The show opens with three chorus girls in glittery mini-dresses singing “Just in Time” in classic showbiz harmony. Jonathan Groff enters from the upper trap door — not yet Bobby Darin, but himself. With disarming charm, he jokes about the show taking place “under the Wicked theater” and calls himself the unapologetically “wet man,” referencing his reputation for sweat and spit. Turning to the dancers, he asks, “Can you take it?” They laugh and nod. “We’ll see by the end,” he says with a grin. And we do see. At one point, a spray of sweat and spit catches the lights like crystal. The audience laughs, not at him, but with him. Groff preempts the moment, folds it into the performance, and transforms what could have been awkward into something human and unforgettable. Some performers hold a role at arm’s length, but Groff breathes it, sweats it, and yes, spits it into being.

The story of Bobby Darin unfolds as both a splashy showbiz musical and a tender biography. His romance with Connie Francis feels straight out of a Hollywood musical — until it isn’t. When he performs under pressure, with lyrics smeared from his sweaty palms, he fills the gaps with frantic “la la la”s. Somehow, it works. Then comes “Splish Splash”: a bath scene, a rubber duck, and Bobby Darin emerging as a star. Fame doesn’t make love easier. Connie wants him too, but her father chases him off at gunpoint. It’s classic Darin: heart on his sleeve, rubber duck in hand, always one beat away from triumph or tragedy.

Bobby’s complicated family adds depth to his story. The woman he believed was his sister was, in fact, his mother — and the grandmother he knew as his mother was the one who urged him to perform and dream of the Copacabana. That love, mixed with buried resentment, defines his drive. After “Splish Splash,” the spotlight dims, and his mother cuts through the applause: “That’s not a song. If you die tomorrow, they’ll remember you as a joke.” Her words push him to create “Mack the Knife” — slick, dangerous, and deliberate — earning not just fame but respect. The staging reflects this shift: the rubber ducks vanish, replaced by swagger, a suit, and swing. This is where Bobby Darin stops chasing approval and starts shaping a legacy.

One of the most charming moments comes on the coast of Portofino, where Bobby meets Sandra Dee during the filming of Come September. Groff infuses the scene with swagger and emotional complexity. Bobby courts her with eighteen yellow roses**—echoing** the single yellow rose he always gave the woman he once believed was his sister. “Beyond the Sea” swells with layered irony: a song about distant love, sung just as Bobby finds it within reach. The romance is radiant, but always shaded by longing to make everything — fame, love, legacy — mean something to the woman who shaped him. When Groff lifts Bobby’s platinum album like a badge of survival, we’re not watching a rise to stardom, but a son piecing together who he is, under the lights and beyond the sea.

The second act grows quieter. Bobby and Sandra marry, but the glitz gives way to the grind. While he tours, she stays home with their child, her presence fading into the wings. Their marriage fractures subtly, leaving the audience to read between the silences. The emotional blow lands later, when Bobby’s “sister” confesses she is his mother. This revelation becomes the hinge of his life. He pivots into politics, denim, and losing everything: licenses, fortune, and direction. “If I Were a Carpenter,” sung with Sandra, is quietly devastating — not bitter, but gently bittersweet, like love reframed by time. When Bobby slips off his worn jacket and puts on a proper one, he steps back into his old world for one last performance. His collapse is not just from illness, but from having given everything away.

The staging is as clever as the storytelling. The horseshoe-shaped platform curves around the audience, with a smaller runway stage cutting through. Jonathan Groff uses every inch, running past even the cheapest seats. He doesn’t just perform; he inhabits the space, blurring the line between star and crowd.

I first saw Groff in Spring Awakening in 2007. Back then, he was an angelic presence with an angelic voice — bright, fragile. Over the years, through Glee and Hamilton, I’ve watched him grow. But this was different. This wasn’t just evolution; it was command. His voice now growls, bends, and floats through modal shifts, yet still pierces the air with the same purity that struck me nearly two decades ago.

I told the woman next to me that he once looked like Goldmund, Hesse’s golden boy. She smiled and said, “He still is.” And I agree.

If you’re a fan of Jonathan Groff, go see him. This is as much Jonathan Groff’s story as it is Bobby Darin’s. As for me, I could have yelled “I love Jonathan Groff!” after the show. He didn’t cry, but he proved he is, indeed, a wet man — and he was damn sincere.