Flipzoids

A wise old woman sits in a pile of sand telling strange stories, twirling a purple umbrella, staring blankly at the audience, and interacting with a bowl of glowing, steaming-hot water. On a walkway that encloses her, the woman's daughter looks on with anger and disappointment, and a young boy watches with bewilderment and longing. This is the tense, emotionally loaded triangle that anchors "Flipzoids," Ralph B. Peña's 1996 play, now in revival from Ma-Yi Theater Company.

"Flips" is a derogatory term for Filipino-Americans, and the scars of transplantation remain unhealed for the play's three characters. The old woman, Aying, clings to her past, while her daughter, Vangie, embraces an American future. The boy, Redford, a queer and an outcast, doesn't know where he wants to belong. The sparse set (evocatively lit by James Vermeulen) and a collage of names covering the walls that surround it raise their agonies to the level of allegory.

The play smacks of the 1990s culture wars in which it was brewed, and the 1985 setting only increases its sense of distance from the audience. When Redford, who enjoys platonic encounters in a public restroom, fantasizes of a world where "we all walk around in our own little cubicles," one wonders how he would handle Facebook and online dating.

Still, the play radiates warmth and emotional honesty, despite a cast that struggles to connect with its material. Carlo Albán is defeated by the raw vulnerability of Redford, choosing to fidget and whine when he should be reactive. Tina Chilip, as Vangie, can't fracture her character's cold exterior, leaving us little with which to sympathize. Ching Valdes-Aran, who reprises her performance as Aying, is left like a cellist whose accompanying violinist and pianist have gone silent. Though she carries us back to her character's past and to the impact "Flipzoids" must have made in its original moment, she does so alone.

Presented by Ma-Yi Theater Company at the Peter Jay Sharp Theater, 416 W. 42nd St., NYC. Jan. 18–Feb. 6. Tue.–Sat., 7:30 p.m.; Sat. and Sun., 3 p.m. (212) 279-4200 or www.ticketcentral.com.