Singing to us, like all of New York, Hell’s Kitchen, magically rising up from the ground floor of off-Broadway’s The Public Theater all the way up to Broadway’s Shubert Theatre as fast as that internal elevator can go, blossoms big and bright, delivering even stronger vibes than it did downtown. It feels like it has found its place, not surprisingly, uptown just a few blocks east of its Manhattan Plaza location. The latest jukebox musical, pulled strong from the playlist of Alicia Keys, is solidly energetic and completely electric, rising up strong and true to the highest of floors with an excitement level that erupts as the lights dim and the music begins. Ten years in the making, the Grammy-winning and classically trained Keys elevates the genre high above the standard fare of jukebox musicals with its multi-layered approach to song and movement. With a tailor-made book by Kristoffer Diaz (Public’s Hercules) focusing on the love story between a mother and daughter, discovering yourself, your ultimate purpose, and the community that surrounds and supports you, Hell’s Kitchen lights up the stage with its drive and approach, and as directed with vision by Michael Greif (Broadway’s Dear Evan Hansen), the music and lyrics by Keys pumps out big and loud, with a pulsating heart and soul that is hard not to be drawn in and held tight.

Maleah Joi Moon and the company of Hell’s Kitchen on Broadway. Photo by Marc J. Franklin.

“She’s 17 and her brain doesn’t work,” is the key phrase that forms the foundations of this musical’s high leveled floor, and it’s repeated round and round with authenticity by the magnificent Shoshana Bean (Broadway’s Mr. Saturday Night) as the mother trying to hold her small Hell’s Kitchen family of two together as she works herself down into the ground. It’s no surprise that Bean kills it (in the best way possible) with every number she gets to sink that powerhouse voice and teeth into, but in many ways the musical lies majestically at the feet of the Keys stand-in, the vibrant and gifted Maleah Joi Moon (“Mystic Christmas“) who plays Ali, the 17-year-old that drives her mother mad with love and concern. Fortunately, I got to see the impressive Moon when she led the downtown pre-Broadway run late last year, and her vocal and acting skills floored me throughout. But this time round, it was the understudy, the determined but not as steady Gianna Harris (Broadway’s School of Rock) fighting furiously like only a 17-year-old can with her mother, while also finding Ali’s purpose and meaning playing the piano.

This is basically the story of Keys and her Manhattan upbringing, being played out in Ali’s Hell’s Kitchen. She’s living loud and rebellious inside the Manhattan Plaza Tower for artists, with a father, portrayed smoothly by Brandon Victor Dixon (Broadway’s Shuffle Along), who has a difficult time sticking around long enough to really be of use, an overly busy and controlling mother (Bean), and a life-changing run-in with a piano teacher, played to beautiful perfection by Kecia Lewis (Broadway’s The Drowsy Chaperone), in the Tower’s “dumb, corny, all-purpose” Ellington Room who brings Ali’s cold, wet, furious anger into full musical focus.

Unlike the more complicated and unfocused Jagged Little Pill and its overdone roadmap of complications and far-too-many characters, the jukebox component in Hell’s Kitchen lives strong, rarely getting in the way of the central story. Keys keeps it simple and straightforward, for the most part, unpacking the autobiographical edge with a clarity and decisiveness that delivers it up far above the others in that crowded genre. There was only one moment, the clumsy audition scene, that felt forced in and outside the requirements of Keys’ tale, but it did give Bean her moment to out-sing everyone on that stage, powering herself and her song to relevance and the highest of heights, even as we withstood the inauthenticity of the framework and staging.

But under the watchful eye of Keys, who had her talented hand in almost every aspect of the show, Hell’s Kitchen is on fire, like the teenage girl at its center (and the song that gives the show one of its best pops of color, sound, and light). I especially appreciated the jumping in of the problematic boy-centric structuring by Ali’s friend. That insert made it feel all the more thoughtful and smart, beyond anything I could have imagined when that famous song energetically brought Act One to its closing. The number, like most, feels refreshingly deliberate and required, filled to the brim with the complicated clarity of life, a big dash of angst, and plenty of emotional chaos that teenage life and hormones can illicit and ignite.

Moon’s understudy, Harris delivers the piece forward with a somewhat more formulaic balance of emotionality and anger (something that Moon somehow made more unique and engaging). Harris did radiate a determination and love for music and, of course, desire for that slightly older, well-bicep-armed man who plays the plastic bucket on the corner with his buddies. Embodied by the very handsome and gifted understudy Lamont Walker II (PMP’s Hercules), standing in for the extremely talented Chris Lee (Chicago’s Hamilton), Knuck is both everything her mother is worried about and her daughter desires, while never falling into the stereotypical role that the world wants to handcuff him to. It’s a sharply defined and complicated structuring that balances itself well in the world this show has created for us. It’s clear, complex, and smart, even when it gets passed by too quickly and with little ultimate fanfare.

The music surges and sings vibrantly, as brought forth by music supervisor Adam Blackstone (NBC’s “That’s My Jam“) and music director Lily Ling (Broadway’s Moulin Rouge!), with orchestrations by Blackstone and Tom Kitt (Donmar’s Next to Normal), pulsating forward with a pop and an emotional feel. The choreography by Camille A. Brown (Broadway’s for colored girls…) is powerful and true, emulating everything this musical needs and more. However, sometimes, the intrusive nature of those dance moments overwhelms and distracts our eyes from the main characters, their voices, and the dynamic interactions that should have been the focus. I wish there had been more faith that the singers could hold those dynamic moments, and expand the framework on their own without the need to always add more, tasking us to take in both, when it isn’t and wasn’t always required.

Yet, Hell’s Kitchen lives and breathes in the standard New York of the 90s, from the baggy pants and Timberland boots, courtesy of costume designer Dede Ayite (Broadway’s Topdog/Underdog), to the sound and feel of the Manhattan Plaza, the subsidized apartment complex that still stands strong in the middle of, what once was the less-family friendly midtown neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen. Designed with energy and a vibrant life of its own by Robert Brill (Broadway’s How To Dance in Ohio), with sharp lighting by Natasha Katz (Broadway’s Some Like it Hot), exacting sound design by Gareth Owen (Broadway’s & Juliet), and a strong vibrant projection design by Peter Nigrini (Broadway’s Here Lies Love), Hell’s Kitchen unleashes artistic dreams and the complications of life at close range. This musical is about a young teenage girl, struggling with autonomy and the bonds of family and friends, who finds her way through fear and faith to discover art and herself. It’s a lot to take in yet somehow, against the odds, Hell’s Kitchen succeeds and flourishes in that struggle with those contradictions and components, finding its home exactly where it belongs.

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I almost forgot that I had seen this play before, downtown at the New York Theatre Workshop. It starred the talented Carrie Coon, who now is embedded in my mind in a very different form, based on her glittering hard turn on “The Gilded Age.” The two frameworks almost don’t compute, feeling like two very different creations that couldn’t possibly come from the same form (I gues that’s what makes her so talented an actor). This is much like the star of Broadway’s re-staging of Mary Jane, but in reverse. Rachel McAdams long ago entered into my heart after watching her gloriously engaging sweet role in Season One of “Slings & Arrows“ and also her iconic turn in “The Notebook” film, but these forms shared little resemblance to the character she played in the now epic “Mean Girls” where she was the evil and vengeful Regina George. I still have a hard time bringing those characterizations and performances together into the same performer even as I write this. But planted here, in Manhattan Theatre Club‘s renewal of Mary Jane, McAdams sits clearly in the realm that I like her in; tender, engaging, kind, concerned, and smiling in a manner that only the wonderfully talented McAdams can with such clarity

Rachel McAdams in MTC’s Mary Jane. Photo by Matthew Murphy.

Leaning towards positivity at almost every turn, equal to how she leans into her emotional connections with those around her, McAdams finds beautiful tender engagement as the titled character in Amy Herzog’s stunningly quiet play, Mary Jane. She delivers earthy warmth in her smile, particularly in that first scene that she shares with her young son’s home-care nurse, Sherry, steadfastly and intuitively portrayed by the magnificent April Matthis (Broadway’s The Piano Lesson). Finishing each other’s sentences as if they were long-time partners, Mary Jane presents a life that is “on hold for a minute.”  And possibly a lot longer. The father of Alex, only spoken about now and then, wasn’t able to find his way. He couldn’t, she tells us, handle the stress that her son, Alex, and his fraught birth, has brought home to roost, and the man flies the coop.  Mary Jane, so full of goodness and fortitude, doesn’t hold any anger or frustration against him, she explains in that kind manner that registers authentically and from the heart.  She hopes he finds peace.  And we hope the same for her, although what that might mean to Mary Jane is a lot more complicated than what it means for her former husband.  Mary Jane’s peace, sadly will most likely only come entwined in a devastating tragedy and loss.

When Alex was born, her life changed direction in a quick short moment.  And that is because Mary Jane’s child was born prematurely with a host of problems that will not just go away.  Alex, as we slowly discover, will never get better, only worse.  The details are teased out to us through some of the most elegantly written intimate and everyday conversations Mary Jane has with all those she comes into contact with: her stunningly sincere and deadpan building super, played most beautifully by Brenda Wehle (Broadway’s The Crucible); Alex’s home-care nurse, Sherry; Sherry’s niece, Amelia, portrayed by an impressive Lily Santiago (Red Bull’s Mac Beth); and the beautifully nuanced Susan Pourfar (2ST’s Mary Page Marlowe), as both a similarly challenged new mother, Brianne, and a more well-honed similarly challenged mother of many, named Chaya. Brianne has come by the apartment for clear and helpful guidance from the constantly giving and sturdy mother, Mary Jane, and in a clever kind way, Mary Jane gets that help back from Chaya later in the hospital when she needs it the most.

We never do see Alex close up, because what Herzog (Belleville; Broadway’s A Doll’s House), and the play’s wonderfully calculating director, Anne Kauffman (Broadway’s The Sign in Sidney Brustein’s Window) have done here is to not give this story over to Alex. Instead, they have channeled their focus onto a mother trying with all her might and energy to stay connected to the feeling of love she has for her son. She won’t allow herself to fall into a state of despair or anger. Mary Jane is constantly in a positive and forward motion, focusing her surprising energy on upbeat chatter and personal connection. Worrying more about the garden of Alex’s nurse, than the dark clouds and symbolic home life that hang over their heads. Literally, thanks to the fine work done by scenic designer Lael Jellinek (Broadway’s Sea Wall/A Life), lighting designer Ben Stanton (MTC’s The Collaboration), and sound designer Leah Gelpe (PH’s Log Cabin).

And then it happens, the thing that we were consciously, or maybe unconsciously waiting for. It’s the arrival of that lump of anticipation and dread that has been slowly building in our throat; a feeling that Mary Jane refuses to buy into. We know that eventually, some sort of alarm or shift will happen, and we, in no way, will be able to remain in that cozy one-bedroom apartment in Queens for the entirety of this stunningly complex yet simple play.  The shift comes, alarmingly, with all the tension expected. In a split second, while waiting for those 9-1-1 rescuers to arrive, we are lifted up and away from the perfectly carved-out home of Mary Jane, where she sleeps on the pull-out couch so the bedroom could become a make-shift hospital room for Alex. With sharpness and precision, Mary Jane swings into the next chapter of Alex and Mary Jane’s battle. The perfectly crafted symbol of home care hanging dangerously above only emphasizes the dramatic turn and the hope that still lives strong. The view takes us down a similarly centered but slightly different anxiety-fueled road; one that is heightened by the sterility of the space and light. Dreading the end but bracing ourselves for the journey ahead, we join Mary Jane, as she searches within herself and others for some understanding and structure, be it through religion, faith, or just medical understanding. Sitting with her is the same cast of stellar actors, although creating entirely new characters, thanks to some subtle fine work by costume designer Brenda Abbandandolo (Vineyard’s Scene Partners), all brilliantly constructed to help make her see the future with open eyes and a clearer centered mind.

It’s a beautifully crafted construction of a mother coping with the daily onslaught that sickness and disease of one’s own child can bring. It is clear that the playwright understands this topic from a deep emotional and raw place, and parlays that anguish into a feeling that echoes throughout the theatre, raising the stakes as home life simply vanishes beyond our and her sightlines. We give our heart over to Mary Jane, and to the wonderfully exacting McAdams, completely without question. The ending is complex and surprising, yet thoroughly authentic. And we embrace a shared sense of clarity that comes from the unclear connection to peace and understanding. To breathe in the light at the end of that long tunnel feels like pain, although it is also relief and some sort of peace.

Cabaret at the Kit Kat Club, is not the Cabaret you remember. Joe Masteroff’s script based on stories by Christopher Isherwood and John Van Druten’s adaptation I Am a Camera, feels rewritten. The fantastic score by John Kander and Fred Ebb, is for the most part not well sung. This show feels like a Cabaret in purgatory.

As you enter the August Wilson Theatre, you enter through the alleyway. What stays at the Kit Kat Club, stays here, so stickers are placed on our phone’s camera’s, as you are give shots as you enter. This is decadence before the fall. Once inside a pre show of performers, darkened spaces, booze, bars and you are sent into Berlin pre 1933.

The theatre has been redesigned and it looks spectacular by Tom Scutt, who also did the costumes, that are in a word ugly. Tables that serve dinner in pails, champagne, telephones and seating circle around and draw us in. The orchestra is up in the boxes.

Eddie Redmayne in Cabaret. Photo by Marc Brenner.

Once the show starts Eddie Redmayne, is a marionette, snake like MC, complete with a party hat. In a strange way he looks like a demented Pinocchio. His vocals are so far back in his throat, that he sounds stuffed up. Oddly enough he sings “Tomorrow Belongs to Me” first. The song gets repeated later.

Gone is the magnificent Ron Field (original production) and Bob Fosse (Film) choreography. Instead we get Julia Cheng’s barely clad gender and weight non-specific dancers, who show us every way in which to be entered, especially the back door version. It is crass, tacky and utterly mind blowing and not in a good way.

Eddie Redmayne, Gayle Rankin in Cabaret. Photo by Marc Brenner.

We then meet Sally Bowles (Gayle Rankin), who goes in and out of being good. She is better in the acting department than she is in the singing, or should I say screaming. The title song looks like she is having an epileptic fit. We never feel sorry or even really like her, which makes us wonder why Cliff (Ato Blankson-Wood), the American writer who is visiting would even like her, let alone let her move in, considering he is outright gay. He is also black, so how he starts a friendship with Ernst (Henry Gottfried), who turns out to be part of the Nazi party is again a head scratcher.

Bebe Neuwirth, Steven Skybell Photo by Marc Brenner.

In the boarding house that Ernst recommends to Cliff is Fräulein Schneider (phenomenally played by Bebe Neuwirth). She is in love with the grocer, Herr Schultz (the wonderful Steven Skybell). These two are so warmly and lovingly played, that had this version only been their story I would have been satisfied. “Couldn’t Please Me More”, “Married” and the heartbreaking “What Would You Do”, are truly satisfying.

Also bringing out her A game is Natascia Diaz as Fraulein Kost/Fritzie who also sings “Tomorrow Belongs to Me” in a way of bring the evil of what is about to happen to ahead.

Director Rebecca Frecknall’s production had me confused. Just when I thought I knew where she was going, it turns out I didn’t. Her direction is done in the round and you miss half of the show, so maybe that is why it seems half baked. I did like the use of the stage in tiers and the up and down of the center, but having the Nazi’s not infiltrating, but just being there and accepted, dressing them all in beige, like they were all one person, was disheartening.

The musical direction by Jennifer Whyte, the sound design by Nick LidsterIt and the lighting by Isabella Byrd, all added to the positive side of seeing this show

At this Kit Kat Club we have already lost and are just waiting our turn to descend into oblivion.

Cabaret at the Kit Kat Club: August Wilson Theatre, 245 West 52nd Street.

“Welcome to Berlin,” we are told, and quite accurately in this deliciously baked wedding cake revival of this iconic musical. Expertly with invention, director Rebecca Frecknall (NYTW’s Sanctuary City) has crafted something completely compelling and distinct. The overall icing effect of the new staging of Cabaret at the Kit Kat Club is brave and utterly magnificent, coming to life in a marionette world of vast creation. I must admit this is not my first time at this delicious rodeo, but my second time viewing this masterful revival, after being fortunate enough to see it in London’s West End when it first opened with Eddie Redmayne as Emcee and Jessie Buckley as Sally Bowles. So it wasn’t as much of a shock or surprise as it seems to have been for many others here in NYC who quite possibly were expecting something different or something physically darker. But that was not my experience of my return to the Kit Kat Club in NYC. Quite the opposite.

I will admit that sometimes, in this current Broadway revival, the performances have a quality that is a bit overly twitchy and extreme in their granulations emphasizing their other-worldliness over human authenticity, but these symbolic representations never fail to pull us in completely to the idealistic framework of that cultural and historical complication. They are puppets pulled by historic strings, seething in an energy that is sublime and persuasive. Divine decadence, one might say, with its creative eye held wide open in darkly symbolic amazement. With a sneaky intelligence, it slinks in and gifts us with a production that easily soars into the Broadway atmosphere with a stunning force.

As I entered into the theatre through the alleyway for a revival of one of my all-time favorites, we were told quite insistently, that what happens inside the Kit Kat Club, aka the completely redesigned and difficult-to-place August Wilson Theatre right there in the heart of Times Square, needs to be only seen and not shared through social media. No pictures, please. And no videos are allowed. So after stickers are placed on our phone’s camera lens, we are all asked to keep the secret safe for the sake of those who would be coming soon after. The curiosity created is infectious, I must say. Creating a sense of wonder and excitement about what is inside those doors, and what exactly do they have in store for us?

Inside that red-lit environment, oozing with sexual adventurism and voyeurism, the pre-show gesticulations began from the moment you drink down your shot (not the tastiest of shots, I might add). The whole space has been reconfigured, and as we enter, wandering up, down, and around into rooms, I couldn’t place myself in the theatre, even though I’d been in that theatre a thousand times before. I felt a tad lost, which I’m guessing is the point. Carousing around the carefully crafted space on our way to the carefully designed tables and chairs, the preshow begins in earnest, attempting to energize the space as the clock ticks toward the show’s beginning. It feels like they want to shock us; titillate us; excite us, but I must admit the sensual festivities pale somewhat to the more dynamic preshow delivered forth by that other Broadway show, Moulin Rouge! The Musical. Over there, the energy feels dangerous and far more seductive.

Over here, at the Kit Kat Club, the white-coated energy feels a bit forced and somewhat bland visually. Back in the West End, the framing caused a fairly strong insecurity to rise up within, making me wonder if this was a signal of what was to come. But I could not have been more mistaken. Maybe, I thought, after seeing the show, this monotone creation was a trick, to lull us into complacency. Because, without a doubt, the beginning, and really, the whole show, both in London and now on Broadway, is the furthest thing you can imagine from bland. It’s epic, symbolic, and fantastically dynamic, stirring up the discomfort and edginess of that particular time and place in history with a drizzling of an intelligence that is divinely decadent and captivating.

Revolving upwards from down below like an ornament on a multi-tiered birthday cake, Eddie Redmayne (“The Danish Girl“; Broadway/Donmar’s Red), the star attraction, conducts his entrance most expertly. It’s a spectacular creation, that culminates with the dramatic reveal of the shrouded ladies that makes any hesitation that we might have vanish in an instant. This magnificently crafted re-conceived confection, with both set and costuming by the uber-talented Tom Scutt (Broadway’s King Charles III), is everything one could hope for, but few could imagine. With the audience wrapped precisely and intimately around its small bare circular stage finger, Redmayne, as the ever-elusive and elastic Emcee, overblown and disproportionate, drives forth a dichotomy that unearths an electric appeal under his wide secretive grin and his pointed birthday hat. His performance hits strong and hard, unpacking symbolic layers upon layers of devilish glee at every turn of the androgynous screw. The tense engagement is complex and enticing, twitchy and overwhelmingly abstract, and with athletic force, this puppet creature rotates out a crew of magnificently clad gender-non-specific dancers, knowing with all confidence that we are roped and tied in completely.

Waving to us from up above, and not giving one inch over to Liza Minnelli’s iconic portrayal in Bob Fosse’s masterpiece film version, the astonishing Gayle Rankin (Public’s Hamlet) dives into the mix, rivaling all as the damaged and desperate Sally. Digging in deep, she never lets the tension of the moment flag. It’s an edgy portrayal, void of any sentimental connection to the film’s predecessor, yet brimming with a raw and almost volatile concoction. Pushed to the forefront by musical director Jennifer Whyte (UK’s Follies) and her tight use of her seven-piece band, Rankin’s “Maybe This Time” dynamically gives us a much-needed glimpse inside the impatient Sally, which only makes her ferocious “Cabaret” more devastating and harrowing. Balancing the ideas of a well-sung Liza with the rough-around-the-edges immaturity of this Sally, her portrayal is insightful to the pain and disengagement she feels towards Clifford, bringing force into her desperation against all odds.

It’s ruthless, in a way, this rendition and performance of hers, and it is only enhanced by the Emcee’s physical and emotional response. Her combative energy shines bright like a shattered broken star, filled with anger, pain, and an aspect of deep dark sadness. It is as unique and electric as Redmayne’s highly stylized Emcee who is delivering something equally enticing and dangerous. The two, along with the rest of the solidly connected cast, frolick around the space representing this hypnotic and complex treat with an expertise bordering on tawdry deliciousness (something I thought the pre-show was completely lacking).

Frecknall’s direction is to captivate and deliver symbolic chaotic energy, sliced deep into the multi-layered cake of a crumbling German society. Much like our own, in a way, in order to serve us up each and every delicious bite of Joe Masteroff’s devious book and John Kander and Fred Ebb’s magnificent score. Using the wide-eyed foil of the well-formed Ato Blankson-Wood (Audible’s Long Day’s Journey…) as the Christopher Isherwood stand-in, Clifford, the cascade of decadence finds the right phone to ring. I must admit, that standing next to Rankin who is giving us one of the most ferociously complicated Sally, his straight man/gay man appeal isn’t as interesting or as compelling. But it is required for us to find our foothold in the ever-revolving landscape.

The final product delivers with an inventiveness that is both curious and demanding all at the same time. The circular energy insinuates itself within, much like that charming smuggler, Ernst, perfectly portrayed by Henry Gottfried (Broadway’s Waitress), bringing in illegal Paris treats and possible propaganda for his Berlin customers. We recognize the danger but are too smitten to withdraw, until that one devastating reveal. The inspiration behind every simple structure, including all the ingenious props laid out before us, vibrates the show forward with a devastatingly historic energy. It hits hard, particularly when Germany’s history stomps its way into the circle. I don’t recall ever being so moved by any other staged rendition of Cabaret, – well, maybe the first time I watched the film on my mother’s bedroom television late one night when I didn’t feel well – but when the darkness of society is uncoated for us all to see and understand, I could feel that tense lump suddenly appear in my throat. The historical layer crashes into us with an emotional force to be reconned with, particularly when it becomes clear that “Tomorrow Belongs to..” them, and not to the glorious Fräulein Schneider, gorgeously portrayed by the phenomenal Bebe Neuwirth (ATC’s The Bedwetter) and her loving grocer, Herr Schultz, touchingly played by the wonderful Steven Skybell (NYTF’s Fiddler on the Roof). Their engagement literally “Couldn’t Please Me More.”

The devilishly good choreography, courtesy of Julia Cheng (RSC’s Macbeth) finds all the aspects of that Berlin iconography and tightens it in and around that small exquisite stage. It’s an impressive adventure in the way it shines with a seedy lavishness, heightened by the seductive turntable lighting of Isabella Byrd (NYTW’s Sanctuary City) and the solid sound design of Nick Lidster (Garrick’s City of Angels). It cleverly unveils the brown-jacketed, poverty-stricken Weimar Republic world, where a musical can be both wildly entertaining, and historically and emotionally devastating.

That “Goodbye to Berlin” story by Isherwood that inspired John Van Druten’s 1951 play “I Am a Camera“, which is the seed that brought forth this brilliant famed musical revival, plays out the historic details exquisitely. It rises to the occasion at every moment given, particularly when Neuwirth destroys all with her simple and shockingly emotional “What Would You Do.” It feels like she was born for this moment, demanding acknowledgment and understanding, while making us sit back in our seats as the sting and the sadness rip through our collective hearts.

So ignore those who are trying to stuff it all down into shoebox categories with unneeded labels and neatly defined identity politics. There is no need. These characters should be allowed to be as symbolically obscure and esoteric as they so desire. “Life is a Cabaret, old chum.” So please, “Come to the Cabaret.” It will be a night you won’t forget.