WHILE MOST AMERICANS in the 1970s have lost the capacity to feel rage, or at least to express it openly with any amount of integrity, Edward Albee has consistently infused his work with an unsparing timeless fury, an articulate anger that refuses to eschew the audience. The free-flowing profanities in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? no longer shock as in the sixties but engage attention and accent the sardonic humor strung across two of the play's three grueling acts.

Somehow Albee tilts the measure of his language just off center from the expected so that the concepts bandied about by his characters remain far enough removed, somewhere obliquely out of reach enough to be nearly mystical. In this way Who's Afraid challenges the audience, and when coupled with the barebelly truth of a guts-and-gore-go-for-the-jugular brand of marital warfare, it conjures up fears and claws at the conscience of anyone who hopes to improve their lot in life.

Simply put, the main action of the play is the emasculation of a prototype New England small college professor of history as performed by his wife followed shortly thereafter by her emotional annihilation. Round after round of George vs. Martha actively involves Nick and Honey, a young married couple who spend the entire evening entertained by their baffling hosts. They are introduced to such favorite American pastimes as "Get the Guests" and "Hump the Hostess". Honey hasn't the stomach for the escapades and finally curls up in a fetal position on the bathroom floor. While Nick has leapt, feet first, into an upstairs bedroom with Martha, George pulls a volume from a shelf of his extensive library and reads: "And the west, encumbered by crippling alliances, and burdened with a morality too rigid to accomodate itself to the swing of events, must...eventually...fall.' (Such is the nature of Albee's eclectic style), whereupon he shuts the book, shouts to the ceiling, "That's it! Go at it!" and plots his revenge, which ultimately amounts to no more than announcing to Martha, once she re-descends to the living room, that a son they never had, their mythical child, has been killed in an auto accident. When Martha demands proof of the absurd claim, George tells her he ate the telegram that bore the news and Honey corroborates his story. Martha is broken by the realization. And the guests leave.

The improbable becomes the norm in Albee's hands. Even when he seems to violate the plausible, he doesn't break the dramatic spell, but enhances it by adding to the brutel vacuity of the situation. And always the play does not depend solely on grotesque twists of plot for its effect. Albee's mastery of the English language at times can disper any incredulity with its beauty.

What is most evident in the production now playing in Boston is that in the end and through it all George and Martha really do love each other. This is something that has not always been evident in other productions of the play, but Albee, who directs the Boston production himself, has made it very clear that even the most banal exchanges can be invested with deep affection.

Colleen Dewhurst and Ben Gazzara as Martha and George leer endearingly throughout with maddening control, periodically exploding barrages of verbal fire into vulnerable areas. Their conspiratorial magic transforms metaphysical ping-pong into a cooing and spitting that is pleasing to watch. Richard Kelton as Nick embodies the American Dream to a tee and he plays it with telling emphasis on the ruthlessness of youthful ambition. Maureen Anderman handles what is probably the most difficult role in the play without succumbing to the temptation of making Honey a one-dimensional hysteric.

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is the only worthwhile homegrown native son's work to be produced in Boston in this Bicentennial season of foreign imports (fireworks by Equus of England and South Africa's Sizwe Banzi is Dead). It survived a stormy infancy, including a Pulitzer abortion at birth in 1963 (nominated, then rejected for being offensive), early charges of obscenity and immorality, vicious rumors (Was the play really written for four homosexuals?) and callous adolescent pranks (an Elizabeth Taylor/Richard Burton movie version with more fangs than heart, 1966) to emerge as a classic of the American theater. The current production at the Colonial shows that passage through 15 controversial years has not dated the play, but enriched it.