The Smell of the Kill
Intiman Theatre, Seattle Center, 269-1900.
Wed-Sun, call for times; $23.50-$42. Through Aug 5.

You may think your middle-aged, middle-of-the-road parents are nice people. That backyard barbecues are fun. Or that golf is a pleasant way to get exercise in the company of friends. Oh, for Christ's sake--wake up! You couldn't be more mistaken. The suburban dream has gone horribly wrong! Haven't you watched American Beauty? Read John Cheever? No? I see you are going to need a remedial lesson to catch up with the rest of the class. I strongly recommend you attend the pitch-black comedy The Smell of the Kill to learn these simple but vital lessons:

1. Men and women are enemies.

2. Babies, though prone to unpleasant vomiting, are essential to a woman's sense of self and sanity.

3. Therefore, after making the babies with the men, it is acceptable to murder the men.

The talented cast of women dig their manicured nails delightedly into Michele Lowe's wonderfully absurd, concise script about a group of longtime women friends whose philandering, embezzling, and abusive husbands accidentally trap themselves in a meat locker in the basement, the metaphor of their frozen hearts made hilariously literal.

After a desultory search for the key, the hostess--a lean blonde with a weary film noir demeanor--alights on the perfect plan to free them all from their matrimonial chains: Leave the Bambi-blasting boors to their icy fates. Over the course of the evening, as their menfolk turn to frozen sperm samples, they bicker and agonize over the proper course of action, painfully peeling away the facade of lies that disguise their dissatisfaction--and in the process, stripping off their oh-so-proper attire, revealing lingerie so frivolous and optimistic you can't help but cheer for the ladies. If you're having trouble swallowing the bitter truth about America's dark heart, I recommend you partake of this play. It's bite-sized, sugarcoated, and maybe, just maybe, it can help to save your soul. And it's so short that by the time you're getting bored with it, it's over. TAMARA PARIS

The Yeomen of the Guard
Seattle Gilbert & Sullivan Society at the Bagley Wright Theater at Seattle Center, 341-9612.
Thurs-Sat at 8 (Sat matinee at 2); $24 general, $15 seniors. Through July 29.

Walking into the lobby was a little like stepping into a Victorian-era Star Trek convention. Old friends who hadn't seen each other since "last year's event" slapped each other on the back. Photos from previous Gilbert & Sullivan Society shows lined the walls. A few bored-looking teenage boys in ties sulked in loose orbits around their parents. If you already enjoy Gilbert & Sullivan, or their Seattle-based Society, the big flaws in The Yeomen of the Guard probably won't seem so glaring. But to a G&S novice who doesn't share the nostalgia or ready-made love for musical theater's diaphanous duo, it was a painful introduction. I'm sorry, Gilbert & Sullivan Society--but Yeomen is a yawn.

The story is complex, but superficial--two schemes to aid Fairfax, wrongly imprisoned for sorcery in the Tower of London, collide. One secures his escape, the other involves marrying him off before his execution in order to prevent a wicked cousin from inheriting his estate. Things go madcap. Yeomen, however, stumbles toward its finale. The pace of the dialogue stuttered, and performances were wildly inconsistent, but that's none too surprising. According to playbill biographies, the Society is a mishmash of professionals and part-time amateurs--something like a Civil War re-enactment society, except in the Bagley Wright Theater instead of some field in central Virginia.

There were a few good moments: Jeff Caldwell's Jack Point was playfully sharp and energetic, and the strong-voiced Lori Eger as Dame Carruthers, the Tower's housekeeper, kept a comically grim stage presence--but it's not enough to recommend Yeomen. The Society does its annual best to keep G&S alive, and judging by attendance, some folks appreciate this. I can imagine Yeomen as fluffy but entertaining fare in less mediocre circumstances, but, to quote Shadbolt, the jailer/ tormentor, "it is much less painful on the whole/to go and sit on red-hot coals." BRENDAN KILEY

Saltimbanco
Cirque du Soleil's big white tent is next to the Renton Boeing plant, off exit 5 on I-405.
Call 800-675-5440 for tickets and information. Closes Aug 13.

The show has its faults: Most of the music is some godawful combination of 1980s prog-rock and world music; there are a few dance sequences that look like they were edited out of a Michael Jackson video; and too many of the costumes look like they were designed by the makers of My Pretty Pony and Rainbow Brite. And there's some questionable stuff--like, why are the pair of female flamenco dancers presented by a character whose outfit can only be described as "gaucho-pimp"?

But otherwise, Cirque du Soleil lived up to its reputation. Saltimbanco opened with some good-natured audience humiliation, with clowns frisking attendees, stealing their shirts, and lasciviously shining their bald heads. Aside from a brief fire exit announcement at the beginning, none of the alternating Masters of Ceremonies spoke any English, babbling instead in a mixture of French and gibberish. Brightly colored performers climbed up poles, juggled, or walked a double high wire; clowns rushed on and off, dashing off bits of classic buffoonery. In particular, one clown did an extremely funny routine in which he orally created sound effects for things like opening doors and a variety of athletic activities.

But the second act really got amazing. Using something called a Russian swing, clowns launched themselves into the air, landing with a thump on a big cushion. Though probably not the most difficult feat, this was the high point for me. Nothing compares with the sheer joy of performers soaring and tumbling through the air. Then came some superb trapeze work; a couple of ambiguously homoerotic muscleboys in matching hair and outfits did lifts and handstands off each other's heads; the sound-effects clown returned and pulled a member of the audience onstage for a cowboy shoot-out; and the routine with bungee cords can genuinely be described as breathtaking. Stuff like this defies criticism. It's just fun. BRET FETZER