Objects & Underwear
New Work Ensemble at Northwest Actors Studio,
789-4307. Through Dec 8.

The New Work Ensemble performs most of Objects & Underwear in their briefs and panties, but the effect is more sweet and silly than salacious. NWE do a particular kind of physical comedy. At its best, you have 1920s silent films; at its worst, you have street-corner mimes. A mime will articulate a physical action so clearly that you see all of its component motions, and theoretically this allows tiny movements to go awry with comic magnification--but the mime will also make you painfully aware of how clever and skilled he is. Buster Keaton will do the same thing, but you see the action, not the technique--and the action is usually part of some amazingly ornate routine in which dozens of other things are going on too.

NWE is on the right track, but they're very minimalist. Something small and simple--a bicyclist tries to lean his bicycle against a wall while he's still on it, or a woman overladen with packages tries to open her umbrella by blowing into it--will be almost the entirety of a scene. Some scenes are working with a comic idea so wispy that it's as if nothing happened at all. But though I had only one genuine involuntary laugh in the whole show, I found myself laughing as a gesture of encouragement and appreciation; for even when the performers weren't exactly funny, they were still engaging. And what was funny is hard to describe--they'd follow an idea into almost mathematical permutations until they arrived at something that was simultaneously logical and nonsensical.

Director Rianne Reichner and her troupe are fledglings--their stage personae haven't yet achieved the focus and luminosity needed to make this stuff fly (though many are glowing with a sprightly phosphorescence). So seeing their work now requires some critical generosity. But when the 55-minute show was over, I was surprised; I thought less than half an hour had gone by. Whatever was or wasn't happening, it held my full attention. BRET FETZER

The Prince & The Pauper
5th Avenue Theatre, 292-ARTS.
Through Dec 15.

If you can manage to sit through this new musical and not crack a smile, not even once, then you need to get checked for a pulse. It's the classic tale of opposite worlds and switching places, resulting in chaos and lessons learned; there's cool costumes and lavish sets and a big, robust chorus; and there's a bunch of adorable kids in the cast. What's not to love?

Asher Monroe Book ("Prince Edward") and Cameron Bowen ("Tom Canty," the eponymous pauper), the two powerhouse pre-teens who carry this entire show, are young--they've both got clear, high voices, bony chests, and can still get away with wearing white tights--but make no mistake: This ain't no after-school special. Throughout the high-energy production (two hours long with only one brief intermission, so fussy toddlers = BAD IDEA), these boys display an enthusiasm and professionalism that would win over any musical theater snob. Book and Bowen's British accents are seamless and their comic timing is, and I'm not bullshitting, impeccable. There's a somehow-not-annoying precociousness about the two boys' performances that more than makes up for the occasional vocal flub. And even then, there are graceful saves from the orchestra and supporting adults. Marc Kudisch, Stacia Fernandez, and Perry L. Brown (a regal, baritone-licious King Henry) provide ample, satisfying schmaltz as their polished Broadway voices fill the 5th Avenue with power ballads, à la Les Mis or The Scarlet Pimpernel.

Obviously, don't miss the point entirely and show up to The Prince & The Pauper expecting to find Shockheaded Peter. This is cheerful, earnest, G-rated stuff (the lone reference to sex is dubbed "sweeping her chimney," much to the audience's giggly delight), and you will enjoy it. A lot. And I promise I'm not being ironic. MIN LIAO

A Very Reggie X-Mas
On the Boards, 217-9888.
Through Dec 16.

Like the momentary beauty of a single snowflake or the excruciating pain of childbirth, Reggie Watts' inscrutably insane holiday sketch show is difficult to describe. But because it made me snort loudly and openly weep hot tears of mirth, I'm going to give it a try. Seated next to a pitifully flimsy fireplace in his robe and slippers, Watts plays the good-natured though doddering (possibly demented?) host of a television show being taped before a live audience (his name is Charles Fredmensenjenson, or maybe it's Fredstermonson?). During the course of the evening he receives visits from a mailman bearing both useless gifts and homoerotic holiday bluster. "An enigma," Watts mutters thoughtfully after enduring another harangue about "Santa's enormous balls." He unwraps a VHS tape boasting 600 uncensored minutes of "Elves Gone Wild" (inexplicably addressed to "Mr. Pie and Cake"). He showcases guest dancers--a pair of Solid Gold hopefuls gyrating obscenely to Journey. And he proudly introduces the cast of the number-one-rated sitcom, Roomies, with their much-anticipated season finale--complete with a laugh track, a meddling landlord, and a politically correct heckler planted in the second row. I should mention that fresh-faced Christian teen terrorists, commercials for laser beams imbedded under your skin, and the phrase "Kwanzaa juice" also figure prominently in the anarchic proceedings.

Granted, this is not a fresh Christmas conceit; the queer classic Pee-Wee's Playhouse: Christmas Special, The Dina Martina Christmas Show, and the brilliant Bill Murray flick Scrooged all boast the post-post-post-modern trick of a holiday show within a holiday show. But, dammit, it works! Though I must confess that what makes this evening so funny (besides the energetic acrobatics of the committed cast) is the largely improvised flummery of Watts. Trust me, this guy's as funny as a fruitcake and packed with twice as many nuts. TAMARA PARIS