Live theater affords great opportunities to rattle the viewer, sometimes in its examination of challenging subject matter, but other times through pure, acute expression of a character's substantial pain. Both are felt in playwright Steven Dietz's take on the veterans and casualties of the Vietnam War, Last of the Boys; however, as directed by Frannie Shepherd-Bates, it's the latter that particularly resonates. This Magenta Giraffe Theatre production is a challenging one, its two and a half hours concerned with lives whose stunted sense of normalcy, even decades after the emotional injury, feels undeserved and unfair.

A deserted, late-century California trailer park is home to Ben (Dave Davies), who is visited every summer by longtime friend and fellow veteran Jeeter (Alan Madlane). The relationship between the two men sets the tone for the rest of the production; their shared cultural touchstones bleed over into the personal with respect to the men's differing reactions to the death of Ben's father. Ben professes to be a carpenter but seems to mostly exist outside of the grind, whereas Jeeter is a celebrated academic who has a penchant for younger women and a very unusual reason for following the Rolling Stones on tour. Vietnam is largely folded into Jeeter's grander remembrance of The '60s, a decade since unmatched and affording him no small amount of cachet among students and paramours; Madlane's take on the living time capsule is energetic and grounded in gentle comedy. The viewer later meets Jeeter's most recent one and only, Salyer (Lisa Melinn), and her domineering, protective mother, Lorraine (Linda Rabin Hammell). The four make up a tight ensemble cast, playing equally well in every permutation.

A play about a playwright who writes a play about a playwright, Nicky Silver's comedy The Agony & the Agony is a refracted, repeated-to-infinity glance through the looking glass. Yet this deviously funny piece is only occasionally deep and not at all challenging to follow. The Magenta Giraffe Theatre production, directed by Lisa Melinn, is an exhausting lap around absurdity that also manages to both reinforce and seriously question the notion that hell is other people.

The play's apartment setting is home to the gay man/straight woman marriage of Richard (Keith Kalinowski) and Lela (Connie Cowper), two theater artists of considerable drive, dubious talent, and poor prospects. Whatever leg up each partner expected from their mismatched union hasn't panned out, but now things are looking up for both of them at once. Richard has broken through a years-long dry spell and started writing again, but Lela needs him to make himself scarce so that she can entertain a big-shot producer and seduce her way into a coveted role. Much of the first act concerns the couple's wheedling and vitriol, steeped in Silver's hyperbolic verbal fireworks, but the early goings struggle to find traction — if the characters are engaged in a game of cruelty, the actors don't seem to agree on the rules. Further obstacles to Lela's casting-couch session are introduced, farce-style; first to interfere is her lover Chet (Dalibor Stolevski), who dumbly inserts his dimly pretty ambition into the scene, only to be followed by his trucker-mannered wretch of a companion (Molly McMahon). Also not to be discounted is the specter of infamous Nathan Leopold, Jr. (Jonathan Davidson), who is not at all happy to have his likeness invoked in Richard's self-referential new play. The first act is a zig-zagging build to a very full house, whose few jangling moments are amply countered by well-packaged, playful give and take.

Magenta Giraffe Theatre has its first world-premiere production in The Current, by new playwright Sean Paraventi. The story of four friends, a few gallons of tequila, and one memorable bachelorette party is given appropriate preamble by sound designer Frannie Shepherd-Bates's pre-show playlist: circa-1990s Now That's What I Call Music! hits that invite ironic appreciation, a parade of exceedingly popular, irritating, overplayed, yet irresistibly addictive party tunes. Viewers raised on these songs might outwardly groan at them, but they secretly know all the lyrics. As directed by Molly McMahon, this estrogen-packed show has a similar feeling of succumbing to what we might profess to resist.

Mary (Jaye Stellini) is about to be married, and the first stop of her bachelorette party is a visit to the psychic Madame Camille (Shepherd-Bates). Not only does Mary get a reading, so does each of her three friends, although most appear to lend little credence to the practice. Indeed, the unfamiliar surroundings invite rampant nay-saying, primarily from skeptic Angie (Angie Kane Ferrante) and cynic Sharon (Kirsten Knisely), the latter of whom wishes loudly to be somewhere else. Both the relationships and the action of the play fare much better when the characters buy into the psychic's predictions; in particular, the pure faith of doe-eyed Darlene (Jaclyn Strez) is injected with both humor and unfathomable sweetness, and her scenes invite a camaraderie that's quite engaging.

Actor Tommy Simon has an unmistakable Woody Allen–esque quality. Distinctive voice, nervous streak a mile wide, little skinny guy with glasses...he can naturally turn on what the legendary playwright and filmmaker has made into a calling card. And here, with Magenta Giraffe Theatre and director Frannie Shepherd-Bates, Simon takes a stab at the classic Allen protagonist in the legend's own Play it Again, Sam. Casting a Woody Allen type for an Allen play seems like a slam dunk, but it carries considerable risk: the actor's innate similarities to the iconic original cannot help but invite comparison, which may leave the viewer wondering whether this is merely mimicry. Having seen Simon's work before, I was able to discern and appreciate the actor's own fresh (if often reminiscent) take on the character of Allan Felix. Many of the choices worked in their own right, adding a flurry of activity and energy to Allen's usual subdued pacing and hand-wringing, yet I couldn't help thinking that a few moments might have gone better were they done Allen's way.

Certain themes and scenarios loom large in the playwright's body of work, and this one is no exception, despite dating back to 1969: here's a real loser of a man, with equally high and low opinions of himself, obsessed with sex, in a New York setting. Recently divorced but longtime head case Allan is adrift in the first act, enlisting the help of best friend Dick (Stephen Blackwell) and Dick's wife, Linda (Jaclyn Strez), to provide emotional support and, even better, an attractive woman to fill the void in his life. The man is an utter mess, in no shape to meet anyone, which is proven in an overblown slapstick scene in which Simon's trying too hard tries too hard. Dick's officious inattention to anything but work makes him live up to his name, and sets the stage for Allan to loosen up and be himself in Linda's company. The story blossoms along with the affection between Allan and Linda, which goes exactly as one would expect, given the source. Surprises are few, but the real draw of this production is the skewed self-damning perspective and sharply awkward dialogue for which the writer is known.

The first full season by Magenta Giraffe Theatre Co. capitalized on its youth. As an emerging presence growing its audience, the company made the most of its low overhead and embraced the unorthodox. Under the framework of a titanic mission statement to "eliminate apathy, violence, prejudice, and barriers to education," the organization is young enough that its founders seem to still be burning through pet projects, fueled by unabated passion and absolute freedom to choose what inspires them. For the most part, they managed to balance the exhilaration of expression with the accessibility needed to keep viewers attuned.

Bert V. Royal's Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead is more than an unauthorized riff on the work of Charles M. Schulz. Distilling the story into "It's like Peanuts, but older," suggests applying more mature problems to the exact traits of the characters we know. Instead, the adolescents in this Magenta Giraffe Theatre production may be have a familiar back story, but that's ancient history. We don't know these people any better than they know themselves: quite simply, and terrifyingly, they're teenagers.

The ubiquitous cartoon is populated by protagonist Charlie Brown and his sister, Sally, siblings Linus and Lucy van Pelt, Peppermint Patty (short for Patricia) and her sycophant Marcie, tiny-piano prodigy Schroeder, and unhygenic Pigpen. Royal skates the limits of fair use, so his universe entails CB and CB's Sister, Van and Van's Sister, BFFs Tricia (short for Patricia) and Marcy, piano enthusiast Beethoven, and nickname-eschewing Matt. It's an ingenious concept: the characters are granted depth because their pasts are ubiquitous, carefully laid out over decades of national exposure, and sympathy is ingrained in an audience based on that recognition. Royal is therefore free to explore the lonely, angry world of adolescence through characters we are predisposed to like, and he does not disappoint — these kids curse mightily, smoke cigarettes, take drugs, drink to oblivion, have sex, and, worst of all, tear each other down without mercy. Under the direction of Frannie Shepherd-Bates, what starts out as a laugh-out-loud parody grows savagely, realistically brutal, and rings sadly true to the teenage experience.