Pause.... Silence.... Pause.... It's Pinter at his best. Now showing at Adams Pool Theater, a capable production of The Birthday Party features splendid acting and, of course, the perennial treat of Pinterian dialogue. The show succeeds in being entertaining and often engrossing--when it doesn't attempt to put a spin on the mystery of the characters' motivations. But when director Schevey fiddles too much with the sense of the unreal intrinsic to Pinter's works, things tend to go awry.

The Birthday Party opens with a typical breakfast for the Boleses, mild-mannered Petey (Joseph A. Nuccio '00) and effusive Meg (Erica Rabbit '00). All's more or less cornflakes and skittles, even for the laterising nowhere-man boarder Stanley Webber (Dominic Doyle), until two visitors arrive. Up to no good, these two, Goldberg (Jonathon Heawood) and flunky McCann (Henry Clarke '00), apparently have some history they'd like to clear up with dear Stanley--exactly what, we don't know.

And if all turns out well, we never really should know. When Stanley staggers about on-stage in ratty pajamas with no good explanation for why he's there--no helpful "Thanks for putting me up here while I am on my way to Shropshire-on-Blandings," say--we're most interested. When we see good Meg, who seems most unfortunately to be addicted to helium shots, pipe away at the calm, turtle-like Petey about fried toast, we want to know how on earth these two came together.

Fortunately, since we spend our time combing the performances for clues, the actors know to engross us with their characters and yet still leave us hanging. Rabbit brings Meg to new lows in ditzoid blowsiness, to such an extent that she sometimes doesn't appear to know to be afraid when she is threatened. This makes it especially difficult to believe her belle-of-the-ball past when it's mentioned, but the comic potential of the suggestion makes up for it. Rabbit shows the eloquence of stance alone, as does Nuccio. Meg's hands are permanently raised, ready for the next breakfast; Petey never emerges more than halfway out of his shell, even when walking with newspaper clutched. How did the two get married, anyway?

Even more enigmatic, Doyle's Stanley seems at first to be a top-dog boarder, criticizing breakfast with adolescent snideness and even menacing Meg, an easy target. Gradually, his nervous energy increases as he faces the impending threat of Goldberg and McCann. Finally, after shuffling attempts at lying and evasion, he is reduced to cowering, shell-shocked silence. Playing his character with the jumpiness of a dog that knows he's going to be whipped, Doyle turns out a finely shaded performance.

Clarke and Heawood as the two dark horsemen, McCann and Goldberg, are sinister enough in their own different ways, each keeping to his side of the stage. Clarke nails the heavy, deliberate body language of a tough flunky, but at the same time implies McCann's underlying madness, through red-faced yelling that seems to go too far. Heawood's Goldberg is a talky smoothie, calming his victims like a dog trainer with empty statements of conciliation. Though self-assured and, quite apparently from his spiffy vest, the leader of the two, Goldberg would fall apart under closer examination. Heawood's performance succeeds precisely because he conveys that slipperiness, an unwillingness to be scrutinized too closely, even as he controls a situation.

All the members of the cast deliver lines with an apt sense of timing, particularly Rabbit and Heawood, both of whose differently-toned platitudes can be very funny. Perhaps the only sore spot lies in the admittedly difficult role of Lulu (Abigail Gray), a friendly neighbor whom Goldberg seduces. While she seems to exist only as one more way in which Goldberg can menace Stanley--sexually--Gray comes across as somewhat more awkward than necessary.

The production's tragic flaw, then, consists of a desire to package the play's ambiguities up neatly. After all these fine performances, the interpretation put at the end upon Goldberg and McCann's departure with Stanley comes across as heavy-handed, and far less interesting than the strange world the characters have been inhabiting for the last hour or so. And the ending to each act--placing one character in the corner of the exaggerated perspective created by a slanting set--already pushes patience a bit.

Fortunately, the play does not suffer a death blow: Pinter's words and the way the actors deliver them come to the rescue. Despite such interpretative impositions and the occasional stumble, the production remains compelling and at times quite funny. The Adams Pool should be expecting your visit anytime now.