THE DESIGN of Cocteau's plays has been compared to the sparing, classic style of the profiles drawn by Picasso. The words he uses are simple and conversational, there are no elusive metaphors or philosophical musings in his script. The set is almost monochromatic and completely uncluttered, the few props seem commonplace. But your attention focuses unexpectedly on these everyday objects and conversations as they gradually take on a bizarre importance: the plot hardly adds to the intrigue. Certain words and objects make the play, the way a one-dimensional black line lends form to Picasso's etchings, without the help of shadow or color.

The story in Cocteau's "tragedy" is essentially no different from the ancient Greek myth: the poet, Orpheus, retrieves his bride from the Underworld on the condition that he won't look into her face, or she'll die a second time. Of course he does--as the couple's guardian angel, Heurtebise, remarks quite matter-of-factly, "It was inevitable."

But, the playwright has modernized the drama just enough to give it a surrealistic tinge, which is more accessible to the audience than an old-fashioned mythology in touch with, and fearful of, nature and its spirits. His version allows for the modern mystery of technology. Death is represented as a gaunt, curt woman swathed in ascetic white and attended by two lackeys in surgeon's coats; they pull on rubber gloves before extracting Eurydice's soul. This woman exists in something like a different space and time warp from that of living beings, and she shifts out of her realm's "wavelength of seven and range of seven to twelve" electronically.

The Underworld, or hell, is entered through a mirror instead of over the river Styx. The two are similar, but the symbolism of Cocteau's approach is more explicit and eccentric. He imbues a pretty mundane object the mirror with suggestive properties at the moment when you no longer possess an image when you can't be reflected, you're dead Similarly. Orpheus's bloody head-- lopped off by the Bacchantes--turns into a marble bust when it's propped on a pedestal. There are plenty of strange transformations in this play, and they mingle the whimsy of Alice in Wonderland with the more exotic invocation of classical mythology.

A COMIC STREAK spikes the play, and often parodies the deathly drama Heurtebise, being an angel, is fairly immune to tragedy, so he can draw laughter without seeming indiscreet. When Orpheus returns from hell, the angel hustles to his side in breathless anticipation, exclaiming that he's "dying to hear about your trip!" Some of Heurtebise's lines could easily fall flat when the humor wanes transparent, but A.S. Birsh never leaves you in doubt as to his character's utter naivete, and the risky bits slip by quite smoothly.

At least once, however, the comic play on words has been diluted by Jennifer Marre's translation. Eurydice first suspects Heurtebise of supernatural qualities when she spies him hanging in mid-air, and demands that he explain this "miracle." To calm her he comments that "Things do lie at times. At the fair I saw a naked woman walking along the ceiling." But, she retorts, "This was not done with mirrors." Cocteau's French text has her say that the feat has "nothing to do with a machine." Machines, in this case, suggest the surreal aspects of the play more directly, anticipating the striking automatism of Death. Machines convey more than a link to the inhuman realm of the mirror; they also elaborate on the idea that the contemporary world has tried to preserve some fascination and belief in the supernatural by turning to technological miracles.

Heurtebise's presence is often quite a relief in this production, as it manages to counteract the strained sense of tragedy Steven Crist insists on projecting through Orpheus. Regardless of the situation. Crist speaks in the same strident, anguished voice, which, predictably, soon grows monotonous. The play needs some contrast to the gentility of Heurtebise and the coy good nature of Eurydice, but Orpheus fails to provide that balance--harshly disrupting the triangle of their relationship, instead.

CANDACE BROOK, as Eurydice, tends to purse her lips into a little pout when she's not talking--as though keeping still annoys her. She portrays a charming wife, whose dialogue compensates for her insipidity. Admittedly, there's not much time in this snatch of a story for nuance in personalities. Perhaps that's why the comic characters come off best--they each have a bundle of idiosyncrasies to lean on. Heurtebise, clad in blue overalls, shuffles around in a loose-ankled, slightly pigeon-toed walk, with his hands clasped tightly against his waist. The unworldly astonishment never fades from his pudgy face. A natty clerk displays an uninspiredly clever knack for his work that his pompous boss lacks, and briefly supplants the others with an act verging on slapstick. Fortunately, he reins the performance in before the proportions of his minor character become too inflated.

The last scene in Orpheus depicts the trio of principal characters sitting down to lunch--in heaven. They have finally broken with pagan spirits and earthly profanity. Orpheus says a few words to God, and Heurtebise offers to pour the wine. The poet stops him from lifting the bottle, saying that Eurydice should serve, and the audience titters for an instant. Once more, Orpheus's plaintive tone prompts a misinterpretation. Apparently the audience grasped the anti-feminist sentiment.

There is enough ambiguity in Jean Cocteau's writing to let you fill in your own meanings. Still, a play's last moment shouldn't be entirely disjointed. The Loeb Ex version is good fun, but don't lose track of the script's peculiar artifice if your lover drags you down there.