I AM ALWAYS curious to see who stands to applaud at the end of a performance. After reviewing countless shows, I have learned that Seattle audiences are easy and will basically stand and cheer for any performer who didn't puke all over themselves or choke up, burst into tears, and run off stage during the performance. At the end of In Real Life, I gauged that about half of the audience stood for the ovation. And that about sums up this show.

This is the third autobiographical one-woman show written and performed by accomplished actress Charlayne Woodard (you might recognize her from Roseanne, or maybe Unbreakable, the new Bruce Willis flick). The egotism involved in producing three--count em', THREE--full-length shows about your life is stultifying. You must lead an outrageously interesting life. Or think you do. With Charlayne Woodard, it's a little bit of both.

Woodard is a good performer. All she had to do was walk on stage and the audience erupted in applause. She hadn't done a damn thing, but she has what you call presence--and so much of it that it warrants some kind of response. But this doesn't necessarily mean that the events of her life are so fascinating that they deserve my undivided attention for two hours.

In Real Life chronicles Woodard's early years in New York City, fresh out of college and looking to pursue a career as a "serious" actor. The scenario is pretty much the typical struggling-actress cliché: cruddy tenement apartment in the East Village, long series of rejections, unemployed writer boyfriend. After a series of relatively predictable misadventures, Woodard lands a roll in the Broadway production of Ain't Misbehavin'. But while the situation tends toward the cliché, there is something definitely uncliché about Woodard. She is not your typical driven, succeed-at-any-cost actress. In fact, Woodard is practically a saint.

For instance, while her wannabe writer boyfriend is busy waiting tables, she is gallivanting about with Winston, a Rastafarian playwright she meets at a party. Her pants are obviously pounding for this man, and she describes him in glowing terms. She spends far more time discussing him than her long-suffering boyfriend (I think his name was Harris), and she's obviously smitten. But never is there even a hint of the sexual relationship that more than likely occurred between them. Woodard would never stoop to that. Then there was the silly, very "after school special" drug scene in which Woodard--who never, ever does drugs, thank you--is persuaded to take one hit off a joint and ends up in convulsions on the kitchen floor. I half expected Nancy Reagan to come out and give a public-service announcement. And far from fighting tooth and nail to win a roll in the most highly coveted show on Broadway, why, Woodard just fell--whoops--right into it! It wasn't cold drive or ambition! Why, she didn't even really want the part! Why, gosh, darn, heck, she couldn't even DANCE! How FUNNY! She didn't mean to be a great big ol' STAR! Really! Please.

I suspect Woodard made her character completely sympathetic--and unbelievable--in order to downplay the egotism of her third autobiographical monologue. If Woodard is a Pollyanna who just falls into stardom, people in the audience are less likely to roll their eyes and think "megalomaniac." I didn't buy it. The quality of her acting--which was very good, actually--might have compensated for this silliness. That is, until "the moment of shit."

"The moment of shit" is any part of a dramatic performance that sinks to its most obvious and manipulative level--a moment that leaves you rolling your eyes and moaning. Halfway through act two there was suddenly, out of nowhere really, a character named Paul. He and Woodard went disco hopping. She asks Paul how many men he has slept with. He responds glibly about his rabid promiscuity. There is a pause. A very. Dramatic. Pause.

"The next morning Paul collapsed." I am certain you could hear my teeth grinding throughout the theater. She just had to toss in the smarmy four-minute public-service announcement on AIDS. It pushed me right over the edge.

I would never argue that Charlayne Woodard is not a fine actress or has not led an interesting life. It's the integrity of her story that I question.