The Harvard-Radcliffe Dramatic Club's new production of Stephen Sondheim and George Furth's "Company" manages to achieve what many of the latest big-budget Broadway productions have not: chemistry. The combination of musical and acting talent and expert direction make "Company" one of the best pieces of student theater in recent memory.

The setting is New York City, and the plaid flares and tiger-striped rompers let you know the year is 1971. The main character, Bobby (Andrew Burlinson), is a single guy who is decidedly neurotic. He's sort of the musical version of Jack Tripper: cheerful, clean-cut and sexually circumspect. Bobby's problem seems to be that the sexual revolution hasn't caught up with his friends. They're all attached, for better and for worse, and they want Robert to join in.

Of course, this being the seventies, Robert may be single, but he's never alone for long. He has his pick of women, though none seem to be "The One." In one particularly amusing scene, he beds a pixellated stewardress named April (Lizzy Marlantes), while his married female friends sing "Poor Baby," a mournful hymn about the torments of bachleorhood. As "the Wives" sing, the happily uncommitted couple rocks the night away in Robert's electric-blue, satin water bed. (Whether it was actually a waterbed is debatable, but it should have been.)

"Company" is a bit ambiguous. It is neither a paen to marriage nor a free-love condemnation of monogamy. The interactions between the men and women, both believable and funny, show all the complexities of romantic relationships. A typical morning-after scene between Bobby and April has him begging her to stay with him. But when she finally agrees, we hear Robert's sleep-deprived and committment-phobic inner voice groaning, "Oh God..."

Both the men and women in "Company" are ambivalent about love and commitment. Amy (Samara Levenstein, ideally cast) frets and over-analyzes her way to the altar to marry quiet, sensitive Paul (deftly played by Paul Siemens). On the other hand, Harry and Sarah (Doug Rand and Kate deLima) extol the virtues of life-long committment while barely disguising their hostility toward one another. DeLima perfectly captures her character's sexual frustration, which she vents in a hilarious scene about food-related auto-eroticism.

Deceptively lightweight, "Company" nevertheless captures real moments of human emotion without weighing the audience down with sentimentality or artistic pretensions. Sondheim and Furth add irony, a much-needed quality in a musical, without being too self-consicous about it. Even their "types" (crusty matron, dim-but-nubile stewrdess), manage to escape cliche. And when the couples sing "The Little Things You Do Together," with barely-hidden hostility, they articulate the uncanny need for men and women to stay together, no matter how ridiculously miserable they might be.

Even haters of Sondheim will still appreciate "Company's" talented cast. The singing and orchestration are almost uniformly good. Even a corny number like "Sorry-Grateful" holds up with the help of fine singing from Peter Friedland, Doug Rand and Jason Mills as David, Harry and Peter.

Cooper managed to find both good actors and gifted comedians. Burlinson is ideal; he captures Bobby's charming ineptitude as well as his randy single-guy ness. Also notable is Jessica Fortunato, who plays the curmudgeonly Joanne. While it would be easy to play her superficially, Fortunato gives Joanne both humor and depth. She also shows off a powerful singing voice in her solo, "Ladies Who Lunch."

The story comes to an apparent climax, logically enough, at a disco. (Watching a mostly-white crowd in polyester evening wear gyrating to bad funk riffs makes one remember what made the seventies so special.) In a drunken conversation with Joanne, Bobby comes to an epiphany about his romantic life, and he sums it all up as he sings "Being Alive."

The show ends with a postmodern touch by appearing to circle back to the opening scene: Bobby's surprise birthday party. Every year he shows up and pretends to be surprised, but this time there's no Bobby. He leaves the couples content to blow out the candles alone, while Robert stands by, hidden in the shadows. The abrupt ending seems suprisingly insubstantial, resisting clear answers or profound revelations. Still, in an age where the ponderous pseudo-drama of "Les Mis" still packs the house most nights in New York (and, terrifyingly, in London, and Dallas, and Des Moines...), Sondheim provides a welcome respite. The HDRC's witty turn does him justice.