NYT critics' picks

August Wilson’s "spiritual masterpiece" returns to the Barrymore with Cedric the Entertainer and Taraji P. Henson leading a "way-station drama" that feels part realistic boardinghouse and part ancient myth. While the "dry bass drum" of Cedric’s deadpan comedy keeps the house grounded, it’s the "burning-eyed" arrival of a man searching for his song that turns this 1911 Pittsburgh story into a "triumphant, gravity-altering" experience.

Director Sam Pinkleton has transformed the theater into a "vampiric castle" draped in "tinfoil and black plastic," creating a "punk/porn party" atmosphere that feels more like a "science fiction double feature" than a standard revival. While Rachel Dratch uses her "deep drollery" to expertly handle the rowdy "callbacks" from the audience, Luke Evans commands the stage in "skyscraper boots" and a latex corset, playing the iconic Frank-N-Furter as a "romantic Heathcliff" with "off the charts" magnetism.

Playwright David Lindsay-Abaire takes the hyper-specific pettiness of a wealthy homeowners association—think security cameras, lush lawns, and heated disputes over dog poo—and turns it into a "slippery, sensitive, and clever" comedy where the biggest power moves involve a well-timed gavel. Set inside a "gorgeously appointed" Victorian parlor, the show is less about the neighborhood rules and more an "insider" look at how we reveal our truest selves by what we choose to bristle over and what we find funny.

What starts as an awkward office-crush dinner date in a 90s walk-up transforms into a "profound connection" that feels both "comically giddy" and "slightly unhinged." Cecily Strong and Corey Stoll are masterfully paired as two "secret writers" navigating a "nervy roller coaster" of loneliness, ambition, and the "perilous cost of honesty."

While this stage adaptation takes a modern-day couple on a "lovingly and lavishly crafted" detour through a town trapped in 1945, it’s the way the show translates its TV roots into a "joyous, slightly deranged" live spectacle that makes it a true standout. It functions as a "rhapsodic remix" of Golden Age tropes—complete with a rebellious carnival barker and a "meticulously" choreographed ensemble—proving that the only way for these two to find a bridge back to reality is to learn how to live inside a world of "high-octane absurdity."

While Kelli O’Hara trades her signature "born gentility" for a "hysterical" head-first dive over an armchair, Rose Byrne matches her beat-for-beat with a "frenetic" energy that makes this revival a total "champagne cocktail". It’s a 90-minute study in physical comedy where these two play "frenemies" drinking themselves into a stupor while waiting for a mutual former lover—a scenario that once caused a "mild moral panic" but now serves as a perfect showcase for their "elastic, compulsively watchable talent".

This revival strips away the dusty, traditional reverence for the Loman family and replaces it with a searing, high-stakes urgency that makes Arthur Miller’s 1949 script feel like it was written for this exact economic moment. Critics are calling it a "triumph," noting that Nathan Lane delivers a "career-best performance" while Laurie Metcalf provides an "iron backbone" that turns the usual sentimentality into something raw and unsentimental.

This radical reimagining trades the oversized junkyard for the high-octane energy of the underground ballroom scene, turning the classic feline pageant into an "entirely new" and "vibrant" competition of self-expression. It is a "joyous," high-fashion spectacle where the familiar score meets the precision of runway culture, creating a transformative atmosphere that earns "10s across the board" for its pure, infectious energy.

Gina Gionfriddo’s comedy turns a disastrous blind date into a high-stakes spectator sport, centering on a messy collision of family dysfunction and the kind of "calculated narcissism" that feels uncomfortably familiar. It’s an evening of "startlingly blunt" honesty where the characters trade insults that land like the harsh truths shared only after a few too many drinks with the people who know your secrets best.

John Lithgow plays Roald Dahl not as the whimsical creator we grew up with, but as a brilliant, towering antagonist who spent a single, explosive afternoon in 1983 nearly blowing up his own legacy over a single book review. It’s the kind of high-stakes, dialogue-heavy drama that makes you realize how thin the line is between a creative genius and a neighborhood bully, especially when the person holding the pen refuses to apologize for what they've said.

It’s easy to assume a play about depression is going to be a total downer, but this is actually one of the funniest, most life-affirming things you’ll see because it’s built around a giant, running list of every little thing that makes life worth it. It’s super interactive in a way that’s not scary—Daniel Radcliffe basically recruits the audience to help tell the story—so by the time he gets to "the smell of old books" or "staying up past your bedtime," you feel like you’re part of this secret, supportive club instead of just sitting in a dark theater.

In a "monkishly simple" Greenwich Village basement, four actors sit in simple chairs to deliver a "sumptuous set of nightmare-erotic" stories that feel less like a play and more like a grimy, honest conversation after too many glasses of wine. It is a high-stakes "walk with a trusted guide" through the wreckage of a middle-class family, where the "moth day" isn't a celebration, but a childhood term for the inevitable date of one's own death.

This quiet, hyper-specific mystery swaps typical stage fireworks for the stifling tension of Midwestern living rooms, where a series of house calls slowly unearths the truth behind a local hero’s passing. It is a masterclass in what remains unsaid, capturing the delicate, often awkward dance of neighborly sympathy in a town where a shared secret is just as heavy as the grief itself.

A naive Brit arrives at JFK with a heavy suitcase and an even heavier optimism, teaming up with a cynical native New Yorker to deliver a wedding cake across a city that doesn't care about either of them. It’s a "crush note" to New York that finds the soulful, messy reality beneath the standard rom-com glitter.

Six mid-pubescent outsiders discover that the only thing more high-stakes than correctly spelling "phylactery" is navigating a "riotous" gymnasium floor while their parents watch from the bleachers. This "slanderously funny" musical creates a safe space for the socially awkward, where the prize is a trophy and the consolation is a juice box handed out by a comfort counselor on a mid-probation work assignment.

Brian Quijada and Nygel D. Robinson use live-looping and hip-hop to bridge the 19th and 21st centuries, unearthing the "startlingly smart" and nearly forgotten history of the Underground Railroad that ran South into Mexico. It is a hilarious, high-energy feat of "theatrical engineering" where the entire soul-stirring score is composed from scratch right in front of your eyes.

Havana, 1956: the air is thick with "rhythmic heat" and the golden-age nostalgia of a city on the brink of change. This "shimmering and soulful" reunion follows a group of legendary musicians stepping out of the shadows of history to reclaim the songs the world almost forgot.

In a neon-lit, near-future Seoul, two "obsolete" HelperBots discover an unexpected connection in a world that has moved on without them. It’s a jazzy, bittersweet musical that explores how the most human thing about us might actually be our capacity to break down.

Three distinct American lives—a stifled upper-class wife, a determined Jewish immigrant, and a daring Harlem musician—collide in a "sprawling" turn-of-the-century landscape. This production strips away the spectacle to focus on the raw, "high-stakes" friction of a country struggling to harmonize its own contradictions.

Forget the history books; this is a "slanderously inaccurate" and "completely unhinged" look at the suppressed desires of Mary Todd Lincoln. Playwright Cole Escola transforms the Lyceum Theatre into a "rumbling sea of guffaws" with a 80-minute farce that treats the Civil War as a mere backdrop for one woman’s desperate, campy quest for a "parade" of her own.

The Jellicle Cats have traded the junkyard for the high-octane energy of the 1980s Ballroom scene, where the "runway" is the ultimate stage for survival. It is a "meticulously observed" reimagining that finds the soul of Andrew Lloyd Webber's classic in the defiant, high-stakes beauty of queer subculture.

Amidst the "razzle dazzle" of 1920s jazz and gin, two murderesses compete for the headlines and the legal services of a lawyer who treats the courtroom like a vaudeville act. It remains a "startlingly smart" satire on the American obsession with celebrity, proving that a sensational crime is the only currency that never devalues.