Ben Brantley of the Times on the best plays of the year.
Frankly, I prefer his vicious pans. Like this review of Hedda Gabler, starring Mary-Louise Parker.
That affectless, amateurish acting I’d been seeing onstage, with its flat-line readings and saggy pauses, was all in the name of creating the illusion of people already dead. Could it be that this “Hedda Gabler” had fallen under the spell of “Twilight,” the hit movie from fall about the price of loving for teenage vampires?
Here's a negative review of that review, plus of Brantley himself.
In the theatre business Ben Brantley is not known for his love of women playwrights and plays about women. But nobody can really say anything (out loud and publicly) because theatre is so dependent on the NY Times review more than any other industry.
Some more vintage Brantley nastiness in this review of Bye Bye Birdie, in which he manages to get one last shot in at Hedda Gabler.
I don’t think it’s the swine flu that has flattened Robert Longbottom’s production of this popular 1960 musical about rebel rock ’n’ roll versus small-town America wholesomeness. The symptoms in this case include tin ear, loss of comic timing, uncontrollable jitters and a prickly disorientation that screams, “Where am I?” and “What am I doing?” Theatergoers may feel an empathetic urge to rush home and bury their heads in their pillows.
Clearly this is the sort of bug that could jeopardize the health of any red-blooded musical. For the silly, hokey “Bye Bye Birdie,” a show that just wants to have fun and be tuneful, it proves close to fatal. Directed and choreographed by Mr. Longbottom (“Side Show”) — with a cast led by John Stamos, Gina Gershon and Bill Irwin — “Bye Bye Birdie” may be the most painful example of misapplied talent on Broadway since the Roundabout’s production of “Hedda Gabler,” starring Mary-Louise Parker, last season.
Here he takes apart Jude Law's Hamlet.
He does follow his own advice in suiting “the action to the word, the word to the action.” If Hamlet talks about his mind, you can bet that Mr. Law will point to his forehead; when he mentions the heavens, his arm shoots straight up; and when the guy says his gorge rises, rest assured that he clutches at his stomach. If every actor were like Mr. Law, signed performances for the hard of hearing would be unnecessary.
Ben Brantley, if you're listening, please review my ground-breaking play Better Than Hitler, a watershed moment in not only the evolution of the theater as an art form, but in comedic plays about Hitler.
