Kenneth Lonergan’s “Hold On to Me Darling,” a discursive, uncomfortable romantic comedy about the emptiness of American celebrity, is back for another run on Broadway. At Lucille Lortel, director Neil Pepe largely reprises his Atlantic Theater production from eight years ago; The cast of “Hold On” features three identical actors, and Walt Spangler’s set, a turntable procession of luxurious Tennessee hotel rooms and unpretentious interiors, is almost identical to his earlier version except for the number of deer antlers on one guy’s wall.

However, change is crucial. The role, originally played by Timothy Olyphant, was taken over by Adam Driver – a magnetic blank specialist – whose film roles of late have tended to be titular industry titans and/or guys with accents. (He’s Ferrari in “Ferrari,” Gucci in “House of Gucci,” and the megalomaniac in “Megalopolis.”) In “Hold On,” Driver plays Strings McCrane, a country music superstar experiencing an identity crisis after his mother’s sudden cardiac death is death. In the hotel room where he has retreated in his grief – Mom hated his lifestyle and he wants to renounce fame in her memory – Strings spontaneously joins the in-house (married) massage therapist Nancy (Heather Burns); He then returns to his hometown of Tennessee with a crazy plan to run a feed store with his half-brother (CJ Wilson), whereupon he immediately falls in love with his good-natured cousin (Adelaide Clemens).

Strings aren’t the sharpest staple on the bulletin board. He is narcissistic and pampered, while simultaneously believing that celebrity obsession has ruined the culture – at his mother’s funeral, his own family members ask him for an autograph – and that he is an American icon whose significance goes beyond his music. “If Strings McCrane goes bad, the rest of the country can’t be far behind,” Nancy says, telling him what he wants to hear.

The driver begins the show uncertainly; his early scenes with Nancy and with Jimmy (Keith Nobbs), a sycophantic assistant, lack confidence and dimension. The script itself is at its weakest when it comes to these two characters; They are broadly, even offensively, drawn and seem like visitors to a more brutal, satirical version. Lonergan’s trademark is his compassion for vulnerable people – his first-class works include the wistful dementia play “The Waverly Gallery” and the moral conundrum drama “Lobby Hero”. But here, in this smaller, more rambling effort, he and Pepe seem to disagree about how human everyone should be. The show also needs a touch of McCrane’s music. Is he a singer of stereotypical filth, or are we watching an artist put away a priceless gift? The play doesn’t even ask that question.

Despite Lonergan’s many accusations against the entertainment industry, he also points out that celebrity rituals can reflect real connection. After all, we live in an America in the midst of social collapse—some of us may have only shadows of relationships. In the play’s final (and most beautiful) scene, Strings tearfully gives an autograph to a family member who barely knows him, played by the heartbreaking Frank Wood. It’s awful and transactional, but it’s also a real exchange. The driver’s performance, which becomes increasingly apparent as the piece progresses, eventually develops into something profound – even exquisite.

Driver seems to be having his own Strings moment: a megastar who likes to set up shop in a small feed store because he thinks it might be educational, even if the logistics prove difficult. (During the curtain call, I saw a man who I assumed was a bodyguard standing off to the side, watching the audience – a reminder of an ugly aspect of American celebrity that Lonergan does not dramatize.) The Driver’s Journey to inside during the three hours of the play is definitely worth a lot. How much? Well, according to the box office, up to four hundred and forty-nine dollars per ticket. This is ironic for you. Strings, God bless him, wouldn’t have charged that much money at his bar, no matter who was at the counter.

We keep time with the metronome of repetitions, seasons and elections. Such is the case with Thornton Wilder’s 1938 “Our Town,” the deceptively simple story about a few lives in a small New Hampshire town at the beginning of the last century. Wilder’s masterpiece, now at the Barrymore and directed by Kenny Leon, is our premier American play, which in other words means it’s being performed like clockwork in every high school across the country. You encounter this for the first time when you are young. However, next time might be the moment it ruins you.

There are virtually no sets in Wilder’s Noh-inspired drama: all the information we need about Grover’s Corners is given to us by the stage manager (Jim Parsons) – “This is where the town hall and the post office are together; “The prison is in the basement,” he says, pointing backstage. Here is also the boy who delivers the papers (don’t get attached; he will die in the war, the stage manager tells us), and there is the street where the Webb and Gibbs families live next to each other. Wilder’s three-act structure observes young Emily Webb (Zoey Deutch) and George Gibbs (Ephraim Sykes): first as adolescents, then on the day they marry, and then on the day he buries her.

Since there is hardly any scenic spectacle to offer, Leon’s production with several television stars ensures shine: Katie Holmes hesitantly plays Emily’s mother; Richard Thomas (“The Waltons”), a constant presence on stage, plays Emily’s father. As a young couple, Deutch and Sykes haven’t gotten used to their performances yet – Emily’s famous “Oh, Earth, you’re too wonderful for anyone to recognize” speech is still pretty cheesy. The real lift is provided by the magnificent, mercurial Billy Eugene Jones, who plays George’s father, opposite the graceful Michelle Wilson, the woman he values.

Normally the stage manager – notable representatives include Henry Fonda, Paul Newman and director David Cromer – is a gregarious, warm-hearted guy who chats slowly. Parsons plays him as impatient and sentimental. When the stage manager marries Emily and George, he preaches about humanity’s habit of “living in pairs.” Parsons brings more poignancy to this scene than I thought possible; He has found the vital current of the piece’s acidic clarity. “Almost everyone in the world goes to their grave married,” says the stage manager. Not Wilder. He was gay, closeted, and mostly alone. After “Big Bang Theory,” Parsons specialized in stage roles characterized by queer loneliness: as Alfie, the tragic figure in Terrence McNally’s “A Man of No Importance,” or Carl, the rejected son in Paula Vogel’s recent “Mother Play “. ” Echoes of these parts in Parsons’ excellent performance evoke a variety of larger resonances.

Leon added some interfaith hymns, shortened the intermission, and condensed the action to just under one hundred and ten minutes, but even when it’s not fast-forward, the show makes us feel the speed of life. In the play’s most striking image, the dead sit in rows in Grover’s Corners Cemetery – more like a theater audience – watching the living with quiet dispassion. In this third act, we learn how many of the characters’ hopes were dashed in the first act. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to watch Our Town, and I worry that there will come a day when I won’t be able to watch it at all. This must be why Wilder’s God keeps himself at a galactic distance: it would be unbearable to know every person’s end from the beginning.

A decade before “Our Town,” playwright Lynn Riggs published a sort of gritty, realistic precursor to Wilder’s play: 1928’s “Sump’n Like Wings,” now being revived by the Mint. Like Our Town, the plot follows a teenage girl through three disillusioning acts; Here, 16-year-old Willie (Mariah Lee) fights against a small-minded Oklahoma town and her prejudiced mother (Julia Brothers). What I was looking for in Leon’s occasionally saccharine “Our Town” I found in the Mint: characters with the courage necessary to overcome the trials that lie before them. Lee in particular is a must see. We last see her in an apartment building, where she is matter-of-factly setting up a furniture barricade against a lecherous landlord. Oh, earthWillie must think. But the rest is probably unprintable. ♦