I was there yesterday afternoon, too, and the whole company was in and on fire.
Truthfully, I went in reluctant to be won over -- a terrible mindset that no show deserves to confront -- but I'll be damned if I wasn't pulled in anyway. Somewhere in the first act, even before Newell stops the show in a kind of love child of Billy Porter and Jennifer Holliday way, the one-joke conceit, the ludicrous sendup of logical romantic plotting (although Twelfth Night used this, too), all begin to work together. There's real craft, and discipline to the farce. No one takes any of it seriously, and yet -- paradoxically and wisely -- it's played straight, so that the power ballads, which have surprising emotional heft, feel organic, with earned places in the storytelling. A keeper of a score, with a second act quartet that's as good as anything this season, and of course that killer showstopper, which starts confident and ends up a lesson in giving people what they didn't even know they wanted.
"I'm a comedian, but in my spare time, things bother me." Garry Shandling