‘Toys in Attic’ in Topanga; ‘Marilyn’ at New Playwrights; Stoppard Works at 21st Street; ‘Double Stander’ed’ in Santa Monica; ‘Bacchae’ in Culver City

The Theatricum Botanicum, in a fecund Topanga Canyon ravine, is the perfect place to see Greek tragedy, down to the amphitheater seating. Though none of the Greeks are being staged this summer, at least we have Lillian Hellman’s American version of Greek tragedy, “Toys in the Attic.”

Any Theatricum production reminds us of the power of what might be called the Theater of Place: The environment in which a play is enacted should positively and aesthetically reinforce the play itself. (The Topanga setting would be a wonderful place to see The Bread and Puppet Theatre.) It’s a balance of elements, though. What happens to a domestic drama if it has to contend with a nighttime, Pacific Ocean chill?

Heidi Helen Davis’ staging doesn’t find the solution to this real problem (my companion had a scarf wrapped around her face by intermission). But it isn’t just a matter of cold air; as the tragedy unfolds, much of the story’s vitality drops along with the temperature.

Hellman’s observations about siblings Anne, Carrie and Julian Berniers are always literary, sometimes mannered and only occasionally emotional (Kate, Ellen and Thad Geer in a clever bit of sibling casting). Julian’s demise, fueled by entrepreneurial naivete and a gambler’s self-destructive streak, is quite evidently built-in, and all loving efforts by his addle-pated wife Lily (Laura Wernette) only dig his grave a little deeper.

By the time the third act winds down (this production combines the last two acts, incorrectly calling it “Act II, Scenes One and Two”), it is hard to care for this damaged family. This 1960 play, following in the wake of Miller’s, Inge’s and Williams’ greatest tragedies, has neither their taut structure, unforgettable characters nor deep moral outrage.

But it would help if we could hear the Geer sisters, who began to swallow their lines later Saturday night, and if someone could corral Wernette’s wilting-violet line delivery. Thad Geer’s Julian is all-American, but in a strangely empty sort of way. Irene Roseen’s Albertine is consummate Hellman, squeezing every juicy line to the last drop.

At 1419 Topanga Canyon Blvd., Topanga, on Fridays and Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sept. 10 and 17, 3 p.m., until Sept. 17. Tickets: $4-$12; (213) 455-2322.

‘Marilyn . . . In Her Own Words’

The allure of Marilyn Monroe continues, with a new one-woman show, “Marilyn . . . In Her Own Words,” at the New Playwrights’ Foundation Theatre. It’s clearly becoming an attraction with diminishing returns.

The exploitative depictions of her haiku-like career are a cultural joke, without any of the subversive jolts of a Kenneth Anger. Greg Thompson’s script is at the opposite end of the spectrum: respectful to the icon and the human being. But as with most anti-exploitation responses (especially about stars), “Marilyn” becomes more of a fan’s tribute than an artist’s.

For example, as we watch Julie Miller’s Marilyn pose for the camera (nice flash snapshot images by lighting designer Guido Girardi, who also did the mock-photo studio set), we also hear her revealing her innermost thoughts and desires.

It’s an old issue about Monroe’s split between her willingness to sell herself as a sex object, and her maturing awareness of the evils of that and of wanting to really act. Yet the play doesn’t address this split head-on until long after it has built up her goddess image.

A good, meaningful play on Monroe should, and the reason Thompson’s doesn’t is because he has patched together passages from her unpublished autobiography and other documents, letting her tell her own story. (In the program, Thompson is given a writer’s credit, but this is misleading. He is the compiler; Monroe was the writer.) Monroe’s burst of consciousness lags behind the audience’s.

Miller, from certain angles, looks and sounds eerily like the screen siren, under Sheri Myers’ direction. But the personal tragedy is severely blunted by Thompson’s worst instincts as a fan.

At 6111 Olympic Blvd. on Thursdays through Saturdays, 8 p.m. Tickets: $15; (213) 465-0070.

‘Dirty Linen’ and ‘New-Found-Land’

It’s a shock to discover that Tom Stoppard wrote two forgettable nothings like “Dirty Linen” and “New-Found-Land,” right after his brilliant 1974 comedy “Travesties.” It would be nice to see “Travesties” again.

Seeing the one-acts at the 21st Street Theatre is almost too much. Stoppard was going for some kind of satire of a Thatcherized parliament, where blue nose MPs are holding a commission meeting on the sexual conduct of their colleagues, while at the same time flirting with the commission’s secretary (Teri LaPorte).

During a meeting break, in wander a couple of truly brain-scrambled politicians (Carl Walsh and Jack Harrell) who end up opining about America. This is “New-Found-Land” and it is easy to call it a Stoppard doodle.

Break’s over, and we’re back in “Dirty Linen,” which sinks in the quicksand of comedic obviousness. Only LaPorte has the farceur’s instincts to rise above Niki Merrigan’s clumsy direction. Gary Hart’s escapades were funnier than this.

At 11350 Palms Blvd. on Fridays and Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 7 p.m., until Sept. 18. Tickets: $5-$8; (213) 827-5655.

‘Double Stander’ed’

We are told in the program for “Double Stander’ed,” two one-acts at the Santa Monica Playhouse, that playwright Jay Randy Stander is also a poet and lyricist. In the second piece, “Empathy,” that poetic tendency gets the better of sound dramatics.

Part of this has to do with characters we can meet halfway. Alice and George are as peculiar a married couple as you’re likely to run into for awhile (Lisa Figueroa and Dalton Younger). She likes to spend her days weeding the yard and rhapsodizing about it; he mulls over his fears and desires to change his life while staring into a mirror. They’re not funny enough to be winning, nor stylized enough to be interesting. The result is highly overwritten dialogue in search of a truly absurdist voice.

That’s not to be confused with sheer nonsense, which both this and the opener, “Urban Rock,” indulge in. A nervous and paranoid sculptor (Gary Matanky) finds a huge rock outside his front door. His crude pal (Matti Leshem), it turns out, delivered it, thinking he might get inspired. What’s really at stake is Matanky getting over his phobia of going outside.

The stakes are never believable, and the highly protracted exchanges and attempts at comic action (Barrie Nedler’s direction is quite blurred) don’t compel our attention. The acting throughout gives Stander’s odd people a human face, but without an echo.

At 1211 4th St., Santa Monica, on Wednesdays only, 8 p.m., until Sept. 14. Tickets: $10-$12; (213) 394-9779.

‘The Bacchae’

How Theatre in the Park will manage to pull off Tom Stoppard’s “Dogg’s Hamlet” this weekend in Culver City’s Carlson Park is anyone’s guess. It’s a far cry from Euripidean tragedy, but last weekend’s staging of “The Bacchae” was not a good sign of things to come.

The basic themes of Dionysus (Christopher Nixon) returning to assert his primacy over human city-states and a petty dictator (Kyle Steven Miller), and of the powerful role played by women in this spiritual revolution, was clear enough in David Catanzarite’s production. Poor casting and the once-trendy, now-wearisome habit of spicing up the classics with hip ‘80s business, made this a weak introduction to the Greek masters for youngsters (there were a lot of them last Saturday).

At Motor and Braddock streets, Culver City. “Dogg’s Hamlet” on Saturday and Sunday only, 2 p.m. Free ; bring a blanket or chair.