“Make ’Em Laugh” and “I Could Have Danced All Night” are the sort of movie-musical melodies that can transport us into that familiar movie-musical dream, where every backyard is a stage and every performance deserves an audience. In Ryan J. Haddad’s Good Time Charlie at The Public Theater, that dream takes shape in a lush Japanese garden, an unexpected and delightful setting for a play about the movie musicals that help shape a life. Ryan’s childhood performances at home, with his aunt and uncle taking lead roles in Brandy’s Cinderella, provide the opening scene for this tender two-act play. The Charlie at its centre is the younger Charlie, Charlie Jr., not Ryan’s Uncle Charlie, and Jonathan Raviv (ATC’s The Band’s Visit) gives him an infectious theatrical exuberance. Directed by Danny Sharron (PH’s Hold Me in the Water by Haddad), the play follows Charlie and Ryan across decades, celebrating the queer mentors who open doors to a world of show tunes, cultural icons, and the kind of education no school could provide.

Ryan J. Haddad and Jonathan Raviv in Public Theater’s Good Time Charlie. Photo by Joan Marcus.

Haddad is wonderfully, sometimes hilariously, aware that he is making a play, and Ryan keeps us in on the process. He addresses the audience, talks to the other actors, and tries to get everyone to perform the scenes as written, with decidedly mixed results. When Charlie launches into half a verse of “It’s Today” from Mame, Ryan interrupts to explain that they didn’t get the rights. Later, when a dysregulated Charlie no longer wants to continue a scene near the end of Act One, Ryan compassionately offers to stop the play right there, observing that “everyone loves a one act.” It’s a terrific moment of cheeky theatrical self-preservation. Haddad tells us early on that he is attempting a bigger, broader play than his usual one-person shows, and then cheerfully lets us watch him wrestle with the consequences. As Aunt Janice, Beth Malone (Transport Group’s The Unsinkable Molly Brown) gives the comedy another human centre in the LGBTQ+ alphabet, letting the humour land without making the characters feel like pawns in Haddad’s theatrical games.

Nael Nacer, Artemis Pebdani, and Ryan J. Haddad in Public Theater’s Good Time Charlie. Photo by Joan Marcus.

The production’s design gives Haddad’s shifting memories and theatrical interruptions a vivid visual and sonic world. The lush garden designed by Afsoon Pajoufar gives this family history an unexpectedly beautiful setting, while Enver Chakartash’s costumes help establish the people and periods the play moves through. Barbara Samuels’s lighting supports the shifts from comic recollection to the more vulnerable moments, and Ryan Gamblin’s sound design and composition help sustain a world in which movie-musical memories are woven into the characters’ lives. Jennifer Rias’s choreography helps carry the production between spoken recollection, musical moments, and Haddad’s playful interruptions. Together, these elements allow the play to move between memory, musical fantasy, and family history without losing sight of the people at its centre

Beneath all of Ryan’s theatrical mischief, Charlie’s family history delivers the play’s hardest blow. His parents repeatedly pressure him to change himself, with the rejection finally arriving in the words, “If you’re not going to change, your father doesn’t want to see you.” I find stories like this heartbreaking, particularly when rejection comes with the demand that someone change an essential part of themselves. The pain is especially sharp here because Ryan’s own coming-out experience in suburban Ohio in 2008 is relatively kind by comparison. Charlie and his partner Lou, played with grounded warmth by Tim Bagley (“Hacks“), spend years building a life together while waiting for Charlie’s family to accept them. The play gives this history the time it needs, allowing the hurt to register without rushing to smooth it over. Sheldon, played wonderfully by Michael Cristofer (Broadway’s A View from the Bridge), enters as the man who introduced Charlie, and later Ryan, to the world of movie musicals. His friendship with both men is one of the play’s most charming connections, and his love of movie musicals becomes part of the bond they share. The connection he helps create beautifully gives another important strand of family, one built through shared passions and affection rather than obligation.

Jonathan Raviv, Tim Badley, and Michael Cristofer in Public Theater’s Good Time Charlie. Photo by Joan Marcus.

Act Two hits a little harder. Well, a lot harder. Sheldon suffers a stroke and begins using a walker, and the decline of this beloved mentor and friend changes the emotional temperature of the play. The man who helped open the world of movie musicals to Charlie and Ryan now needs care himself, and the prospect of losing him is all the more alarming because we have seen how much he means to both. Ryan, who has cerebral palsy, must confront his own discomfort and uncertainty as Sheldon’s physical needs change. Haddad allows the subject to carry humour alongside genuine unease, opening difficult questions about disability, caregiving, and what happens when the people who once guided us need our help. The well-placed line, “I wish I could change the ending,” lands with a growing sense of dread. Cristofer brings a moving gravity to Sheldon, while Nael Nacer and Artemis Pebdani help create two family dynamics whose connections extend beyond any single scene. The play also makes room for older queer characters to remain loved and essential in a culture that can place far too much emphasis on youth and physical desirability.

Haddad’s warmth and metatheatrical mischief give Good Time Charlie much of its charm, even when its ambition to turn personal memories into a broader narrative leaves the plot feeling somewhat loose. Some scenes are beautifully done, with the other characters watching from the sidelines in open adoration, and those moments allow affection to register without the play needing to explain it. The movie-musical melodies may begin by inviting us into a familiar dream, but the relationships give that dream its emotional stakes. Charlie and Ryan inherit songs, stories, and a way of seeing themselves through the people who love them. As the mentors grow older and begin to need care, we must consider what we owe the people who first opened those doors for us. It is a tender, funny, sometimes uneven tribute to the family we find through shared passions, and to the difficult work of staying beside one another as life changes.

Ryan J. Haddad, Tim Badley, Beth Malone, Jonathan Raviv, and Michael Cristofer in Public Theater’s Good Time Charlie. Photo by Joan Marcus.

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Sophia Anne Caruso delivers a mesmerizing performance in Duncan Sheik’s haunting new musical, where exquisite beauty conceals a far more disturbing reality.

There is something particularly poignant about watching Memoirs of Amorous Gentlemen, one of Duncan Sheik’s final theatrical works, arriving onstage in the shadow of his death. The composer who helped redefine contemporary musical theater with Spring Awakening has left us another haunting score, one whose melodic beauty and emotional darkness seem all the more affecting now that its creator is gone.

Now playing at The Night Egg at The Culture Club, 530 West 27th Street. Imagine the immersive seduction of Sleep No More, filtered through the eroticism of a Parisian brothel, and you begin to understand the atmosphere. This is a production that invites you to look, encourages you to linger, and then makes you question precisely what you have been watching.

Sophia Anne Caruso photo by Andy Henderson

Make no mistake, this is essentially beautiful soft pornography onstage, wrapped in some of the most exquisite theatrical design currently on display. It is also a production with a frustratingly familiar story, an insufficiently developed book, and one extraordinary young actress who makes the entire evening worth experiencing.

Cory Jeacoma and Sophia Anne Caruso photo by Andy Henderson

Based on Moyoco Anno’s award-winning Japanese manga, with a book by Leah Nanako Winkler, Memoirs of Amorous Gentlemen transports us to a decadent Parisian maison close known as the Night Egg. Here, desire is currency, intimacy is transactional, and the women who inhabit this seductive underworld survive by learning the difference between what men want and what men are willing to give.

Cory Jeacoma photo by Andy Henderson

At its center is Colette, a young aspiring writer portrayed by the astonishing Sophia Anne Caruso. Colette works within this elaborate world of fantasy while remaining emotionally entangled with Léon (a rake that Cory Jeacoma makes you want o hear more of), her childhood love, a man whose affections prove considerably less dependable than her devotion.

Marc delaCruz photo by Andy Henderson

When a client, Sakae (Marc delaCruz), encourages Colette to put pen to paper, she begins recording the intimate confessions, peculiar fantasies, and private sorrows of the men who frequent the establishment. Through writing, she discovers a means of reclaiming her identity. No longer merely someone to be observed, she becomes the observer, transforming the perversions of others into art.

The Night Egg at the Culture Club photo by Andy Henderson

It is a promising premise, but one that feels distressingly familiar. The prostitute with a literary soul, the emotionally unavailable lover, the exploitation masquerading as affection, and the eventual discovery of personal agency are all recognizable dramatic territory. Winkler’s book never quite finds the originality or psychological complexity necessary to elevate these elements into something genuinely revelatory.

Nkeki Obi-Melekwe photo by Andy Henderson

Léon, meanwhile, exploits Colette’s devotion while directing his money and attention toward Nana, played by Nkeki Obi-Melekwe of Tina: The Tina Turner Musical. Colette continues believing in him long after the audience has recognized the futility of that belief. There is emotional truth in such self-deception, but the writing does not explore it deeply enough to make the relationship as compelling as it should be.

Jenny Powers photo by Andy Henderson

Jenny Powers brings an appropriately chilling authority to Madame, whose coldhearted management of the establishment reminds us that beneath the elaborate costumes and seductive rituals lies a business built upon the commodification of human desire.

What makes the production so compelling is the extraordinary visual and musical world constructed around this underdeveloped narrative.

photo by Andy Henderson

Director and choreographer Rob Ashford understands seduction as a theatrical language. His staging is fluid, sensual, and meticulously composed, creating an atmosphere in which movement becomes as expressive as dialogue. The choreography is not simply decorative; it is part of the establishment’s machinery, drawing the audience into a world where beauty and exploitation exist in disturbing proximity.

Nika Lindsay photo by Andy Henderson

Scott Pask’s scenic design transforms the space into a decadent Parisian playground, while Catherine Zuber’s costumes are so ravishing that I found myself wanting to purchase practically the entire wardrobe. The textures, silhouettes, and sensual extravagance create a visual feast. If the production occasionally feels more invested in its appearance than its narrative, it is difficult to complain while looking at something this gorgeous.

Michael Starr photo by Andy Henderson

Yet that beauty is also the point. The Night Egg is designed to conceal the ugliness of what takes place within its walls. Look from a distance, and everything glitters. Look too closely, and the illusion begins to decay.

Duncan Sheik’s music and lyrics provide the evening with its most haunting dimension. Melodic, atmospheric, and often achingly beautiful, the score has a hypnotic quality that recalls, in spirit, Stephen Sondheim’s Passion. Both works explore the unsettling territory where love becomes obsession and desire slips into emotional captivity.

Austin Lesch photo by Andy Henderson

Sheik’s music does not merely accompany the story. It seems to seep through the walls of the Night Egg, making the establishment itself feel alive. There is something almost witchlike about the combination of music, singing, and movement. The melodies draw us inward, creating a seductive spell that makes the eventual recognition of the characters’ suffering all the more unsettling.

Jenny Powers photo by Andy Henderson

The score is considerably more sophisticated than the book surrounding it. One wishes the writing possessed the same emotional depth and complexity as the music.

Sophia Anne Caruso photo by Andy Henderson

Then there is Sophia Anne Caruso.

Cory Jeacoma photo by Andy Henderson

I have followed Caruso’s career for years, dating back to The Nether, and watching her artistic development has been a remarkable experience. She has always possessed an arresting theatrical presence, but what she brings to Colette confirms something I have believed for a long time: this young woman is a genuine star.

Cory Jeacoma photo by Andy Henderson

Her voice is extraordinary, rich, powerful, and capable of cutting through Sheik’s lush musical landscape with startling emotional clarity. But it is not simply the voice that distinguishes her. It is her acting.

Caruso possesses that rare combination of vulnerability and underlying strength that cannot be manufactured. She can appear almost painfully exposed one moment and reveal an astonishing inner resilience the next. Even when the writing fails to provide the emotional progression her character deserves, she supplies it through the smallest shifts in expression, posture, and vocal color.

There is nothing generic about her performance. She inhabits Colette with an intelligence and emotional honesty that give the character dimensions the book only begins to suggest. Her vulnerability never feels like weakness; it becomes the very source of her strength.

Quite simply, Sophia Anne Caruso is the reason to see Memoirs of Amorous Gentlemen.

And I wish she had been given a better book.

That is ultimately the frustration of this production. Ashford has created a seductive theatrical experience, Pask and Zuber have fashioned a world of extraordinary beauty, Sheik has supplied a haunting score, and Caruso delivers a performance of genuine star quality. Yet the central story never achieves the originality or dramatic force necessary to match these accomplishments.

For all its sensuality, Memoirs of Amorous Gentlemen is less provocative than it believes itself to be. Voyeurism is not inherently revelation, and exposing the private lives of men does not automatically produce insight into the women whose bodies and emotions they consume.

Still, there is something undeniably compelling about this strange, gorgeous evening. The music lingers, the imagery seduces, and Caruso’s performance refuses to fade from memory.

Memoirs of Amorous Gentlemen is a beautiful illusion with something rotten beneath its surface. Its greatest achievement is not making us believe in the illusion, but allowing us to glimpse the darkness behind it.

Sheik’s death lends this production an unexpected poignancy. His music remains its most haunting achievement, a reminder of a composer who understood that desire, longing, and emotional devastation often speak most eloquently through melody. The book may fail to match the sophistication of his score, but the music is unmistakably his: seductive, intelligent, and achingly human.

Memoirs of Amorous Gentlemen: The Night Egg at The Culture Club, 530 West 27th Street, between Tenth and Eleventh Avenues through January 3, 2027.

Live From The Hotel Edison Times Square Chronicles Presents, is filmed from the Hotel Edison and is a podcast extension of T2C. We are back after a small hiatus.

Today on Live From The Hotel Edison Times Square Chronicles Presents Our Sinatra’s Christopher Gines. Our Sinatra, a Musical Celebration brings back the original creators/performers – Eric Comstock, Christopher Gines and Hilary Kole. This trio reunites after a quarter century after performing Our Sinatra at the Oak Room in December 1999

Gines has released solo music including his album The Way It Goes, featuring classic standards and theater tunes. Beyond singing, he has worked as an author, playwright, show creator, and nightclub promoter/owner in New York

See Christopher in Our Sinatra at the Marjorie S. Deane Little Theatre running through November 29th.

I am so grateful to Christopher Gines  for his conversation, his candidness and his art that captures the imagination.

Thornton Wilder’s holiday classic gets a nationwide celebration, with more than 30 organizations joining a theatrical feast that spans 90 years in just 40 minutes.

Forget the turkey, the awkward family conversations and the relative who insists on bringing up politics before dessert. This Christmas, Thornton Wilder is inviting America to a dinner that lasts ninety years, and some rather extraordinary guests are pulling up chairs.

Thortan Wilder

The Thornton Wilder Estate has announced The Long Christmas Dinner Festival, a nationwide celebration of Wilder’s beloved 1931 one-act play, with more than 30 theatres, schools, colleges and independent bookstores presenting the work throughout November and December. The ambition is as charming as it is audacious: to make The Long Christmas Dinner a holiday tradition alongside A Christmas Carol, The Nutcracker and Handel’s Messiah. Considering how many of us already spend the holidays revisiting the same beloved stories, there is something wonderfully appealing about adding another place at the table.

The festivities begin Monday, November 2, at New York City’s Public Theater, where Ethan Hawke and Jose Llana will be among the performers bringing Wilder’s extraordinary little play to life. Joining them is Tappan Wilder, the playwright’s nephew and managing member of the Wilder Family LLC, making this particular family gathering rather more authentic than most. Additional casting will be announced.

Chicago is getting its own star-studded dinner at the Goodman Theatre, with original RENT cast member Anthony Rapp and Wilco frontman Jeff Tweedy joining the celebration. It’s not every day that a Broadway original and an alternative-rock icon find themselves seated at the same theatrical Christmas table, but Wilder has always had a way of bringing seemingly different worlds together.

And what a remarkable piece of theatre this is. First produced in 1931, The Long Christmas Dinner takes place during one continuous holiday meal, yet somehow carries its audience through ninety years of a family’s existence. Generations arrive, grow older, fall in love, quarrel, celebrate, disappear and are replaced by those who follow. The dining table remains, but the people around it change. In a mere forty minutes, Wilder captures the comedy, tenderness, absurdity and heartbreak of being human.

It is a theatrical conceit of astonishing simplicity, and one that feels particularly appropriate for the holidays. After all, Christmas dinner is rarely just about the people sitting at the table. It is also about those who once occupied the empty chairs, the traditions we inherited without remembering who began them, and the children who will eventually become the keepers of those same memories. Wilder understood that a family gathering is never really confined to a single day. Every holiday carries the ghosts of Christmases past and the promise of those still to come.

What makes this festival especially intriguing is its refusal to confine Wilder to the grand theatrical institutions. The first wave of participants includes 31 organizations across 20 states, stretching from Alaska to Florida and California to Maine. Alongside such distinguished companies as The Public Theater, Goodman Theatre, Seattle Rep, Miami New Drama, Pasadena Playhouse and Rude Mechs are high schools, colleges and independent bookstores. Vassar and Yale are also participating, with Yale holding a particularly meaningful connection to the work: students there collaborated on its original 1931 premiere.

That mixture is precisely what gives the festival its heart. Wilder’s work has never depended on elaborate scenery or theatrical machinery to reveal something profound. His genius lies in stripping away the unnecessary until the audience is left confronting the things that matter: time, love, mortality, family and the extraordinary significance of ordinary life. A school auditorium or bookstore can become as fitting a home for this play as a celebrated professional stage.

There is also something rather refreshing about a holiday theatrical event that doesn’t require a sleigh, a dancing snowflake or a miser visited by three ghosts. Wilder gives us something at once simpler and more unsettling: the realization that life moves with breathtaking speed, even when the days themselves seem endless. One moment we are children waiting impatiently for Christmas morning; the next, we are the adults remembering the people who made those mornings magical.

The Wilder Estate’s hope is that this nationwide celebration will become an annual tradition, encouraging families and friends to experience the play together and discover something new in it as their own lives change. That is an especially lovely idea for a work whose entire meaning deepens with the passage of time. The person who sees The Long Christmas Dinner at twenty will not experience quite the same play at fifty, and certainly not at eighty.

With its combination of celebrated performers, community participation and a story that has quietly endured for nearly a century, The Long Christmas Dinner Festival offers an unusually thoughtful addition to the holiday season.

And unlike most family Christmas dinners, this one promises to take only forty minutes, cover ninety years of family history and leave you with something considerably more lasting than leftovers.