ON A TYPICAL DAY in Hazelhurst, Mississippi, life to an outsider would seem pretty uneventful. There's the Junior League brunch to attend if you're deemed part of the "in" crowd, and possibly a get-together with the neighbors down he block. All in all though, things aren't too lively, and residents often become defensive about "big city life." Hazelhurst comparatively seems pretty dull. Yet Hazelhurst, Mississippi, like Faulkner's Yacknapatapha County and the backwoods settings of Eudora Welty's short stories, has a character and quality uniquely its own. And although its citizens and its history give the facade of being just another southern town. Hazelhurst residents still have aspirations, feelings, sensibilities and insights. The ability to bring these emotions to life in a stark and real way--devoid of northeast condescension and disdain--is what has enabled the so called genre of southern literature to flourish for nearly a decade.

Few playwrights however, have managed to successfully capture the Southern experience the way Beth Henley does in Crimes of the Heart. If Henley imitates her predecessors thematically in presenting southerners "as they are," she adds a refreshing dimension to the genre.

A good deal of the play's success hinges upon Henley's ability to subtly intertwine comedy with serious and problematical issues. Although the play revolves to a great extent around a present and history of tragic events--suicide, sterility, lost dreams--no one could confuse Crimes of the Heart with 'Night, Mother or Shadow Box. The play is first and foremost a comedy and with rare exceptions, even the pain and introspection come across with a humorous edge.

Much of what keeps the audience laughing--in spite of a lukewarm first act--is simply the outrageous, if implausible, predicaments each of the characters finds herself in. Babe (Cyd Quilling) the youngest, is guilty of shooting her husband because she didn't like his looks. Lenny (Caryn West), the eldest, feels incapable of consummating a relationship with a man because one of her ovaries is missing. Doc Porter (Tom Stechschulte), the debonair neighbor, suffers from a limp as a result of his roof caving in. The bizarre nature of the situation--bordering on the absurd--would make any audience uncertain whether laughter or tears are appropriate.

Crimes of the Heart won critical acclaim in New York when it opened on Broadway in 1981 and has snared virtually every prestigious dramatic award: Pulitzer Prize, the New York Drama Critics' Award, four Tony nominations, two Obie Awards and three Drama Desk nominations. Yet this overwhelming reputation actually takes the edge off the solid performance at the Schubert. Crimes of the Heart has no major direction or casting flaws. In fact, several members of the cast--most notably Kathy Danzer, who debuted in the original Broadway production--stand out. But minor errors in direction, compounded by the actors' all too frequent tendency to play for audience effect, keep the play from reaching its potential.

One basic problem is predictability. In an effort to constantly remind the audience that this play is a comedy in spite of serious themes, director James Pentecost creates an array of comic types rather than individuals. Lenny, for example, try convince us that she is old and that life is passing her by, repeatedly draws out each of her lines, but the result seems more like a six-year-old whining. Pentecost also tries to make Babe appear naively infantile. But what emerges instead is simply a ridiculous airhead who becomes not only unconvincing but predictable. By Act III, as we wait for Lenny to whine and Babe to act spacy, the play loses its initial spontaneity.

NO ONE can help laughing at Babe's thwarted attempts to hang herself with knitting yarn, or at the speculation over Lenny's secret rendezvous with a Tennessee gentleman. Yet simultaneously, both scenes arouse pity--a comic pathos that only a perceptive and talented playwright like Henley could achieve.

And while the play is undeniably designed to elicit laughter over tears it is not without a message. The importance of family fealty operates aa a recurrent theme throughout the drama as the likelihood of Babe's downfall heightens the need for people to pursue their dreams. When Meg bitterly assails herself and her family for her foiled singing career, and Lenny whines on about being a victim of a psychological aberration, both sisters muster the courage to "go for it." It is this triumph of will, of determination not to repeat their mother's easy way out, that enables Babe to retain faith, but more importantly, elevates the play beyond sheer amusement. The appropriate balance between comedy and more serious drama, however, is precarious, and often difficult to maintain. This, more than anything else, is what keeps the play from being the acclaimed success it was two years ago.

In part, Henley is to blame for slipping in cumbersome cliches like "People need to communicate with one another. It's a human need." More culpable, though, is director Pentecost, who gets carried away with unbelievable sob scenes as Lenny and Babe try to convince us that they are scarred by their past.

When Crimes of the Heart is at its best, the cast is naturally witty, the script is true to life, and the direction devoid of artificial contrivances. At worst, the director resorts to gushy sentimentality, the acting borders on melodrama, and the playwright tries too hard to tamper with a meaningful comedy that speaks for itself. An entertaining evening--definitely. A Pulitzer-worthy performance? Not anymore