mounting of the Jule Styne musical arrives on the boards, this time with Patti LuPone in the role of infamous stage mother Rose?

Duh.

LuPone’s performance is everything it was expected to be – masterful, emotive, and complex – but that’s a given with a title like Gypsy. You know you’re going to get an above-the-title star with monumental stage presence. You’re bound to be subjected to some conventional Playbill art of said star throwing her dramatic arms up in justified exultation. And if you don’t hear some class-A belting, you should be pretty pissed.

Granted, it is great fun to see LuPone give what many have dubbed the performance of her career, but it is even more invigorating to witness the show’s many other outstanding qualities.

Chief among these is the musical’s book, penned by Arthur Laurents (who also staged this particular production). Equal parts gripping and comical, the meaty dialogue gives the show something many other musicals lack – a compelling, dramatic story. Based on the memoirs of burlesque dancer Gypsy Rose Lee, the narrative follows the sacrifices made by the ever determined Rose on the road to making one of her daughters a major star. With LuPone at the helm, the woman’s determination is simultaneously inspiring and disturbing. And Laurents never took the easy way out in the conception of his characters. They are fully-formed creatures of the most realistic proportions.

Rose’s protégé June (Leigh Ann Larkin) loathes the spotlight her mother thrusts upon her. She morphs from dough-eyed kewpie in chintzy stage routines to rasping cynic when the spotlight is turned off. The mild-mannered Herbie (Boyd Gaines) is the appropriate sweet to Rose’s sour, yet his temper can flare if his girls are put in harm’s way. And of course there is Louise (Laura Benanti), the lesser-loved daughter who gets to play parts like the back end of a cow until June flees the scene at the end of the first act.

But does Rose really love Louise more than June? Laurents’ book certainly does not let the audience make that assumption. While it would be easier to follow a plot that had Rose favor June and ignore Louise, we get scenes in which she makes a concerted effort to shower Louise with attention on her birthday (though, ironically, it is Rose’s antics that have left her not knowing how old she actually is). This momma may pimp her daughters and their friends out to any schmuck in the American public willing to buy a ticket to their act, but she loves them both fiercely, a fitting commentary on the emotional nature of all stage parents.

Of course, it helps that the powerhouse book is augmented by one of the more rambunctious Broadway scores of the 1950s. Brassy act closers “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” and “Rose’s Turn” give the leading lady her much deserved time to shine. And shine she does.

But, once again, it’s the sleepers herein that give the show its real magic. The immensely satisfying melodies of Rose and Herbie’s duets “Small World” and “You’ll Never Get Away from Me” never seem to, well, get away from you. The bawdy subject matter of “You Gotta Get a Gimmick,” in which three geriatric burlesque dancers teach Louise the art of stripping, is still as side-splitting as ever. And I would argue that the sisters’ ode to Rose’s chances with Herbie, “If Momma Was Married,” is the most exhilarating number in this entire production as a result of Larkin and Benanti’s soaring vocals.

While we’re on those two, let’s go ahead and point out the fact that this musical’s cast is not comprised of singers – it is comprised of actors who can carry a really good tune. Benanti in particular is the most enjoyable performer to watch (yes, even over Patti) in the transformation she makes from an awkward girl with stringy hair to a vamped-up vixen. And that’s just within the span of one song, “The Strip.” The undeniable sway that Gypsy Rose Lee holds over her panting audience is the same power exerted by Benanti on those sitting in the seats of the St. James Theatre. Her flawless comic timing is a sight to behold as she often makes choices that may not seem conventional but end up paying for themselves tenfold in laughter. Something about the way she phrases her “moo moo, moo moo” in the “Dainty June and Her Farmboys” number is simply hysterical. But the girl can break your heart, too. See the poignancy rendered in “Little Lamb” or the way she longs after Tulsa (Tony Yazbek) in his big number “All I Need is the Girl.”

So sure, Patti is great. And seeing Gypsy only for her would be just fine. But to convey her as the only asset (even the biggest asset) of this show would be a downright lie. Gypsy triumphs on all levels, emotionally, musically, dramatically. And with a cast as formidable as this, one could probably find backers to produce a musicalized version of the phone book. I guess we’ll just have to settle for one of the greatest works of the American musical theater. Sigh. Take the show’s advice and let them entertain you.

I think it was probably a year ago now that I sat with two or three of my really good friends in a tiny art house cinema near Lincoln Center and inhaled the fresh breath of Irishy goodness that was the film Once. Listening to the intimate harmonies of Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, I felt as though I were uncovering an undiscovered treasure mine – I wanted everyone else to be able to experience the beauty of their addictive acoustic ballads but I also (selfishly) wanted to keep them all for myself.

Fast forward a few months later and they had to go and win an Academy Award for their tune “Falling Slowly,” one of the strongest tracks on the soundtrack to the aforementioned film and their studio collaboration known as The Swell Season. So yeah, I guess a few more people know about them now… but I still like to think they are all my own.

The duo’s current tour does much to preserve this feeling of freshly discovered genius. There’s a palpable authenticity to their performance which I think comes primarily from their lack of pretense while on stage. Hansard’s meandering comments on topics as varied as the presidential election and the denizens of Nashville’s Broadway (which he likened to Hades for its level of noise pollution) were endearing and often humorous while Irglova’s more demure interjections were insightfully sincere. The bottom line is that these are just really good people who happen to make good music.

Perhaps the reason I feel like these two could be my BFFs is because they end up offering the most private thoughts of their hearts by the end of the majority of their songs. Hansard started things off with “Say It to Me Now,” a slow-burner from the point-of-view of a frustrated lover that was intensified by his choice to perform it at the foot of the stage, sans artificial amplification. The earnest lyric paints the portrait of a desperate heart: “Cause this is what you’ve waited for / Your chance to even up the score / And as these shadows fall on me now / I will somehow.” Hansard readied the crowd as his growling baritone echoed to the furthest rafters, announcing his arrival and readying us for the compelling evening to follow.

Irglova and the duo’s four-piece band joined Hansard on stage next, completing a trifecta of songs from the Once soundtrack including “All the Way Down” and “When Your Mind’s Made Up.” And let’s just go ahead and get this out there – Irglova probably rivals the proverbial button in terms of her level of cuteness. She may be but a quiet lass of only 20 years, but when she pours her soul into cuts like “I’ve Loved You Wrong,” you would swear the words were coming from the mouth of an individual with at least a few more decades under her belt. She definitely takes the back seat to Hansard in terms of showmanship, but that’s often the way things go with an artist and his muse. Which is not to say that the whole night was about the pair’s off-stage relationship (indeed, none of it was).

Next, Hansard kicked off his four-song solo set with the aggressive “Leave” along with a couple of new tunes, “What Happens When the Heart Just Stops” and “Backbroke.” The highlight of this segment, however, was his larger-than-life cover of Van Morrison’s “Astral Weeks,” a soaring epic that explores the limits of devotion and commitment: “If I ventured in the slipstream / Between the viaduct of your dreams / Where immobile steel rims crack / And the ditch in the back roads stop / Could you find me? / Would you kiss-a my eyes?” By the time Hansard reached the first of what would be many crescendos, I could have sworn there was a full band backing him and his guitar due to the sheer decibel level that emanated from his wiry frame. White boy can wail.

The rest of the outfit returned for a few new songs including the appropriately titled “Happiness,” one of the many selections Hansard and Co. encouraged the crowd to join in on once the simple melody had been learned. Throughout the entire night, he and Irglova were both gracious and a bit in awe of performing in the hallowed hall of country music, so it was fitting that they closed their standard set with a bit of Hank Williams’ “Lost Highway.” They returned for a generous five song encore which featured “If You Want Me” (which “Mar” dedicated to all the ladies in the audience…but let’s not forget the boys need some lovin’ too) as well as “Blue Shoes,” an exquisite instrumental piece performed by their violinist. “People Get Ready” was the final song of the night, featuring an buoyant refrain that encouraged, “We’ve got all the time in the world / To make it right / We’ve got all the love in the world / To set it right.” Amen to that.

Pinpointing the magic of these two individuals would, in essence, be destroying it. They are what they are, and what they are is sublime. It never ceases to amaze me how some of the most heartbreaking, gut-wrenching, cry-your-soul-out music can be the most emotionally satisfying and, oddly, the most comforting. But that’s exactly where their music will take you. It will be interesting to see if their fresh material makes its way stateside in the form of a new record within the next few years or if their momentary blip on the radar was only a rare occurrence to happen, well, once (pun fully intended). I, for one, am rooting for the former.

As Elizabeth Bennet (Brianne Angarole) sits in the picturesque atmosphere of her family’s nineteenth century drawing room, I couldn’t suppress images of a giddy Carrie Bradshaw downing cosmos and dishing with her girl posse on the latest members of the male gender to infect her life. Jane Austen’s provincial England in Pride and Prejudice may be far removed by time and distance from the glam 5th Ave. of Carrie and Co., but the story of the Bennet girls’ seemingly endless string of romantic plights might very well put anything on HBO to shame.

To be fair, this isn’t exactly Jane Austen’s England – it’s Jon Jory’s. Adapted from the 1813 classic with wit to spare, this Pride and Prejudice gives its audience all the juicy relational drama of the original story without the dedication it takes to make it through the novel. I’m not gonna lie: I put it down after the third chapter.

Jory’s frequent use of direct address immediately enlivens what would otherwise be the prosaic ramblings of Austen and gives her characters a spiffy 20th century sparkle. The audience does not simply eavesdrop on the misadventures of Elizabeth – they act as her confidant in times of despair and confusion. As she ponders a recent encounter with suitor-of-the-week Mr. Wickham (Joshua Wenger), her audible inner voice bleeds seamlessly into a conversation with her sister Jane (Joanna Rolan). The same vulnerability she entrusts to her family the playwright also bestows upon the viewer. It’s a clever technique that manages not to wear out its welcome. And, let’s face it, Elizabeth needs us.

For starters, she has the conniving Miss Bingley (Brittany Bagwell) to offer her advice “as a friend” when the girl’s best intentions are the last thing on her mind. There is also the small issue of her good friend Charlotte (Hannah Miller) eventually shacking up with her would-be fiancé.

Which brings us to the men her life. To say this girl has boy trouble would be an understatement. First there is Mr. Collins (Tommy Wallace), who’s pretty much a Steve Urkel on the geek scale, set back a few centuries and sans suspenders. A clergyman by trade, Collins is a meandering, if eligible, patron of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Then we have Wickham, a sometimes soldier (full-time jerk) whose chief interest seems to be breaking hearts of the Bennet variety.

But chief on the list is the dashing Mr. Big Darcy (Benjamin Reed), a Byronic hero whose chipped shoulder would be more adequately described as a crater. Elizabeth and Darcy’s is a relationship of fiery intensity though one would never know it by his penchant for choosing romantic conversation topics like her social inferiority. Sounds like a real winner, right? The genius of their interplay (and for this we have Austen to thank) is not what they say to each other, but rather what they fail to say. Darcy to Elizabeth at a social gathering: “Ms. Bennet, I had not hoped to meet you here.” Translation: “Ms. Bennet, I had hoped to meet you here.” Elizabeth on the opposite sex: “I am very sick of men in general.” Translation: “I really like this one guy but I’m not entirely sure if he likes me back.” Near the end of the first act, the two stand across the bare stage from each other with only fathoms of cascading space to separate them. That one image is indicative of their entire relationship (so I suppose we should also thank a bit of good blocking in addition to Ms. Austen).

Even though the labyrinthine plot can become a headache at times (Mr. Darcy sent who to check on whatshisname and that other sister?), Prejudice is still a story of extremely relatable characters. Ever displaying the tried and true Tia/Tamara friendship she has with her sister, Jane refuses to celebrate her offer of marriage before confirming Elizabeth’s well being. And Mr. and Mrs. Bennet (Richard Northcutt and Wesley Paine, respectively) are the quintessential overprotective parents. One could almost imagine him pulling out the shotgun to see if it will scare away gentleman callers or her writing little notes on napkins and stuffing them into the bottom of brown paper lunchsacks. We know these people.

And at the center of it all is Lizzie who only asks for “the felicity of a marriage which true affection can bestow.” She wants authentic, reciprocal love and would give the world to have a husband she can esteem. Sound familiar? And all this without a sex column or a pair of Manolo Blahniks. Imagine that.

Why is it that watching a Noah Baumbach film makes me feel icky on the inside? Believe me, I tried to find a more sophisticated word than icky as Baumbach’s pics have a sophistication about them, a brooding intellectualism that certainly deserves more literate diction than icky. But that’s exactly how I feel: icky.

Margot at the Wedding, Baumbach’s latest tale of familial dysfunction and multidimensional self-loathing, casts a mousy Nicole Kidman as the titular character, a pill-popping, wine-guzzling serpent who takes her young son Claude (Zane Pais) along for the ride to the impending nuptials of her sister Pauline (Jennifer Jason Leigh). The latter sister has settled on marrying Malcolm (Jack Black), a starving artist who has inexplicably managed to get pudgy. Margot’s disapproval of the union is only the tip of the iceberg of friction between her and her arguably warmer sibling, a fact made clear in the first minute of the film. Why in the world would Pauline marry someone she has only known only a year? Clearly, Margot knows the secret to relational success, evidenced by her crumbling marriage to Jim (John Turturro).

It’s not so much the polluted family politics that make Margot increasingly uncomfortable to take in – that is actually the film’s stronger suit. Rather, it is Baumbach’s uncompromising, gritty focus on deception, infidelity, hatred, depression, addiction and almost every other entry in Webster’s not-yet-published Dictionary of Complicated Adult Relationships that leaves the viewer feeling altogether unsettled. Much like he did in the 2005 divorce saga The Squid and the Whale, Baumbach has penned another witty, dark investigation into the pitfalls of vulnerability aimed directly at a mature audience.

What has changed from his last outing, however, is the welcome inclusion of blatant comic relief resulting primarily from Black’s understated portrayal of a perverted bum who has no concept of how lucky he is to be marrying Jennifer Jason Leigh. He gets laughs from comments about his greasy mustache. Put a mallet in his hand and he ends a pleasant croquet game with fits of rage and f-bombs permanently in tow. Black’s excellent comic timing is best used in this type of moody realism where he can pepper the otherwise morose atmosphere with little globs of sunshine. Elsewhere, his purely dramatic roles seem contrived and his comedic efforts are typically obnoxious.

The most engrossing aspect of the film and, truly, the best performances come from the interplay between Kidman and Leigh. The writer and indeed Kidman’s perpetual likability would have the audience believe that Margot is the good cop in this situation, traveling to her sister’s wedding simply to mollify the tragically unhinged bride-to-be. Yet, as the story unfolds, there are increasing indications that it is Kidman who is the true basket case of the family (if we can really assign that crown to a sole member). Their recent estrangement began because Margot used explicit details of Pauline’s difficulties with her previous husband in a story she later published in “The New Yorker.” It was because of Margot’s betrayal that her marriage failed. Margot also snoops about her sister’s belongings to get some extra dirt on good ole sis, only to swipe her meds and grow jealous of her most recent romance with Malcolm. She even spills the beans of her sister’s pregnancy to her own daughter Ingrid (Flora Cross) before Pauline has the chance to do so herself.

Kidman gives an exquisitely affected performance as a would-be polished academic who manages to eschew any admiration directed toward her via frequent meltdowns and spurts of searing bitterness. She is fragile and inconsistent but still manages to command the screen with her firm resolve. Some of her most compelling moments are with Pais as her son whom she mercilessly criticizes only to deflect the criticisms aimed at her. Theirs is a relationship of almost disturbing proximity which becomes all the more evident as Pauline deftly inserts a wedge between the two in order to get back at her sister.

Particular attention should be paid to the work of cinematographer Harris Savides who has given the film an unfinished, gloomy quality to further emphasize the harsher elements of Baumbach’s storyline. When Margot snatches her spare writings away from her eavesdropping son or sister because the material within is too raw, one cannot help but consider the action useless because the entire movie is an unauthorized peek at the same emotionally crippled individual.

I wouldn’t label Baumbach’s work here (or anywhere else for that matter) entertaining, but it is certainly compelling in its honesty. How else are you supposed to portray the painful intricacies of dealing with one’s own family? He does an expert job of creating situations in which the lines are blurred – both sides can defend their points with complete conviction, tears in their eyes and still escape from confrontations unsuccessful. It’s an unseemly truth that the ones we love the most are the same ones we feel the deepest hatred for. Popcorny fun? Nope. Relevant to just about everyone’s life? You betcha.

I can answer all of your questions with one simple word: Heelys. That’s right, the rollerblade-shoe hybrid. The aquatic creatures in Disney’s new stage adaptation of The Little Mermaid do not fly across the stage Mary Martin style nor do they inhabit a colossal Cirque du Soleil tank. They perform (or rather infer) all of their swimming by strapping on those roller skate wannabes that have been exciting hyperactive children and frustrating unsuspecting pedestrians for the past seven or eight years.

The way in which director Francesca Zambello has orchestrated her actors through various states of submersion will inevitably invite comparisons to Julie Taymor’s avant-garde staging of The Lion King more than a decade ago. Taymor delved deeply into the earthy African roots of King’s story, ensconcing her show in a tribal vibe complemented by the landscape of the African savannah. It seems the richest source material Zambello has been able to draw from is the sample color wheel at her local Lowe’s.

Because that’s the one thing you’re bound to be impressed with when you see Mermaid – its vibrant pool of rich color. Searing crimson sunsets give way to the appropriately flowing aquamarine tones of the underwater scenes. It’s easy to see how Zambello’s sizable resume of operatic productions has influenced her take on this story, surely one of the most lucrative properties in the Disney canon. The stage is empty save a rotating repertoire of colossal set pieces that she trots onstage for one musical number and then whips off for the next. Ariel (Sierra Boggess) sits in a big cove that looks like it was shipped in from Orlando. Her evil auntie Ursula (Sherie Rene Scott) rests in an orb-like throne with giant tentacles to suggest she is an octopus even though she does not look like one. Part of the ingenuity behind Taymor’s set was the way set pieces seamlessly blended into one another from one scene to the next, further emphasizing that show’s circle of life theme. Mermaid’s visual aesthetic plays more like a very pretty theme park ride, jarring and overflowing with color, only reminding the audience they are watching the latest show from Disney rather than a piece of well-crafted theater (which, by the way, is not a good thing).

Oh, I almost forgot – there’s a story somewhere in there, too. The youngest of King Triton’s (Norm Lewis) seven daughters, Ariel is a plucky mer-teenager who likes pushing the limits and going up to the surface to feel closer to the human world with her sidekick Flounder (played at this performance by J.J. Singleton). She rescues a prince who fancies himself a sailor (Sean Palmer) when his boat capsizes, but her father refuses to allow the girl to see him again thus assigning Jamaican lobster Sebastian (Tituss Burgess) babysitting duty.

Go-to Disney composer Alan Menken was rehired to pen the music for the additional tunes while Glenn Slater was tapped to provide the new lyrics (Howard Ashman wrote the originals). Of course, the best tunes are the five holdovers from the animated film which have the advantage of already being ingrained in the audience’s subconscious. Despite the listless staging of the number, Ariel’s Act I anthem “Part of Your World” still soars with requisite charm and energy especially in the hands of Boggess’ excellent voice. And “Under the Sea” (which won the 1989 Academy Award for Best Original Song) is still a funky, jubilant jam bolstered mainly by the performance of Burgess.

The newer songs, though not as immediately appealing, are adequate additions to the resplendent canon of hummable Disney songs. Menken has crafted a lovely little quartet between Triton, Eric, Ariel and Sebastian (”If Only”) as the meatiest number of the second act, exploring the varying strands of emotional longing within each character. Scott makes ample use of her superb comic timing in Ursula’s showcase number “I Want the Good Times Back.” Whereas the film Ursula was a menacing creature of behemoth proportions, the comparatively slender Scott plays her more as Ethel Merman with a bone to pick. It’s an odd (if shamelessly entertaining) choice that manages to give the production a couple of laughs.

Which brings me to this show’s main problem: it’s not very much fun. While Zambello’s visual creations may not be the most consistent, at least she’s trying. But Doug Wright’s book earns no such excuse. The funniest moments in the show are still Menken’s songs. (Chef Louis’ suppertime gem “Les Poissons” was the only moment in the show that caused me to laugh out loud.) Maybe Wright should have taken a cue from the latest film offering from Disney, Enchanted. Its self-deprecating vibe would have worked perfectly for Mermaid which will probably delight the kids with its bright imagery but leave the parents a trifle bored. Example Prince Eric line to King Triton: “Are you friend or foe? [. . .] You really are her father?” Blech. Perfect rejoinder: “But you’re black.” Ha!

Tara Rubin’s camp deserves a hefty bit of credit for the show’s minor successes because Boggess is the perfect fit for the vivacious Ariel. She fuses a spunky grace into all of her scenes, though less pronounced in her underwater bits as she scoots her way across the stage. The real fun comes at the beginning of Act II after Ariel has lost her voice – Boggess still commands the stage despite the fact that she has no lines. Scott, as well, pulls off a memorable performance in spite of her bland material.

So the search continues. Disney Theatrical has produced an ambitious addition to its line of stage productions, but this Little Mermaid is still too stilted both visually and structurally to merit substantial praise. No doubt they’ll continue exhausting their catalog until they find the new millennium’s next stage blockbuster. Let’s just hope it’s more fun than this.

You can go ahead and say it – Mel Brooks is one crazy mad scientist. Who else would have the chutzpah to craft an eight-minute musical showstopper declaring the fabulousness of good ole Adolph (Elizabeth) Hitler? I was reminded of that infamous sequence from Brook’s previous Broadway blockbuster, The Producers, as I gaped at a side-splitting portion of his newest creation – a just-as-lengthy 20s style tap-dancing extravaganza featuring an unassuming doctor and his 7-foot tall piecemeal monster.

Yup, we’re talking “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” the ubiquitous Irving Berlin tune that provided quintessential Brooks hilarity in the 1974 comedy classic Young Frankenstein, now reconfigured for (could it be?) even bigger laughs on the Broadway stage.

In all fairness, let us give a hefty amount of credit in both of those cases to ever-inventive director/choreographer Susan Stroman who has guided both of Brooks’ recent stints on the boards to calculated gaiety. This woman has a wonderful knack for taking the outlandish, bombastic spirit of Mr. Blazing Saddles and whittling it down into the perfect format for the stage, entertaining and completely palatable. Stroman is one of the many ingredients in Brooks’ laboratory that have combined yet again to yield a positively engrossing smash that deserves to live a long, synthetically stimulated life.

I suppose a disclaimer is in order: the original film is one of my favorites. Just give me Gene Wilder as Frederick Frankenstein (pronounced FRONK-uhn-STEEN) muttering something about a candle to Teri Garr while stuck between a wall and a trap bookcase and I’m good to go.

Roger Bart inhabits the inimitable shoes of Wilder as the late Dr. Victor Frankenstein’s grandson, trapped between his ambitions as a respectable brain doctor and the … less-than-honorable leanings of the “family business.” When his ginger movements collide with his barely contained mock fury, Bart somehow manages to make the task of carrying the biggest show in New York look easy. He has a glimmer in his eye and a smirk on his face, telling the audience he is quite pleased with himself but even more pleased at this glorious creation.

And Bart is only the beginning of a superb cast that keeps this beast from shuttering under its own immense weight. Every principal so closely matches their movie counterpart, I worry what magic the show will lose when the originals eventually move on to other projects.

But now is not a time to mourn; nay, we rejoice. Because Megan Mullally is Madeline Kahn as Victor’s longsuffering “madcap fiancé” Elizabeth. Sure, there’s a bit of Karen Walker thrown in there, but I think we would all be a bit disappointed if there weren’t. Shuler Hensley continues to occupy the most obscure niche as Broadway’s resident animalistic character actor by adopting the undervalued comedic timing of Peter Boyle as The Monster. And let’s take just a minute to applaud Christopher Fitzgerald’s scene stealing turn as Igor (pronounced EYE-gor, of course), Frankenstein’s lovably idiotic sidekick. Marty Feldman had some of the most killer one-liners in the film (”Walk this way”) and Fitzgerald capitalizes upon them with panache.

So if Stro generates the formulas and the cast inhabits the shoes of this glorious creation, then I suppose set designer Robin Wagner is the sexy lab assistant is this increasingly complicated metaphor of Brooks’ crazy laboratory. Wagner’s designs sweep on and off of the stage with such cinematic wonder, you feel as though you are watching a big budget movie. Right from the opening scrim of a Transylvanian castle with a lone Citizen Kane-esque window down to the thrilling multi-dimensional labyrinth of the doctor’s lair, these sets are a feast for the eyes. They emit a palpable old Hollywood feel that sets the stage for pure enjoyment.

One of the things that makes Young Frankenstein such a welcome addition to the Broadway landscape is its lack of a need to prove anything. This show is staying open regardless of what other critics might say and, as a result, it does not need to jump on the snarky anti-Broadway bandwagon perfected by recent shows like Spamalot and Xanadu. Nope, this monster embraces its creator and pays frequent homage to the old fashioned wonder of the Great White Way. Even within the show’s first ten minutes (namely, Frederick’s academic lecture on “The Brain”), we get a witty re-interpretation of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s “There’s Nothing Like a Dame” with tongue-twisting Sondheimian lyrics to boot. The songs, all penned by Brooks, express a refreshingly warm appreciation for Broadway.

But that does not in any way mean the old coot has gone soft on us. The show’s book, co-written with Thomas Meehan, zings with witty punch lines from the corny (Fred Applegate’s artificially-limbed Inspector Kemp explaining how his surgeries cost him “an arm and a leg”) to the downright bawdy (Andrea Martin’s practically perfect Frau Blucher [insert neigh here] sharing how the elder Frankenstein would always “win three-legged races… by himself”).

Regrettably, one of the film’s most unforgettable scenes – Gene Hackman’s ingenious bit as the blind hermit – plays out rather forgettably here. You almost feel as though the monster and the hermit (Applegate, pulling double duty) are going through the motions only because they are contractually obligated to do so by Twentieth Century Fox. In fact, a number of the movie’s most iconic gags admittedly feel somewhat forced, but I shudder to think what the play would have been like if they had left them out altogether. We have a word for that where I come from - blasphemy.

Now that it has been brought to life, Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein is a tower of perfection. It can stand on its gargantuan two feet and step out of The Producers’ shadow as its own brand of thoroughly entertaining musical theater. If the whole gang gives it another go for Blazing Saddles, I won’t blame them; however, I will be surprised if it manages to be half as spectacular as this campy, unforgettable monster.

Remember back in the day when Broadway shows were so good you absolutely had to make them into movies? The Sound of Music. Cabaret. My Fair Lady. If they proved themselves on stage, surely they would succeed in cineplexes across the country. Right?

OK, fine. I don’t personally remember that time either. But as a young theatergoer of the new generation, I did my homework and have learned that this is the way it was.

Emphasis on the was as the producers of today’s “cutting-edge” musical theater have taken that same strand of logic and forced it into reversal. Yet, for some reason, they have chosen tepid films to turn into these would-be money making machines. High Fidelity, which benefited from a rather high pedigree of source material, closed in a matter of weeks last year. The Wedding Singer did not last much longer. Cue Elle Woods, brilliantly marching into Harvard Law school, gold-sequined bandleader outfit it tow.

Based on the 2001 hit comedy of the same name headlined by Reese Witherspoon, Legally Blonde the musical sorority sashayed its way to New York this past summer, doing healthy business at first but falling behind the ranks after a few month’s time. Does this latest cookie-cutter movie musical deserve a spot in the history books unlike its more unfortunate cousins?

No. It does not. But it might deserve a glorified footnote or even a flashy pink sidebar amongst the annals of the great, thus beating out most of the celluloid-turned-tuner genre.

You see, Legally Blonde is a show with formulaic spunk and personality. There is a type of witty frivolousness about the piece that most humans are genetically predisposed to enjoy. However, there is a lingering vapidness throughout the whole ordeal that makes you second guess yourself as to whether you really liked it or not.

The plot, which follows Malibu Barbie Elle (Laura Bell Bundy) to Harvard Law School as she chases the man that got away (Richard H. Blake), is solid enough. The character of Elle succeeds on stage just as she did on film as book writer Heather Hach espouses the same feel-good message that this Barbie comes with brain included (no additional assembly necessary). Bundy makes a likeable heroine which is necessary in a situation such as this where the lead gets 95% of the stage time.

Laurence O’Keefe and Nell Banjamin’s original tunes are not as unanimously excellent, but they do have some fun tricks up their sleeve. The opening number, “Omigod You Guys,” is a candy-coated light rocker which introduces us to Elle’s Delta Nu sisters who describe matters such as her romance with Warner in a stupidly ingenious fashion: “They’re just like that couple from Titanic / Only no one dies.” Perhaps the musical’s most inspired device also utilizes Woods’ posse: her best buds Serena (Tracy Jai Edwards), Margot (Haven Burton), and Pilar (Asmeret Ghebremichael) make interspersed cameos as the objectively commentating “Greek Chorus.”

Other comically satisfying moments come from the underused Orfeh as timid hairdresser/confidant Paulette. (But then again, when you’re interpreting a character originated by Jennifer Coolidge, it’s hard not to be spectacular.) Her quirky Act I ballad “Ireland” gives her belty pipes a mini-workout while her Act II moment in the sun, “Bend and Snap,” is the catchiest song in the entire show. Incidentally, her dream to make it to Ireland snowballs into a full-fledged Riverdance from the entire company somewhere in the middle of Act II which, I’m sorry, is campy brilliance.

Yet that’s exactly what Legally Blonde amounts to. A handful of funny and clever moments stitched together into a Broadway show. Entertaining, but not exceptional.

Aside from that minor detail remains the fact that a stockpile of great talent goes unused. As the charming T.A. Emmett, Christian Borle is given some forgettable songs and a few one liners and we are expected to rejoice when he ends up with our girl at the end? Oh no they didn’t! Just like Luke Wilson was a tacked-on romance for Reese on the big-screen, the same frustrations that plagued the original romantic comedy are logically bound to creep into the musicalized version in some capacity.

At least it is a sumptuous show to behold. David Rockwell’s agile scenic design quickly sweeps us from the digs at UCLA to the hallowed halls of Harvard right before whipping us to a regal courtroom and a women’s correctional facility(!). In fact, the entire technical team should get mad snaps for their collective work: Gregg Barnes’ spot-on costume design complements the frothy scenes and songs in an appropriately sassy fashion.

Legally Blonde may not be one for the history books. But its backers certainly deserve to make good on a genuinely fun evening out. Here’s to hoping the show’s recent broadcast on MTV will generate the type of audience the show needs – one that will embrace its goofy superfluousness.

So much happened before Dorothy dropped in.

This tagline for Wicked, Broadway’s biggest blockbuster musical, promises to give audiences a different interpretation of a story they thought they knew quite well. And it has been doing so for almost four years now, filling the Gershwin Theatre eight times a week with some extremely… green re$ult$.

There is no question as to why Wicked consistently remains the top-grossing show on the boards week after week. With its pop ballads and sing-a-long tunes courtesy of Stephen Schwartz (Pippin, Godspell) and its family-friendly attitude, it is a non-intrusive, imaginative Broadway musical. What’s more, the eye-popping production value is a feast for the eyes. On my most recent visit, I gaped from the first row at Susan Hilferty’s intricate costumes, bedecked with ruffles and spangles galore. Each one its own centerpiece, even a lowly chorus member’s Emerald City garb outshined those of the leads.

But positive word-of-mouth and booming ticket sales do not necessarily mean you have created the perfect musical. In fact, so many people come to New York (or Chicago, or L.A., or London, or Australia [?!]) with the sole purpose of seeing this show based on their friends’ sensational reviews. I’m not gonna lie – they would be justified to come away feeling a little bit empty if they took the time to delve a bit deeper into the show’s intricacies. Because that’s just the problem. There’s not much below the shiny surface.

Actually, let us refrain from fastening that distinction to the story’s plot. Based on the novel by Gregory Maguire (you know… that one that proved if Oprah doesn’t endorse your book, you can still sell bucous of copies by turning it into a multimillion dollar Broadway show!), this “untold story of the witches of Oz” follows Elphaba (played through Oct. 7 by Julia Murney), a plucky green lass who has uncontrollable yet impressive magical powers. She comes to be known as the Wicked Witch of the West. Her foil Galinda (portrayed at this performance by excellent stand-by Alli Mauzey) seems a bit less novel now that Elle Woods actually has her own show on the Rialto, but her airhead daffiness is matched so perfectly with Molly Shannon-esque quirks that you hardly seem to notice. She ends up as Glinda the Good Witch of the North. The two end up being roommates at Shiz University and the plot follows their journey from arch enemies to BFFs to archer enemies to tragically separated pals.

I will refrain from displaying my geekdom and mastery of Oz knowledge (I was obsessed as a child and have read all 14 original Baum books) by simply saying that Maguire’s tale takes plenty of liberties in switching up patent Oz history. But Winnie Holzman’s book takes the novel and gives us a rather engrossing 2 hr. 45 min. plot that provides plenty of “a-ha” moments and winks to audience members who are fans of the classic MGM film. This rewarding latter element kicks into high gear by Act II with the closest thing this show will ever come to irreverence (An angry Elphaba to Galinda: “Well we can’t all come and go by bubble!”).

But a solid plot and oodles of special effects do not a perfect show make. My biggest problem with the endless praise heaped upon this show (evidenced by the platinum-selling original cast recording) is its completely lackluster music. Besides a few cute numbers that showcase the good witch’s comic timing (seriously, if you fail to get laughs with this role, it’s your own darn fault), all we get are forgettable ballads and bland chorus numbers with words like “hoi polloi” and “calumny.” Come on, Schwartz. The 12-year-olds aren’t gonna pick up on that. Only Sondheim can pull off crap like that. And even then it’s a stretch.

And poor Elphaba. She is given these rock diva climaxes that require an insane belt so unreachable I have never seen them performed live successfully. Especially the Act I finale, “Defying Gravity.” Idina Menzel’s robust (and Tony Award-winning) pipes gave a good showing on the CD, but what’s the use in committing her little trills and melismas to memory if no one can replicate or even reinvent them successfully? Matters were not helped at this particular performance when a platform malfunction completely eliminated the most thrilling special effect of the show. So instead of a soaring Aretha Franklin floating 40 ft. above the stage, we got a rasping Whitney Houston standing unimpressively in the middle of the stage singing lines like, “I’m flying high.” Woops.

I really don’t think we can attribute fault to the performers. They sing their little hearts out. They just don’t really have anything important to say. There are plenty of deeper elements the creators could have explored. Elphaba’s green skin could have been stressed as a racial allegory as it was in Maguire’s novel. The rebellious love interest Fiyero (Sebastian Arcelus) could have actually been treated as a dangerous political subversive. Perhaps the strongest motif we get throughout the entire piece is a relatively weak exploration of varying shades of “goodness.” Glinda proclaims to be “good” when her early actions paint her as the most conniving of them all. Elphaba is presumably “good” because she is an animal rights activist. So is anybody really “wicked”? Plenty of room for a meatier meal, but we get cold cereal instead because that will sell more tickets.

And, in the end, I suppose it really doesn’t matter that Wicked is not the greatest musical to come down the pike in the last 10 years (as plenty of people would have you believe). It’s big, it’s colorful, it’s spectacular. And for brainless entertainment, it is especially hard to beat. But if you’re looking for a show with more heart and at least an ounce of courage, you most definitely have to look elsewhere.

It would be misleading if I ruminated on the complexities of the adolescent angst musical Spring Awakening as if I knew exactly what it were trying to convey. I don’t. And I don’t think it does either. Duncan Sheik and Steven Sater’s radio-ready score has copulated with a nineteenth century cerebral German drama to give birth to a lovechild of sexual discovery, both liberating and intimidating. But somehow, this mishmash of social taboos in pre-war Germany has met the Dawson’s Creek generation to proudly declare that it doesn’t know what it is trying to convey, frustrating the audience in the very same manner as its conflicted teens.

It appears the producers hired some out-of-work WB casting agents to make that trademark decision of casting 22-year-olds to play 14-year-olds. I daresay the production could have aroused a greater level of provocative controversy closer to that of the original Frank Wedekind play by casting actors closer to the actual age of the characters in question (the youngest cast member is 18), but that would have been too much even for New York audiences and maybe even a little bit illegal (considering what these kids do onstage).

Dawson is played by Melchior Gabor (Jonathan Groff), a heartthrob schoolboy with a lot going on in his mind. He’s the revolutionary of the bunch who professes atheism in a small, religious town and reads Goethe for kicks. In him, we have the image of the sexually “aware” high schooler. He’s the one who knows all the positions and the lingo, explaining them in a handy brochure written for his best bud Pacey, Moritz Stiefel (John Gallagher, Jr.). Moritz is quirky and doesn’t get along with his parents, and when he has trouble accepting the truth about the birds and the bees in Act I you kind of know he will crack before the story’s conclusion. Finally there is Joey, one Ms. Wendla Bergmann (Lea Michele). She is a pretty ingénue who isn’t quite as knowledgeable in the ways of the horizontal polka but she thinks Melchior is dreamy (read: she’s a quick learn).

These three provide the primary storyline of the piece as they fumble their way through discovery and dysfunction, but I was more engaged in the incidental characters who are given story vignettes along the way. We see a bit of Lilli Cooper’s Martha in the group scenes but don’t actually hear from her until the chillingly emotive “The Dark I Know Well.” A building rock-esque ballad detailing the sexual abuse of her greasy father, the song is unaccompanied by any other story development for the poor girl. This is done a few other times in the musical, creating a kaleidoscope of pain for the entire crew. Each one has their own bruises, but they will only offer up glimpses of them along the way.

Sheik and Sater have created an interesting amalgam of Generation Y along the way. They pepper their score with modern details to infer that the coarseness of adolescence in century-old Germany is no different than the awkwardness of today. The kids sing of funny feelings in the gym class locker room and longings to escape to their rooms where they can blare their stereos. These are the more likeable elements of songs that work if you want them to but have no difficulty falling flat if you listen beyond the toe-tapping rhythms.

One of the score’s weaker moments includes what was quite possibly the sole catalyst behind the original cast recording’s “explicit lyrics” emblem, the second act party-fest “Totally F*cked.” It is the show’s windows-down, sing-along tune lamenting those unfortunate moments where there is no escaping a royally screwed outcome. Listening to the song on the album or watching the cast perform an edited take on the Tony awards gave an accurate flavor of Awakening’s in-your-face irreverence. Too bad this bouncy number, replete with jackrabbit cast members pouncing around the stage like they’re holding a private rock party in a suite of the Palms Hotel in Las Vegas, comes directly after the suicide of the show’s most sympathetic character. Even the two adult characters emerge from their disapproving coma and join in on the raucous fun. It is a moment that single-handedly shatters the solemnity of the remaining 20 minutes and leads me to believe it was added only to display the writers weren’t afraid to embrace the f-bomb.

What’s more, there exists a semblance of the emperor’s new clothes syndrome as the audience willingly laps up whatever lyrical slosh Steven Sater puts in front of them. Nowhere is this more evident than in the show’s inexplicable finale, “The Song of Purple Summer.” Children have been beaten. Students have failed. Adolescents have awakened. And (apparently) the story has concluded. So we get a song about wandering crickets and singing butterflies? Duncan Sheik’s lilting melody is coupled with words that, for all intents and purposes, have no immediate connection to the stories we just witnessed. Sater tries to wrap them all up by reconciling human nature to the varied wonders of mother nature, but, alas, lines like “and mares will neigh / with stallions that they mate / foals they’ve borne” are nothing short of bewildering. It tries to make a very depressing musical somewhat uplifting – an error in judgment indeed.

I desired less of a tragic Shakespearian plot. I did want to delve deeper into the lives of those characters who were given one moment to plead their case, never to be heard from again. I was very agitated. But that is the frustration of teenage life. Unable to quantify in a tidy little story with a logical plotline and a glitzy Act I climax (actually, this show does have that… at least the climax part), Spring Awakening is a messy wonder that emerges from its shortcomings flawed yet beautiful.