Hardly comes to mind. Does it?

The door you didn't try

Where would it have led?

Twigs considers a handful of the alternatives, and its answers lie not so much in the rather simple-minded determinism of its title but in the resonance which each act creates in that which succeeds it.

There is a wealth of low-key truths lurking in Furth's play--for here, unlike in a Simon comedy, you don't see the gags being cranked out and tossed at you; the revelations instead seem to slip out as if by mistake--which Sada Thompson manages beautifully. Her characterizations are triumphs of inflection. You never for a minute doubt that her women are all relatives under the skin, yet there is never any danger of the four characters melting into one. All the men involved--particularly Oakland, Bain and Haines--approach their roles with a similar respect for the tribulations of the middle class, although in the case of Coster the results are possibly too casual to force the latecomers to hurry to their seats.

Michael Bennet--who's here making the leap from choreographer to director--has had the courage to let Furth's text speak for itself. In one or two cases, he shows he has the ability deftly to pull off an elaborate visual joke, but mostly he simply allows his actors to sit and talk, a jarringly natural kind of talk that can be rivetting in its lack of pretense. Furth does manage to slip in one or two aphorisms, but generally he wisely settles for just those chuckles of recognition this cast is skilled at eliciting.

I guess then I've backed myself into a rave. A curious position, indeed, since Furth's object is so designedly a minor one. Twigs should prosper from its two weeks here in Boston--for, at present, it's not without moments that are almost too transparently simple as well as two scenes (I and III) a trifle underdeveloped. But then Twigs asks so little from life, what it accomplishes it ends up accomplishing in a very big sort of way.

Mea Culpa Dept: In Saturday's review of Black Comedy, I incorrectly suggested that its author, Peter Shaffer, could also claim title to Slouth, I was wrong. Slouth was written by Anthony Shaffer, Peter's twin brother I am told. But then you know those Britishers, they all do sound alike.