Review: A Critical Queen Reviews The King’s Critique

Are there enough disgruntled theatermakers in New York to fill the audience of a musical for its entire off-Broadway run? And are they generous enough to bring their own laughs? Those are the implicit questions rumbling beneath The King’s Critique, the intermittently funny (but mostly interminable) musical comedy now at the Pershing Square Signature Center.

Written by Eric Holmes (book and lyrics) and Nat Zegree (music and lyrics), it takes place in an alternative Renaissance kingdom ruled over by theater-mad King Benjamin (Justin Collette). “If the King doesn’t like your play, you’re murdered,” sings Virgil (Nick Cearley) as he frantically prepares for the king’s theater festival, an only slightly less humane version of the Edinburgh Fringe.

Josephine (Taylor Iman Jones) has an idea that she thinks will make a big splash. She, a woman, will finally break the plywood ceiling by stepping out onstage as an actor. Virgil knows this is a bad idea and tells her so. Nevertheless, she persists, and is immediately banished by the king, along with her idiotic yet sexy scene partner, Sebastian (Sky Lakota-Lynch playing Pete Davidson in Something Rotten!). But crafty witch Cora (Donna Lynne Champlin) has a plan to disguise them as brother-lovers and bring them to court, where they will become favorites of the king and help her usurp the reign of Benjamin McMerrick FitzWebber O’Rudin deBrantley Von-Nepobaby LXIX.

Holmes and Zegree obviously want to satirize the tyranny of the royal homosexuals—the producers, casting agents, artistic directors, and (gulp) critics who dictate taste in the theater. Truly, it is a rich source of material worthy of satire. But try as they might (and they try so hard) the writers never strike comedic gold, suffering from a deadly combination of unsharpened tools and poor aim.

Our first hint is King Benjamin, a name that reinforces the stubborn myth that the New York Times matters, and also hints at the debilitatingly long process of moving a musical from the page to the stage. Two critics have ascended the throne of Brooks Atkinson since Ben Brantley abdicated in 2020; yet like Hamlet’s father, his ghost lingers. If I were Helen Shaw, I’d be peeved that the writers were ignoring my historic reign, which one suspects is not nearly as influential in driving producer behavior as the scrupulously documented purchasing habits of wealthy women over the age of 35.

But Holmes and Zegree seem less interested in launching heat-seeking missiles at the theater establishment than flattering the Broadway fandom with easter egg references to Hamilton and Dear Evan Hansen. Zegree’s score is tuneful, lighthearted, and forgettable. As the plot surrenders to incoherence in the second act, Holmes increasingly relies on dad jokes to get us over the finish line.

“I am NOT paying actors again,” vows the King’s adviser Horrace (Matthew Patrick Quinn, giving Jafar at Palm Springs). He’s celebrating the king’s embrace of actorless experimental fare. “It’s a new world, a furniture world, even if I have to use the weird Scandinavian kind that you have to build yourself.” And Sebastian responds, “That’s a terrible Ikea.” As was keeping that joke.

Of the cast, only Collette, a veteran Beetlejuice, has the comic chops (and boy, does he chew) required to sell this mildly funny script, distracting us from the words with pratfalls and ghoulish facial expressions. Champlin is the grande dame of this type of musical, having served multiple tours of duty at NYMF (RIP), but even her magic falters by the second act. Gabi Carrubba is perfectly fine in the somewhat superfluous role of Isabella, a courtier turned pop princess. Ultimately, it’s left to Jones to delivers the writers’ musical thesis, a very long ballad that seems to suggest that the theater can be saved by a confessional solo show (I’ve seen hundreds, and no). She sings her heart out, but I suspect much of the audience has already mentally retreated at this point.

Like a medieval general guided by the Lord, director Catie Davis has made the bold yet tactically ill-advised decision to stage this musical in traverse, with the audience on both sides of a narrow strip of stage. And while Paul Tate DePoo III’s purposefully artificial set creates the intimacy of a pop-up tent for wandering players, Davis cannot escape the physical reality that the actors are singing upstage for half the audience at any given moment. This is a big problem in 2026, when even proscenium shows suffer from poor sound balance, and sound designer Jessica Paz has not been able to overcome the challenge here.

Cory Pattak’s playful lighting helps us follow a staging that regularly moves into the audience. But it’s costume designer Emily Rebholz who seems to be having the most fun imagining storybook fashions that wouldn’t look out of place on a Broadway opening night red carpet. With ruffles and mesh, she holds together this ren faire mash-up of The Producers and The Emperor’s New Clothes, which one suspects would fall apart in the wash.

You may be tempted to write this review off as the fetid bile of a longtime critic, a queen who sees his reign coming to an end, soon to be replaced by sponsored TikTok posts and sundry algorithms. But I honestly feel it is my duty to advocate for an audience with limited time and money to attend the theater, to direct them toward the best shows in New York. So by all means, buy a ticket to The King’s Critique and judge for yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.