Is it hyperbole to say that David Byrne has reinvented the stage musical with his thrilling “Here Lies Love” at The Public Theater? Byrne’s foray into the theater world is a breath of orchid-scented fresh air as he recounts the story of everyone’s favorite Filipina, the ever-fascinating fashionista Imelda Marcos, with a disco-infused beat and help from co-composer Fatboy Slim. Jumpsuited young traffic cops shepherd the dancing audience – seating is nonexistent in the main section – out of harm’s way as the shoulder-level turntable swings round to accommodate the flow of actors between the two stages at either end of the rectangular space and on to the catwalks on the side.

Virtually sung-through, “Love” follows its heroine from her early days as a rural beauty queen to her zenith as jet-setting first lady and subsequent fall from grace. We learn that she was first the girlfriend of Ferdinand Marcos’ most strident opponent, Benigno Aquino, and that she suffered deeply through her husband’s much-publicized affair with American actress Dovie Beams. We feel for Imelda when she plaintively asks, “Why don’t you love me?”

As if the driving music were not enough of an invitation, the MC encourages the audience – strongly – to dance along, but don’t be intimidated. If you can do the bunny hop at a wedding, just jack up the rhythm and you’ll be fine. Director Alex Timbers and his crackerjack design team execute Byrne’s vision with breathtaking flair. It’s a hell of a good time.

If you go

‘Here Lies Love’
Through June 2
The Public Theater,
425 Lafayette St.
$89-$94, www.publictheater.org

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Jews celebrating Christmas, without a Chinese restaurant in sight: It would seem like a premise without much promise. But in “The Assembled Parties,” at the Samuel J. Friedman Theatre, playwright Richard Greenberg turns gossamer into gold, with a healthy dose of warmth and humor. Sparkling performances from Jessica Hecht and Judith Light make his witty Yuletide banter shine all the brighter.

In a rambling apartment on the Upper West Side, Julie (Hecht), sister-in-law Faye (Light), son Tim (Alex Dreier or Jake Silbermann), and family friend Jeff (Jeremy Shamos) share two Christmas dinners 20 years apart. The first, in 1980, is widely attended; in 2000 it’s just the foursome. Both are hosted by Julie, who gave up a brief but brilliant film career to raise a family. And family is what the play’s about. Julie and Faye have known the joy and especially the pain of marriage and motherhood, with their attendant compromises, disappointments and losses.

Greenberg gives acerbic Faye a string of zingers, which Light delivers impeccably. She’s a riot. But the play belongs to Julie, the woman-child both knowing and naive. Hecht captures all her contradictions with gentle grace. And Shamos, as a friend of Julie’s older son half in love with her, adds a note of quiet, steadfast support.

A little light in substance, “The Assembled Parties” is sometimes heavy-handed in exposition. But its spirit — Julie’s embrace of life as beautifully embodied by Hecht — transcends its minor flaws.

If you go

‘The Assembled Parties’
On sale through June 2
Samuel J. Friedman Theatre,
261 W. 47th St.
$67-$120,
www.manhattantheatreclub.com

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It’s sad to hear that “Hands on a Hardbody,” written by Pulitzer Prize-winner Doug Wright, will be shuttering its doors on Broadway this Saturday after just 28 previews and 28 performances (it officially opened March 21). Standing out amid a season of revivals (“Pippin”) and jukebox musicals (“Motown: The Musical”), this was a somewhat original work, albeit technically an adaptation of the 1997 documentary by the same name.

Onstage, this endearing portrayal of small-town Americana belies its early closure, which came after poor attendance despite solid reviews and discount ticket sale initiatives. Some numbers — by Phish’s Trey Anastasio and Amanda Green — elicit sheer rapture (“Joy of the Lord”), while others tackle national social conditions, such as immigration and racism (“Born in Laredo”). Our favorite was the powerful rock ballad “Stronger,” showing Anastasio’s strengths best employed. Despite a convention that’s seemingly stale, as the contestants must always keep their hands on the central set piece, a full-sized red Nissan “hard body” truck, the play has more to offer through the characters’ unique story arcs and solos. It does take a few numbers to warm up, but soon has even cynical New York City audiences hooked (perhaps because for once they aren’t sure what the ending will be or already have the tunes memorized from 20 years ago). One major problem is the story’s pat resolutions and flat platitudes, including a synopsis of how each character’s life turns out.

While we’d love to urge theater aficionados to catch this novelty before it closes, those with limited funds are better off investing in “Kinky Boots” — another new musical with celeb involvement (Cyndi Lauper) that’s based on a film based on a true story, but practically guaranteed to stick around for more than a month.

If you go

‘Hands on a Hardbody’
Through Saturday
Brooks Atkinson Theatre,
256 West 47th St.
$47-$197,
www.handsonahardbody.com

Follow Theater Editor T. Michelle Murphy on Twitter: @TMichelleMurphy, or email her your thoughts at tmichelle.murphy@metro.us.

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Cory Michael Smith, left, plays Fred to Emilia Clarke’s Holly Golightly in the play adaptation of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
Credit: Joan Marcus

It’s not so much that Emelia Clarke dispels the ghost of Audrey Hepburn in her portrayal of Holly Golightly – how could she, or anyone else or that matter? But, slighter and younger (closer in age to Holly as written), Clarke imbues the role in Richard Greenberg’s adaptation of Truman Capote’s “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” with her own brand of naive sophistication. She’s quite credible, if not quite Hepburn, as the young woman who supports herself in $50 increments (in the 1940s) donated by male patrons for “trips to the powder room.

Clarke is nicely paired with Cory Michael Smith as the upstairs neighbor Holly calls Fred because he reminds her of her brother. Smith’s layered ambiguity suits Fred, a gay man utterly infatuated with elusive Holly. The pair vacillates between affection and hostility as Fred watches Holly woo, intending to wed, an American playboy and a would-be Brazilian president, only to scare off the latter with the whiff of scandal.

Greenberg’s script, truer to Capote than the bowdlerized Hollywood treatment that Hepburn rose above, is solid but lacks the novella’s magic. Capote’s tale, like Holly, is evanescent: It floats gracefully through her haphazard, elegant exploits. Greenberg’s work seems episodic. Every set change calls attention to itself, giving the work an uneven, choppy quality. What Capote lightly lets us surmise (such as Fred’s sexual preferences), Greenberg heavily proclaims. For all its carnal subtext, Capote’s wisp of a novel is ethereal; Greenberg’s play is earthbound.

If you go

‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’
Cort Theatre,
138 W. 48th St.
$37-$132, www.breakfastattiffanysonbroadway.com

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Glacial pace notwithstanding, there’s a lot to be said for “The Flick” at Playwrights Horizons. Sam Gold’s production of playwright Annie Baker’s latest effort has a likeable plot with clever flourishes, offbeat characters and excellent acting. Its downfall is that both playwright and director have mistakenly confused realistic with real, resulting in a theatrical experience that’s true to life but deadly in its lack of momentum.

Baker and Gold meticulously detail the workaday exploits of Sam (Matthew Maher) and new recruit Avery (Aaron Clifton Moten) as they clean up between shows at the Flick, a single-screen movie house in Massachusetts. Sometimes joined by projectionist Rose (Louisa Krause), they reveal themselves haltingly. The play’s truth is unassailable, but real life in real time can be a real drag. Sam desperately pines for Rose, who in turn is drawn to Avery. Avery, who attempted suicide a year ago, hesitates but ultimately joins Sam and Rose as they skim the theater take every night for “meal money.” And Rose learns that the theater is about to be sold.

“The Flick” picks up in the second act, but the overall pace makes “The Three Sisters” look like it’s on speed. The plot here achieves an emotional crescendo as Avery, subtly played by Moten with an almost flat affect, reaches out to his co-workers, only to be shot down. But it’s too little too late. The purposeful monotony preceding it deflates its impact.

If you go

‘The Flick’
Extended through April 7
Playwrights Horizons,
416 W. 42^nd St.
$70, www.playwrightshorizons.org

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Scrawny and self-centered, David (Jesse Eisenberg, who’s also the playwright) arrives at the cramped flat of his elderly second cousin Maria (Vanessa Redgrave) in Szczecin, Poland, with a chip on his shoulder and a yen for a quick hit of weed. He tokes away with door closed and window open in Eisenberg’s beautifully crafted “The Revisionist” at the Cherry Lane. David traveled to Poland to end his writer’s block, believing, or at least hoping, that a less comfortable landscape would set his creative juices free.

But we soon see he is almost as indifferent to the hard work of writing as he is to his cousin’s feelings. In contrast, Maria seems uncomplicated. With no family in Poland, she’s thrilled with her houseguest — but not afraid to put him in his place when appropriate.

One night David breaks out the vodka and convinces Maria, who never drinks, to join him. We learn that David is not the only one with secrets. But some things are best left unsaid — at least that’s what Maria thinks, come the morning after.
“The Revisionist” draws its considerable emotional clout from its characters’ ability to rewrite their own histories. Skillfully played by both leads, they deceive themselves as much as they deceive each other. We take David’s self-involvement and Maria’s blend of strength and vulnerability at face value, but there’s more there than meets the eye. Maria’s implacable survival instincts surprise us with their intensity — even as they leave her lonely and proud.

If you go

‘The Revisionist’
Through April 21
Cherry Lane Theatre,
38 Commerce St.
$85, www.therevisionistplay.com

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There’s certainly something to be said for the fresh dialogue, zippy zingers and well-drawn characters in Manhattan Theater Club’s “The Madrid” at City Center. They make for striking interchanges and more than a few good laughs. But ultimately Liz Flahive’s latest doesn’t add up to much. A black hole at its center drains its energy and marginalizes its impact.

Martha (Edie Falco) is a kindergarten teacher who one day tells her class she’ll be “right back.” She disappears. Her husband John (John Ellison Conlee) and daughter Sarah (Phoebe Strole, reminiscent of Ellen Page at her strongest) are confused and cope as best they can. Her mother (a droll Frances Sternhagen) drives her car into a tree. Neighbors Becca (Heidi Schreck) and Danny (Christopher Evan Welch) try to help, but fail. Then Martha shows up at the Starbucks where Sarah works, and Sarah soon starts seeing her on the sly at her sparsely furnished apartment in a building called The Madrid.

Unfortunately, we never get even a whiff of what motivated Martha to fly the coop or, for that matter, who she is. Not that we need to see a blueprint – a little mystery is fine. But we should have some idea of what makes her tick. Her underwritten character seems like an afterthought, which is especially bizarre since the other characters are so well-developed. We keep waiting for a revelation, but it never comes — and its absence leaves the entire production hanging, its potential unrealized.

If you go

‘The Madrid’
New York City Center, Stage I,
131 West 55th St.
$85, www.nycitycenter.org.

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In the name of full disclosure, we weren’t looking forward to reviewing “The Vandal.” The plot centers on two strangers at a bus stop telling each other stories to pass the time, and we suspected that it would serve as a cheap framework to tie together an otherwise unrelated series of 10-minute vignettes, like the off-Broadway equivalent of “Movie 43.”

As was the case with Peter Farrelly’s latest work, we suspected, deep down, that any first play by Hamish Linklater would be produced simply because the man at the helm was well-connected in Hollywood (to wit, one benefit reading of this piece called in heavyweights Alan Rickman and Sigourney Weaver).

So consider us surprised to settle into our seats at The Flea Theater and actually disappear into this engaging plot from its first monologue, delivered by a chatterbox teenager who’s at once likable with the earnest self-disclosure of an Amy Sherman Palladino character. The same fine balance of eager vulnerability that worked so well for Noah Robbins in last year’s “The Twenty-Seventh Man” at The Public Theater also appeals to the obstinate, ornery Margaret (Dierdre O’Connell), who slowly lets down her guard and starts warming to Robert’s quirky requests. First, it’s just to buy him beer since he’s underage — but that leads to a series of small favors that continue to peel away both characters’ layers (figuratively and literally; there’s brief nudity) as they dance ever closer to the teen’s true motives.

But we won’t reveal that here and ruin all the fun. Although all of the characters (including Robert’s dad, played with frank humanity by Zach Grenier) come to exorcise their demons through their mostly true tales, the three never share the stage — but there’s still a central plot that holds their storylines together in a way that never feels forced. “The Vandal” is a tight 80 minutes, with no intermission, and has just reasonably been extended through March 3. The writing certainly has peaks and valleys, but as a world premiere it’s a promising kickoff to what could be a secondary career in playwriting for Linklater. We look forward to his next offering to see if it builds on the momentum of “The Vandal” — no pressure, though.

If you go

‘The Vandal’
Through March 3
The Flea Theater,
41 White Street
$45 weekdays, $50 weekends,
www.theflea.org

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