Arts and Sciences Old Wicked Songs is a familiar tune, well-played. by CHRIS DAVIS saw you taking notes in there," said the tall, clean woman, a silver fox of indeterminate middle years. "And I just wanted to let you know that, no matter what you think, I thought [Circuit's production of Old Wicked Songs] was absolutely wonderful." Being a civil man, I nodded my agreement, and mercifully the woman walked away. I assure you that no good can ever come from supposing such a tall, clean woman is at all conversant on the history of the "well-made" play: a blob of 19th-century goop stuck to the Birkenstock of modern drama. The notion behind the WMP goes like this: Theatre can be reduced to a simple formula by regulating the permutations of a plausible situation within the framework of a clever, if contrived plot. The WMPs of old typically addressed issues of status, with conflicts centered around a loose bit of reputation-destroying evidence. Though not without its merits, Old Wicked Songs (a fairly recent play) is a sterling example of this stale and stifling form. Though it is far from "wonderful," as the unidentified woman proclaimed, it is undeniably, and from the ground up, well-made. The Setup: A young, arrogant American pianist (a secret Jew) feels insulted when his famous German piano teacher forces him to take singing lessons from a depressive Austrian man who may or may not be (or have been) a Nazi. Along the way, these strange bedfellows become great friends and learn powerful lessons from one another while the playwright paraphrases Nietzsche, alludes to Freud, imitates Wedkind, and pays tribute to countless other teutonic thinking-machines. The play's thesis is wildly romantic, if ultimately unwieldy: Great joy cannot be understood in the absence of tremendous sorrow, and true art can only be made where these extremes fall into carnal embrace. If it sounds like I am ragging on Old Wicked Songs, well, I am -- and only because it was not wonderful. I am ragging on it because it was rather well-done, and perhaps even exceptional. Or at least it could have been if only the playwright had faith enough to ask all the same questions, without having to answer them for the audience. Dave Landis (the teacher, Josef Mashkan) had quite a bit of practice working on his German accent at Playhouse on the Square last season, sporting one as Einstein in Picasso at the Lapin Agile and also as Herr Shultz in Cabaret. Landis successfully presents us with a man who hides his tremendous suffering behind a caustic wit and gives a remarkable demonstration of his abilities during one of Mashkan's semi-regular suicide attempts. The scene in which the depressed teacher swallows too many pills and lays down to die, only to be interrupted by his student's unexpected return should have never made it to the stage in its current form. Overly shticky, this scene owes as much to a Three Stooges routine as it does to classic melodrama, and it is the one scene in the play where audience disbelief must be suspended to its breaking point. With the precision of a chainsaw juggling unicyclist, Landis manages an appropriate degree of gravity, neutralizing his drugged character's inappropriate glibness without sacrificing any of the scene's comedy. It is quite a feat. As the piano prodigy Stephan Hoffman, Eric Jorgensen likewise does excellent work, though it lacks the polish of the more experienced Landis. Hoffman begins the play angry, and when at last he discovers his passion, it is through a different kind of anger. To move between variations of a single emotion does not allow the actor a lot of room to grow; yet Jorgensen does exactly that. His honesty is remarkable, and his commitments are clear. Jorgensen's only failings stem from certain physical choices that scream out, "Hey, everybody, look at me -- I'm acting." These moments of prancing about the stage, however, occur only when the Hoffman character is presented with long passages of dialogue that are lacking any intrinsic physical action. Sometimes, in these cases, it is best for an actor to simply stand and deliver, but the natural urge is always to "keep it moving." Director Miriam Ragland has done a fine job of getting her actors to listen and respond to one another, allowing a difficult play to develop slowly and organically. Though I may not always like the way it says them, Old Wicked Songs does have some beautiful things to say, and Ragland has found all of the play's gems and polished them to a diamond shine.