'American Dead,' 'Mrs. Warren's Profession' and more

Imagine a recession art-directed by Edward Hopper, and you're in "American Dead," Brett Neveu's spare tale of Midwestern obsolescence, now receiving its West Coast premiere by Rogue Machine and John Perrin Flynn. Ian Garrett's sprawling, dilapidated set is a hodgepodge of buildings that have given up the ghost: crooked screen doors, sagging lintels, a row of rusty school lockers.

Lewie Froah (Mark St. Amant) wanders his near-empty hometown like a deadbeat Ancient Mariner. He's mourning the unsolved death of his sister, Grace (Deborah Puette), killed in a store robbery. Grace's husband (David Paluck) has remarried and is moving away; a dwindling local population has even closed the high school. But at a dusty bar tended by the officious Bill (a droll Bradley Fisher), a quiet stranger (Darin Singleton) stops in for beer -- and a fateful encounter with Lewie.

The play isn't in a hurry; it meanders in, a grubby stranger keeping to himself. Slowly, though, Neveu's world reveals itself: fugitive connections that accumulate into a story you find yourself investing in -- due in large part to "Dead's" impressive cohesion of direction, design and performance. Garrett's set, Leigh Allen's eerie lighting and Bob Rokos' sound design all work to focus Neveu's elliptical storytelling. Director Dado is a Steppenwolf alum, and the Chicago ensemble's signature features -- the ground-level desperation of working people, the awkward truth of the lived moment, sudden explosions of violence -- feel strongly in evidence.

The play chases its mysteries only so far. The question of what to do with the dead -- a way of life or a family member -- isn't fully explored. But Neveu and this excellent company ponder the dilemmas of the living with tenderness and admirable simplicity.

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Charlotte Stoudt

"American Dead," Theatre Theater, 5041 Pico Blvd., Los Angeles. 8 p.m. Thursday through Saturday, 7 p.m. Sunday. Ends Aug. 24. $25. Contact: (323) 960-7726. Running time: 1 hour, 45 minutes.

What mother does for a living

England, 1893. Vivie Warren (Joanna Strapp) has been raised in an atmosphere of utter respectability: the finest boarding schools, a Cambridge education. After graduation, she reunites with her self-made, elusive mother (Gillian Doyle) only to learn with horror just what -- and who -- has financed her ascent into good society. "Mrs. Warren's Profession," of course, is the oldest one, and Kitty Warren has profited considerably from it. She refuses, however, to apologize for deploying her talents to take her out of Victorian slums and into economic independence. She's like any other entrepreneur, even if society wrings its pious hands over the services she offers.

George Bernard Shaw's play was censored for decades and could only be presented publicly in 1925, after World War I had shifted British attitudes toward women. But it's the author's merciless attack on hypocrisy -- a fault both sexes are subject to -- that remains fresh today. The Production Company's staging, directed with admirable pace by August Viverito, emphasizes the play's satirical edge. If occasionally a little broad and not so deep, it never fails to entertain. Like Viverito's ingenious fold-out set, Shaw keeps revealing an unexpected angle, and, plot-wise, "Mrs. Warren" is one of his tightest works.

The excellent Doyle and Strapp tear into the juicy dialogue with relish, and their scenes together crackle with spirit and urgency. And Jeremy Lelliott, as Vivie's astute but caddish suitor, tosses off witticisms with appealing insouciance. But for all the fun, there's grief at the story's center: Mrs. Warren may have saved herself, but her daughter remains forever out of reach.

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C.S.

"Mrs. Warren's Profession," The Chandler Studio Theatre Center, 12443 Chandler Blvd., North Hollywood. 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, 3 p.m. Sundays. Ends Aug. 24. $22. Contact: (800) 838-3006. Running time: 2 hours.

Reenacting comedic history

Los Angeles audiences of the late 1970s and early '80s roared whenever the War Babies comedy collective went to work. These quick-thinking performers would improvise mini-dramas and even micro-operas, in between the ever-popular rehearsed sketches that they referred to as their set pieces.

History is hard to re-create, however, as witnessed in a show that sets out to revisit "The Works of War Babies." This isn't a reunion of the original group, which most famously included Peter Riegert and Caren Kaye. Rather, it's a sampler of nearly 20 of the group's set pieces, reanimated by new performers under the guidance of original member Renny Temple.

The excitement of these pieces -- as can only be imagined by those of us not fortunate enough to have experienced the originals -- would have derived largely from the electricity arcing between comedians in creative hyper-drive and an awestruck audience. But at the Complex, the new performers work from a script, a constraint that shuts off some of the power.

The setups include an Old West saloon fight in which the actors generate their own sound effects, a visit to Rodgers and Hammerstein as they test-run some humorously awful lyrics that prefigure the timeless final versions, and two women encountering a succession of singularly repulsive men at a singles bar. Between scenes, the War Babies' history is mapped, and faux testimonials are delivered, via video, by Garry Marshall, Joel Zwick and Norman Lear.

Performers Gwendolyn Druyor, Brian Girard, Sy Ozcan, Matt Ryan, Robert Scheid, Jessica Kaye Temple and Diana Toshiko specialize in a nice assortment of character types: the brain, the schlub, the firecracker and so on.