Songs by Joni Mitchell. Directed by Allen MacInnis. A Playhouse Theatre Company production.

At the Playhouse until October 30

Director Allen MacInnis calls his assemblage of Joni Mitchell songs a "theatrical concert". But if Joni Mitchell: River is a concert, it requires more starshine than the singers deliver here, and if it's theatre, it might be a good idea to include characters, action, or substantial thematic development, none of which are on offer.

I'm not saying that River stinks. All three vocalists--Loretta Bailey, John Mann, and Rebecca Shoichet--are generously talented. And the songs themselves are shockingly beautiful. Nobody writes melodic progressions that contain more subtlety and surprise than Mitchell's do, and her lyrics--both the familiar and the unfamiliar--are loaded with intelligence, sensuality, and unsentimental sensitivity: "...songs are like tattoos....ink on a pin/underneath the skin/an empty space to fill in"; "And we call for the three great stimulants/of the exhausted ones/artifice, brutality, and innocence".

There's no dialogue. In his program notes, MacInnis claims to have created a narrative with the songs that's based on the arc of a love affair. The performers enact no literal love story, which is probably just as well given the potential for tackiness, but MacInnis's imagined arc is far too vague to have much resonance. What do the antiwar tunes in the first half have to do with romantic love, for instance? MacInnis arranges Mitchell's musical poems under headings including "Trouble in Paradise", "Big Business", and "Psych Ward", but even those groupings are forced, so what we get is like a series of beautiful monologues from unrelated plays. Because nothing accumulates, about half an hour into each act, I found it increasingly difficult to pay attention.

Other attempts to theatricalize Mitchell's material also fall flat. Too often, movement coach Conrad Alexandrowicz's contributions look naively illustrative. The worst moment comes when Alexandrowicz has Bailey and Shoichet strut like hookers behind Mann as he sings "Sex Kills".

And Christine Reimer's costumes are the most outrageously unsuccessful I've seen on the Playhouse stage. In Act 1, Bailey's skirt of ribbons and Shoichet's bustier make them resemble escapees from Carousel and Barkerville. In Act 2, Shoichet appears in a cowl-neck blouse and bell-bottom jeans, which is fine. Then she puts the bustier back on over the blouse and adds a shawl. Now there's a look.

But I did say that the show doesn't stink. Musical director Greg Lowe leads a tight and versatile four-piece band that takes Mitchell's jazz sensibility and runs with it. And Mann sings with absolute confidence, delivering fresh phrasings and revelatory emotional interpretations. The guy moves like a demon, too. In fact, Mann is good enough to have made this show work as a pure concert. Unfortunately, I can't say the same about Shoichet and Bailey's admittedly admirable contributions. Shoichet has a gorgeous voice and overall her work is strong, but she can get a bit superficial, selling some material like she's fronting a bar band. Bailey knows how to tell a song's story with striking simplicity, and like the others, she has excellent pitch. What she could use is more vocal power.

I enjoyed the opportunity to renew my appreciation for material that is in danger of becoming the elevator music of the boomer generation. Still, I'm glad I didn't pay 50 bucks to see River. When Mitchell sings, the cool detachment of her delivery adds immensely to the appeal of her songs. Some might argue that theatricalization involves an inevitable loss of restraint. I doubt that's true. In any event, it shouldn't involve such a significant loss of sophistication and satisfaction.