Gypsy

What's so astonishing about Finnegan's heart-racing performance as Momma Rose, one of theater's all-time great mother roles, is not just what she does, but what she doesn't do. She doesn't come on like gangbusters, belting and yelling in a role that has Ethel Merman's indelible stamp. Finnegan can belt Styne and Sondheim's great tunes like nobody's business, and when she yells, we pay attention. But with careful modulation, Finnegan opens her mouth as wide as her head for some notes, while with others, she chokes down enraged tears or quietly quivers. Finnegan doesn't tear up the stage; she sets it alight, then ablaze.

Rose could so easily be depicted as a monster mom, forcing her daughters June and second-banana Louise into vaudeville—even when it's clear their act sucks and vaudeville's on its last varicose-vein–stricken legs. Yet Finnegan's Rose reveals not only a ferociously self-centered ambition, but a sincere maternal devotion. After June leaves her, Rose sings the first-act finale, "Everything's Coming up Roses," with the desperate anguish of abandoned mothers everywhere. Her blood-pumping "Rose's Turn" is the primal cry of all parents asking what the hell they raised the little ingrates for. So charming is this Rose that we easily see why Herbie (a perfectly understated Mick Weber) sticks around as her daughters' agent and her forever-postponed fiancé. And the ragtag backstage set makes a fitting backdrop for both the kids' amateurish act and Rose's failed dream to be more than a behind-the-scenes mom, to be the star herself.

Stearns's powerful production isn't flawless; he elicits strong stuff out of Finnegan and Weber, but guides others into the cheesy. No matter: I stepped out of the theater into 90-degree heat, yet with Finnegan's voice in my head, I had serious chills.—Novid Parsi