Doll, we need a show. We need a big Broadway show that’s got moxie—a show that can backchat better, ant et run over by a Mack truck but act as if some tootsie in a leg-line topped it with a breadstick. Is Sweet Smell of Success gonna be it? You got John Lithgow as J. J. Hunsecker. who’s like Walter Winched, if Wmchell had sung and was prone to little bursts of highly choreographed movement; and you got a creative team that makes the boys at Yalta look like three country-store clerks who lost their spectacles in the barley. You starting to feel the heat coming off this thing? I’m dripping into my pan. Because let’s face it, doll. The producers Bialystock and Bloom? The Fantasticks? The Taymor broad and her puppets? They're dead, baby—dead as vaudeville. You hang on too long like a Cats, suddenly you start thinking your own kitty litter don’t stink. Well, game over; new game. Success. End of story.