The Blue Bird

WOLF PARADE Scientists get into a hairy situation.

Photograph: Jonathan Slaff

Sometimes it’s a slog being an experimental-theater fan. You know your evenings will be spent parsing tricky nonplots and reassuring yourself that “even boredom can be a playwright’s tool.” The task is often thrilling—and just as often a headache. So thank heavens for Witness Relocation, a bunch of nuts who think that expressionism should be a wahoo with beer and wigs, and actors cracking up during the dance breaks.

In its discombobulating The Blue Bird, the company barely changes demeanor from the preshow entertainment (playing Twister) to the work itself. Director Dan Safer hangs around to yell out kudos for his special guest star, and the techies are already drinking by go time. And yet, hinting at real craft beneath the cheapie Astroturf, the experience manages to be great fun for the audience as well. It’s dead tricky to make self-indulgence charming, but this troupe joins the narrow ranks of those who can.

Mikuni Yanaihara’s script, rendered in elliptical English by Aya Ogawa and Kameron Steele, sends eight cracked scientists into the “deep woods” on a vaguely defined ecological quest. Reality keeps slipping—the band may also be a group of Japanese teens, escaping into a collective fantasy. Briefly, the piece turns into a game in which actors must obey randomized instructions. “Sorry, Grandma!” Sam Pinkleton hollered after being told to “subtly masturbate.” There was no need to apologize. The 80 minutes we spent giggling had little to do with bluebirds; this anarchic goof is 100 percent lark.