The title address is a shabby dwelling in an unnamed city, currently home to an assortment of citizens not without accomplishments, but at the height of the Great Depression, sadly down on their luck. The clan patriarch is artisan Stanley, his family comprised of wife Olivia, two young daughters and his razzle-dazzle sister Louise. Boarding in one attic room are musicians Mim and Juliet, in the other, writer Walter Lummet and his son—the latter nicknamed "mouse" for his habit of creeping out the window onto the roof. During the course of our acquaintance with this community, Mim will be courted by the butcher's son, Olivia will announce that she is pregnant, Walter will mourn the loss of his neglected son's mother, Louise will be abandoned by her boyfriend "out west," a locked safe possibly containing treasure will be discovered, and the landlady will demand her overdue rent.

If these plot complications seem—well, generic, it might be because the script is not the product of a single author, but a collaborative effort by the ensemble calling itself Brain Surgeon Theater. Surprisingly, the storyline exhibits none of the patchiness characteristic of committee-crafted texts, instead emerging as a Dickensian narrative woven round the question lying at the heart of all human destiny, and certainly at the center of every drama—namely, why do we stay here?

This is no trivial rumination. Just as every playwright must justify their personnel's reluctance to flee discomforting circumstances, so does every denizen of this microcosmic universe, after lamenting their thwarted ambitions, weigh their current options. And as one strikes out alone, and others wait for crises to be forced upon them, the progress of each character's self-examination so arouses our empathy that, when the play comes to an abrupt ending, we clamor for a sequel to tell us how it eventually comes out for these people of whom we have become fond.

Inspiring that response is a sharply focused cast wholly committed, adults and children alike, to vividly etched portrayals of the pilgrims populating this latter-day colony. Joseph Riley's scenic design packs front stoop, parlor ( with piano ) , kitchen, hallway, and bedrooms onto a stage measuring a mere 19 by 18 feet ( with a 12-foot ceiling ) , while Christopher Cole and Gwen Tulin's original music captures with uncanny accuracy the rallying optimism of its period. Hard times breed interesting beginnings—and Studebaker Place offers a dozen, at least.