Review: FORBIDDEN BROADWAY: THE NEXT GENERATION at The Phoenix Theatre Company

Guest Contributor, David Appleford, warmly embraces The Phoenix Theatre Company’s production of FORBIDDEN BROADWAY: THE NEXT GENERATION.

FORBIDDEN BROADWAY: THE NEXT GENERATION isn’t just a parody—it’s a full-on roast of the Great White Way, served up hot and fast with a piano and four performers who can belt, mug, and mimic with razor precision. 

Originally conceived as simply Forbidden Broadway by playwright, composer, and actor, Gerard Alessandrini back in 1982, it’s the kind of show that thrives on Broadway’s worst habits—and thank goodness those never go out of style. Alessandrini has rewritten and reloaded his creation for decades, skewering everything from Cats to Wicked with the giddy glee of a theater kid who grew up and got sarcastic. It’s cabaret-meets-comedy with a Broadway target on its back, and no one’s safe—not the divas, not the directors, not even the choreographers. 

Alessandrini’s most recent update, FORBIDDEN BROADWAY: THE NEXT GENERATION, now playing at the Judith Hardes Theatre and presented by Phoenix Theatre Company until June 22, is directed by William Selby, himself no stranger to the piece. This is his 21st production of FORBIDDEN BROADWAY as director while doing double-duty in this Phoenix presentation as one of the four performers. Under Selby’s experienced guidance, the show is like a martini with a twist for those who’ve marinated in Broadway for years—acidic and fizzy. It’s a love letter sealed with a sarcastic kiss, ribbing the very thing it reveres. And for those newer to the scene, even though some of the content and jokes might fly faster than you would like, if you don’t catch every reference, the sheer performance energy could knock you back in your seat. 

The cast—just four of them, if you can believe it—whirl through a carnival of Broadway archetypes, zipping in and out of wigs and Martha J. Clarke’s costumes with the kind of manic glee you’d expect from kids at theatre camp hopped up on Sondheim and Red Bull. It’s the kind of virtuosity that makes you sit back and say to yourself, “I knew it, theater people really are a different species!” 

Of course, it would be easy—and honestly, a lot of fun—to mention all of the Broadway parodies while quoting some of the show’s best one-liners. But where’s the fun in spoilers? Part of the magic here is the element of surprise; hearing those zingers for the first time is half the joy. Knowing them in advance wouldn’t feel the same. 

Still, it would be criminal not to tip a hat to the performers who jolt the evening into genuine, snorting laughter. Rachel Policar nails a deadpan Bebe Neuwirth, skewering those rubber-limbed Fosse moves from Chicago with just the right amount of hip-thrusting mockery. Breona Conrad turns in a wonderfully sour Annie — a chain-smoking, thirty-year-old child star relic, marooned and bitter as she waits (and waits) for the revival that will save her from her own washed-up mediocrity. Seth Tucker, meanwhile, practically steals the night with his riotous take on the many faces of the Cabaret MC, shape-shifting before our eyes from Joel Grey's impish menace to Alan Cumming’s louche decadence to (good Lord) Eddie Redmayne’s twitchy, tragic mime. And William Selby wraps it all up with a devastating Cameron Mackintosh — Broadway’s Emperor-without-clothes, who rakes in a fortune even when the curtain falls with a thud, thanks to the endless, shameless tide of souvenir junk. 

There are visual gags that land just as hard: a maddeningly whirling Les Miz revolving stage that sends actors knocking into one another like drunk bumper cars, and the sight of The Lion King cast members lurching around in neck braces, victims of nightly whiplash from those monstrous, though hugely effective, Julie Taymor headdresses. 

At a lean 90 minutes with intermission, the show hops from sketch to sketch. It’s sharp, it’s fast, and it mostly knows when to get off the stage — though by the time the Fiddler on the Roof parody (Tradition reworked into Ambition) comes stomping on, you might find yourself glancing at your watch and thinking, enough already. 

And then there’s Steve Hilderbrand, the pianist tucked discreetly behind his baby grand, anchoring the entire thing like some musical wizard. He’s the quiet star—no costume changes, no jazz hands—just flawless transitions and razor-sharp timing that keeps the whole madcap revue from flying off the rails. Without him, it’s a parody on mute. 
Nathaniel White’s lighting and Douglas Clark’s scenic design strike exactly the right chord, conjuring a dazzling cabaret atmosphere with effortless flair. Strings of lights tracing the proscenium arch frame the stage like a jewel box, adding a touch of old-school showbiz glamour that perfectly complements the performance. Meanwhile, Chris Neumeyer’s sound design ensures every note and whispered word rings out clearly in the cozy confines of the Judith Hardes Theatre. The balance is just right — you won’t miss a single syllable. 
Adding to the sultry cabaret and nightclub atmosphere, some lucky audience members can snag seats at candlelit tables that circle the thrust stage, flickering with a soft, romantic glow. 

Ultimately, Phoenix Theatre Company isn’t simply presenting a roast; it’s a roast with affection, aimed at a Broadway that’s gone glossy and corporate. But it never forgets that under all the glitter and gimmicks, there's still a heartbeat worth celebrating.

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