Who is Professor Edward Chambers, anyway?

He must be an important figure in Barry Forman's new play, The Chambers, which opened at the Ex Saturday night; a Harvard law student named Robert Wake interrupts his return from France just to stop at Chambers' vast ancient house and talk with the famous professor. But Wake is entangled by Chambers' strange family and finds himself slipping farther and farther away from the interview he desires. Chambers never appears, and Wake finally loses his way in the labyrinthine corridors of the decaying mansion, unable to escape.

Suspecting a symbol, we set Chambers equal to God. And why not? The label fits as well as any other. Chambers is a judge who spends his time "writing laws," according to his wife, Elizabeth. His mother Mary is a violently possessive hag who wears a massive wooden cross around her neck. Apparently, Sunday is Chambers' favorite day. Many other students have searched for him, but he is inaccessible. What could be more perfect?

Then Chambers' mother-in-law, Mme. Rene, his wife, and his daughter Conny become succubi--a group of seductive demons who have usurped the place of a weakening Deity. Mary is a priestess, and Jay Samson, another law student who is living in the house, is a lost soul who has surrendered to evil. Jean Rene, Mme. Rene's husband, is an old soldier who detests Chambers' (or God's) aversion to violence. Now we have every character in the play crammed into a neat, symbolic, gift-wrapped package, with Wake's last words as a decorative bow: "Where in Hell am I?"

But The Chambers is one of those fortunate plays that can stand without this sort of legerdemain. Forman has written, directed, and acted in a production so uniformly excellent that it can be enjoyed without looking for anything beyond what is happening on stage.

The Chambers is an extraordinarily well-balanced play. It ranges from sight gags to Baudelaire, from terror to frivolity, with admirable ease. Despite several overlong scene changes that run the play to two and a half hours, Forman keeps the action moving skillfully. He sends the actors winding in and out of Patty Grimes' sets with only candles for light, suggesting the endless passages in the enormous house. He keeps Wake waiting at the house's gate for at least two minutes until the student's unease spreads to the audience.

In addition to his other duties, Forman was forced to play the part of Mary, replacing the hospitalized Peggy Auchinloss on a day's notice. Although the audience regrettably seemed unable to forget Forman's maleness, he did a creditable job.

Aili Paal as Conny, the youngest of the spiderish triumvirate intent on consuming Wake, is a sweet-faced leering, strutting, impish, delightful horror. Her mimicry of Jean's war story is hilarious. Her mother Elizabeth, played by Diana Allen, is an equally fine variation on the French sex-killer archetype. Together, they crawl all over Wake like a pair of black widows. Jaimie Rosenthal, as Mme. Rene, skillfully portrays a more mellow arachnid, whose venomous charm has degenerated into mere tittering.

Peter Brooks, as Wake, gives an admirable performance as the perplexed, Peter Sellersish student, although he appears to tire near the end of along, arduous part. Andrew Cohen, as Jean, is a little too robust for a senile poilu, but effective nevertheless. James Pike's underplaying as Samson contrasts nicely with the extravagant gestures and postures of Elizabeth.

Tison Street has written and played an appropriately eerie entr'acte.