Whatever, Heaven Allows (WHA?!)

Begin with "All That Heaven Allows," Douglas Sirk's 1955 classic soap in which widowed Jane Wyman battles snooty class- and age-conscious neighbors and her own children as she falls in love with her younger gardener, who looks just like Rock Hudson. Add sophisticated if erratic video, sound, and special effects technology. Fold in a touch of "Paradise Lost," mainly in a wordy opening monologue full of imagery about falling and burning. Season with all sorts of silliness, from out-of-context screams to dance breaks to slapstick to spillages of a variety of liquids all over the stage. Pour the whole thing into a mid-20th-century Waring blender and frappee to a fine froth, and you've probably got something very like "Whatever, Heaven Allows (WHA?!)," written, directed, designed, and performed by the Brooklyn group Radiohole. It is, as the press materials promise, demented, and it's played with the enthusiasm of a bunch of kids putting on a show in their backyard, though the level of professionalism seldom rises far above that.

The story, constantly interrupted though it is by the off-the-wall stage antics, follows Sirk pretty closely. Eve (Maggie Hoffman) loves her wet-eyed, soulful "arborist" (Eric Dyer, in a hilarious Hudson wig), while her family and neighbors would rather she hook up with Harvey (Joseph Silovsky), a heavy-drinking but respectable middle-aged bachelor. As in Sirk, everything has quotation marks around it: The '50s fashions are stylized beyond anything anyone would actually wear, the dialogue is self-consciously lofty ("I often wish I knew more; teach me"), and the fourth wall is constantly collapsing. The musical underscoring, and there's a lot, is '50s, '60s, and classical; there's also a spirited, not-quite-on-key rendition of "I Am Woman." The multimedia digressions include rear projections that run the gamut from impressionistic to representational, Maori dance (why?), conversations that suddenly and inexplicably wander off into German (to celebrate Sirk?), and supporting players uttering things like "Ta-da!" and "Jokey, jokey, jokey!" into period microphones. Along the way the cast is covered in beer, chocolate, and other runny substances, and the final, tasteless joke involves deer piss. I shudder to consider this production's dry-cleaning bill. Also its beer tab: The stage is littered with Budweiser cans, and there's a bucket of Brooklyn Lagers that are yours for the grabbing.

It's all very random, and the point of the randomness is unclear: Is Radiohole perhaps riffing on classic Hollywood's habit of stuffing inappropriate cultural artifacts into the frame? But Hoffman smartly evokes what made Wyman a 1950s icon--her habit of taking herself too seriously and passing it off as feminine dignity--while Dyer ably lampoons Hudson's suppression of any personality traits that might look sexually suspect. Some of the trashing of '50s values is fun, especially an analysis/demonstration of the aesthetics of movie kissing and a re-enactment of the movie's plot point involving television (which Sirk, and by extension a troubled Universal Studios, was eager to bash). And some good lines are scattered about, mainly delineating subtext: "I'm having powerful emotions that my face is conveying."

But here's the thing: Sirk was already commenting savagely on '50s values, indicting the hypocrisy of American materialism, sexual morality, and other assorted social strictures. Overlaying his astute critical sensibilities with so much running, jumping, and ridiculousness to make further sport of the era seems redundant. There's a nice Charles Ludlam feel to "Whatever, Heaven Allows," and it's good for some look-how-much-smarter-we've-grown giggles. But then, so is "All That Heaven Allows."

Presented by Radiohole and Performance Space 122 as part of Coil at the Collapsible Hole, 146 Metropolitan Ave., Brooklyn, N.Y. Jan. 7-15. Mon., Wed.-Sat., 8 p.m. (212) 352-3101, (866) 811-4111, www.theatermania.com, or www.ps122.org.