Through Dec 6. Bertolt Brecht, that old Marxist windbag, intended two revolutions in theater. First, to always teach a political lesson. Second, to keep audiences aware that they're in a theater, allowing them enough emotional distance from the play to reflect on and learn that lesson.

The Caucasian Chalk Circle is a great example of Brecht's twin aims--a rambling, proletariat-loving parable of coups and counter-coups, greedy warmongers, and a Solomon-like court case about possession of an abandoned royal infant. The production work by theater simple makes a good stab at Brecht's vision. Its seams are unapologetically visible. A clever, basic set moves the action from a mountain stream to a courtroom, with the six-person cast performing an original score while suggesting dozens of characters with little more than hats, sashes, and puppets. At times, the production seemed too thinly spread and exhausted, but by the second act the show hit its stride, nailing the comedic and climactic courtroom drama.

True to their reputation, the folks at theater simple have delivered a convincing version of Brecht's epic with six people, a few instruments, and a ton of moxie. Their Circle isn't transcendent, but it's very, very good. BRENDAN KILEY

The House of Yes
Theater Schmeater

Through Dec 7. I won't go to tremendous lengths to justify my enjoyment and/or endorsement of Theater Schmeater's fine production of The House of Yes, even though one might logically question why, with a very deservedly popular cult movie (starring the incomparable Parker Posey and the highly comparable Tori Spelling) easily available at every corner videorama, it wouldn't be simpler to enjoy the DVD without risking the unpleasantries of parking, people, expense, and the danger of overall suckiness in production or acting.

But then I'd be forced to slap you.

True, very few actresses are gonna top Posey (though, to her credit, Erin Knight gave a delightfully mad performance as whacko, brother-lovin' sister Jackie-O, without resorting to pastiche). But The House of Yes was simply made for the theater (literally and figuratively); incest, raving lunatics in pink pillbox hats, loaded guns going off--there are more fabulous reasons to see this show live than you can shake a vintage magnum of Liebfraumilch at. And you simply haven't experienced the skin-crawly ooginess of brother-on-sister action or the anxiety of being trapped with a family of pill-popping socialite psychopaths until you've experienced it live. Celluloid is hardly flattered in comparison. ADRIAN RYAN

The Crumple Zone
Capitol Hill Arts Center

Through Dec 6. Five lovesick fags come crashing together in a splashy/flashy/über-trashy holiday montage of ennui, ass-sex, and way too much tinsel on that ironic damn aluminum Christmas tree there, Mary (crowned with a naked Ken doll where an angel should be, naturally). And the results could have been far worse. As far as FBPs (Fag Based Plays) are concerned, The Crumple Zone is a fun, mostly inoffensive affair, although it sure isn't afraid to occasionally wade up to its own pierced nipples in schmaltz. (Oh, how tortured are young homosexuals in love!)

Most of the laughs (and there are many) employ the basic gay sassy-quip-retort-repeat method--the sarcastic music of gay actors/waiters, in and out of amour. But in the end, this is a well-acted story about relationships (big gay ones) complete with a moral (or three): Fags are complicated and capricious, love leads to disaster, and bitchy alcoholic queens never get laid and whine about it endlessly. And somehow all of this makes for an adorable night of theater. Just trust me on this one. ADRIAN RYAN

Try
BetterBiscuitDance at Velocity MainSpace

Through Nov 23. Try, an evening of three dance pieces by BetterBiscuitDance, opens with Cover, a piece set to a series of cover songs--including a version of "Last Train to Clarksville" in which singer Cassandra Wilson reveals the song to be a heartbreaking request for a last meeting between two lovers, something I'd never realized from the Monkees' jaunty rendition. This sensation of peeling away layers pervaded the entire dance. As Cover unfolded I felt as if there was something not being shown to me, some other dance that this dance was somehow avoiding because it was too sad or angry or something--something that could only be suggested, not captured. And I say this about a work in which a dancer destroys a boom box with a baseball bat.

It's always impossible--and probably not even desirable--to know if what you perceive in a dance is what the choreographer intends, but I found Try unusually dense, mysterious, and vivid. The three pieces (potently supported by Meg Fox's color-saturated lighting design) sent my mind in all directions, constantly suggesting characters, relationships, and stories that were never quite explicable, always just out of reach. Until recently, I've found BetterBiscuit's work pretty but bland; either I wasn't paying attention or choreographers Freya Wormus and Alex Martin have found their voices in a new and unexpected way. BRET FETZER