‘CUCKOO’: AN AMERICAN IN VENICE : ‘TIME OF THE CUCKOO’: AN AMERICAN IN VENICE

“The Time of the Cuckoo,” by Arthur Laurents, asks us to believe in the mutual attraction between a single, middle-aged American tourist (Marion Ross) and a suave, unhappily married Italian shopkeeper (Cesare Danova). I didn’t believe it in Gene Nelson’s staging at La Mirada Civic Theatre.

The fault lies more with the 1951 script than with these actors. This “brief encounter” never seems organic; it exists primarily to demonstrate how closed-minded Americans are, compared to the free-thinking Italians. Not only is this a dubious thesis; it’s also a trivial one. It isn’t worth the 150 minutes that it takes for this play to unwind.

Ironically, the American is the more developed character, and Ross is equally adept at her first-act banter and her second act tantrum. Danova doesn’t venture far from the stereotype, and--like most of the actors--he was sometimes difficult to understand from my seat near the back of the orchestra. Tanya George, Cameron Young and Michael Bacall capably handled the better supporting roles.

Steve Lavino’s set and Raun Yankovich’s lights make Venice look like something out of a fairy tale--no pollution allowed here--and Luanna Van Holten’s sound design adds to the illusion.

Performances are at 14900 La Mirada Blvd., Tuesdays through Saturdays at 8 p.m., Sundays at 7:30 p.m., with Saturday and Sunday matinees at 2:30 p.m., through Jan. 26 (714-994-6310 or 213-944-9801).

‘DREAM MAN’

In the age of AIDS, aural sex is becoming increasingly popular. For a fee (all major credit cards accepted), someone who could be thousands of miles away from you will call you up and lead you through a custom-made sexual fantasy.

The “Dream Man,” in James Carroll Pickett’s monologue that bears that title, makes his living this way. Sitting alone in his room late at night, he telephones his customers and talks dirty.

Christopher’s a pro. He keeps file cards on each customer’s preferences. Cassette player at his side, he plays carefully selected background music. As portrayed by Michael Kearns at the Skylight, he attacks each of his brief roles with all the resources of a skilled improvisatory actor.

You want Jesus in your fantasy? Are you interested in California surfers who think they’re straight? Whatever, Christopher knows what to do. He draws the line only at women and necrophiliacs.

In between fantasies, Christopher is depressed. His ex-lover, now a lush, calls up for mutual harangues. Christopher rings up his supervisor and badgers him for better leads (shades of “Glengarry Glen Ross”). When he’s not on the phone, he broods aloud about his lonely life and the gap between dreams and reality.

Christopher is on the brink of complete dehumanization, yet he resists going over the edge. Although the resolution of his struggle is slightly confusing, the tension that arises from it lifts “Dream Man” to a level that’s far above most staged monologues. It also helps that there’s a logical reason for Christopher to be talking so much--and so entertainingly--despite the absence of other on-stage characters. In this respect, Pickett has learned much since his “Bathhouse Benediction.”

Kearns gives a fascinating, full-throttle performance. Some of what he’s asked to do verges on the ridiculous (would he really clutch a working TV set to his bosom while lying on his back?), yet he’s convincing all the same.

Performances are at 1816 1/2 N. Vermont Ave., Sundays at 4 p.m. (213-874-3678).

‘CLOSE ENOUGH TO TOUCH’

Two strangers meet in a New York subway station (or on a Central Park bench), overcome initial hostility and forge a tentative bond. Any writer who’s dealing in such cliches had better come up with a new twist.

The tough Italian street kid and young, preppy woman in Robert Naturman’s “Close Enough to Touch” are in an abandoned subway station that apparently is some form of purgatory. This sounds like a novel angle. But rather than developing it, Naturman dwells first on their insults and then on their detente. Lines like “it’s OK to talk about your feelings with someone you trust” abound.

It’s all very unlikely and unsatisfying. Two casts alternate at the Flight Theatre, 6472 Santa Monica Blvd., Fridays and Saturdays at 8 and 10 p.m. (213-823-8275).