The musical The Baker’s Wife has had a notoriously checkered history. With a book by Joseph Stein and music and lyrics by the young Stephen Schwartz, it first appeared in 1976. But, amid casting changes (Patti LuPone survived) and infighting, producer David Merrick closed it before it got to Broadway. Over the years it has had many iterations, in hopes of correcting whatever sank it then (critics excoriated the book but praised the music). LuPone’s song “Meadowlark” has become a standard for cabaret singers. The current revival at the Classic Stage Company (CSC), boasting a stellar cast, is likely to be its best shot at resuscitation.

Adapting a Thornton Wilder play into a musical has notable historical precedents. His 1954 comedy, The Matchmaker, was, of course, the basis for Hello, Dolly! And in 1955, Our Town was transformed into a live television musical starring Frank Sinatra. Now comes The Seat of Our Pants, based on Wilder’s wildest work, his 1942 Pulitzer Prize–winner, The Skin of Our Teeth. Under the direction of Leigh Silverman, with book and score by Ethan Lipton, this faithful interpretation gets by on novelty in the first act, thrives on its merits in the second, and offers hope, if not structure, in the third.

In his play Practice, Nazareth Hassan delivers an uncomfortable yet unflinching depiction of what it takes for an artist to achieve his vision, allowing director Keenan Tyler Oliphant to stage a powerful production that the script fully earns. The story follows a group of actors and an ascendant theater star, Asa Leon, who subjects them to a rigorous development process for his next project. Asa pursues his vision with messianic dedication, drawing his actors into that vision without regret or apology. The result is distressing, at times brutal, and ultimately thrilling.

Grief is very personal, and everyone processes it in their own way and in their own time. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross identified five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Wake, written by Leon Ingulsbrud and Brooke Shilling, explores the contours of these stages through music, dialogue, musings, reflections, and poetry.

If the title of Rajiv Joseph’s latest play, Archduke, conjures up Franz Ferdinand, the most famous archduke of all, that’s exactly what’s intended. But Joseph is less concerned with the death of the Serbian monarch whose assassination in 1914 sparked World War I than he is with the social and historical forces that helped radicalize the three principal killers: Gavrilo Princip, Nedeljko Čabrinović, and Trifko Grabez.

In his current revival of Pygmalion, director David Staller does more than remount Shaw’s 1912 comedy—he alters the play’s architecture by adding a mythic framing device led by four Olympian gods who introduce and comment on the action. This addition is not found in the published script, and theatergoers expecting a traditional revival may consider it a provocation. But Staller positions it as a reclamation rather than an invention.