Strange to think of winter in this heat, but Planet Ant Theatre’s latest original late-night comedy was born in January, with the Winter Improv Colony Fest — the coveted prize for the winning troupe was this time slot and director Matthias Schneider. Vaulting from improvisation to the scripted world, the winning trio invented and wrote Cop Block, a one-act revenge fantasy that plays with grizzled old clichés. However, given a troupe whose predominant strength appears to be finding comic nuance in the everyday, this over-the-top genre parody makes for an imperfect fit.

The play’s simple story arc concerns police officers Shaw (Andy Wotta), McLopez (Andrew Seiler), and Freedom (Clint Lohman), recently bereft of their beloved chief by a noted cop killer/drug dealer. Intent on avenging their lost leader, the men set out to bring his murderer to justice, battling various personal demons along the way: McLopez’s domineering and disapproving wife, Freedom’s alcoholism, and Shaw’s rampaging ineptitude and fondness for “sampling” the drugs they encounter on the beat. From dramatic graveside pledges to off-the-books interrogation tactics to expository scenes at the shooting range, the best-known devices of law enforcement storytelling are all here. Happily for the plot, a too-early victory gone awry ramps up the interest, and what follows are some of the most crafty and inventive moments of the piece.

Planet Ant Theatre’s late-night series, a haven for the new and experimental, also reserves a place of honor for one director of BoxFest Detroit. Andrea Scobie, the audience-chosen winner of the 2010 festival, now contributes to the edgy and trailblazing series with the world premiere of Sean Paraventi’s Endangered. A culturally charged, topical piece of whimsy, this one-act play is eager to condemn the sensationalist quality vacuum of reality TV, but does so in a way that gives equal — and unexpected — consideration to the rarely defended television landscape as we know it.

The show’s forty-five minutes concern the events of an unusual holdup by an equally unusual gunman. Joe (Josh Campos) is so distraught at the recent programming decisions of the fictitious basic-cable American Education Channel, he storms the station headquarters and takes hostages Arnie (Dan Jaroslaw), vice president of programming, Leigh (Kristen Wagner), star of the mega-popular reality show about her twenty-kid family, and Brad (Eric Niece), Arnie’s assistant. Confined to the office reception area for the duration of the play, the characters participate in a talky, academic screed against the lowest-common-denominator schlock that masquerades as educational TV. The greatest accomplishment of Paraventi’s script is in assigning to the gun-wielding maniac the opinions most likely shared by the viewer: however disturbed, Joe is eminently relatable, because these arguments against the trashiness of reality TV have long been tent poles in popular discourse about what’s destroying America. Heck, even the people putting this tripe on the air don’t seem to like what they’re doing. Yet by holding these representatives of reality TV hostage (and, by extension, the medium itself), the playwright forces the viewer to respond to them as defensive victims, which shows incredible potential to take the conversation in a new direction.

Between his lauded All Childish Things and the current world premiere of Salvage at Planet Ant Theatre, it is established now and forever that Joseph Zettelmaier writes great nerd. The playwright’s ability to spin a captivating story through the lens of nostalgia junkies, and the collectibles market in particular, transcends the legitimate subculture of devotees and emotionally connects with a broad spectrum of viewers. Here, director Inga Wilson’s take on Salvage weighs the promise of prosperity against the substantial risks of exploring literal and figurative debris in order to acquire it.

At the curiosity shop Hidden Treasures in Detroit, where “low customer traffic” is an understatement, proprietor Jason Loreo (Rob Pantano) welcomes skittish walk-in Anna Jones (Alysia Kolascz). She bumbles through feigned interest in buying something before revealing a rare piece of sports memorabilia in her handbag — she’d like to sell it, but is unsure of its worth. It’s a transaction between an expert and a novice, one that seems tailor-made for fleecing; the scene itself almost anticipates the moment when Jason intentionally undervalues the item and pockets the difference. But he doesn’t. Instead, he decides to help Anna sell the card, an honest deal that marks a win for both of them for their own reasons. Over the course of their work toward the sale, tangential remarks begin to stir up more meaningful conversations; it doesn’t give too much away to say there are sparks.

In another crossover episode between its theater and improvisation worlds, Planet Ant Theatre offers the late-night show Fish Dinner, a one-man play written and performed by actor/improviser Quintin Hicks and directed by Dave Davies. Like many of its colleagues in the late-night series, this is a no-frills showcase for a celebrated local improviser, here a former Second City performer. It is also the funniest thing around.

Ranging 40–60 minutes in length, the one-act production is largely absent of plot. Instead, the world of the play is made up of tangentially connected characters, which Hicks fleshes out in about a dozen improvised monologues (hence the variation in running time). Some links between individuals are overt and specifically mentioned, whereas others are much looser; by avoiding formulaic bog, the structure undercuts audience expectations and keeps afloat the promise that anything is possible, up to and including a prologue by a fish. What the fish has to do with anything is up for interpretation, but what happens onstage is interesting and fulfilling enough to make it feel beside the point.

The Planet Ant Theatre’s world-premiere production of Hylomorph, by Maggie Smith, is ensconced in a kind of desperate silliness. Director Yasmine Jaffri guides this mash-up of a pair of mundane marriages and a world of scientific improbability with a strongly stylized perspective that plays to the strengths of both. The result is a lightning-speed, fish-out-of-water comedy in two short acts that resolves little and explains less, but abounds with thematic curiosity.

Something out of Alice in Wonderland, the story of the play seems intentionally obtuse and difficult to describe in precise language. In barest terms, Mrs. Wilson (Inga R. Wilson) is hired to tutor Mrs. Nara (Linda Ramsay) in English, but instead they are transported to a wasteland that may not even be of this dimension. The best explanation Smith seems to provide for the phenomenon is: science. However, what the characters (and audience) discover about their surroundings isn't nearly as interesting as what they learn about themselves. From their character names to their defining traits, the subservient wives define themselves by their husbands — if he insists she's agoraphobic, then she doesn't leave the house. In this respect, Ramsay’s dawning awareness is the biggest and most identifiable development, played with a balance of level-headed reason and a comically destructive streak. However, it’s Wilson who is the most consistently and subtly funny, a maniacally repressed housewife in constant terror of the possible, albeit implausible, atrocities she could perform at any instant. So afraid of everything she can’t manage to do anything, her Mrs. Wilson anchors the pair of lost women as a clear and relatable protagonist, able to elicit both laughter and affection by her pasted-on smile and deeply apologetic outbursts.

Planet Ant Theatre's improvisational and theatrical worlds collide most visibly in biannual original plays earmarked as prizes for the winning teams of its Summer Colony Fest and Winter Colony Fest tournaments. As directed by Mike McGettigan, the current production of 3 Guys, 1 Jar, written by and starring the men of A.R.M., looks fondly on a world of shrugging listlessness and heroic ineptitude as it hilariously punishes people who try.

In the world of the play, the Guys were all laid off some months ago and are resigned to bowling and drinking the days away. Marv (Marv Anderson) provides the impetus for the plot, as some meager spark within inspires him to do something worthwhile with his time and energy. As it happens, a huge, empty plastic jar right in their lane beckons for donations to help a kid dying of nonspecific cancer, and the men have found their cause. McGettigan seems an especially apt fit for the troupe, as the ensuing madcap campaign to raise $28,000 and cure the boy benefits constantly from his signature: montages, insanely tangential conversations, and unbridled absurdity abound. Undoubtedly, the one-act show has very rough edges, but every misstep is countered by moments of fresh, startling humor.

What play wouldn't be improved by a dose of David Bowie? He certainly does more good than harm to Dance Xanax Dance, a Planet Ant original comedy written and directed by Lauren Bickers. The production is light on story but heavy on design, all influenced by the Glam One himself, which makes for an outrageous, glittery, dancing extravaganza.

The already eclectic Planet Ant space is made over exquisitely by designer Barton Bund in outrageous abstract style, down to a red-patterned floor that looks like a flash of light viewed through closed eyelids. Hillary Bard's intense low lighting gives the entire set the look of an amazingly terrible music video, a perfect fit for Jill Dion's intense (and technically skilled), geek-serious choreography. Costumes by Vince Kelley are a hot, shimmering, eyelinered mess of the highest order. Setting the scene and providing awkward transitions are assembled fever-dream videos parodying various celebrity-obsessed television programs; sound and video designer Dyan Bailey's cheeky blend of actual TV footage with original scenes establishes the back story of the exceptionally named Olivia Sasha Now (Genevieve Jona), a championed child actor turned pop icon, whose well-documented substance abuse has her once-rising star now hurtling toward rock bottom. Essentially, it's the tale of Lindsay Lohan, if LiLo had the good fortune of releasing the hit song of the play's title (by Dustin Gardner of the local band shoe.) and divine intervention by Ziggy Stardust.

Last season's infectiously fun original musical Detroit Be Dammed: A Beaver's Tale has moved to the heart of downtown Detroit for another round of good-natured ribbing from among the ranks of its own. Written by Shawn Handlon and Mikey Brown and presented (as before) by Planet Ant Theatre, the current production has changed somewhat, yet feels as complete as the original, with all of its abundant satire and affection intact.

From the beginning, the viewer is thrust into the bosom of the fictitious LeMerde family, a proud and likable batch of Charlie Brown types genetically predisposed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, to wholeheartedly champion a doomed cause, or to be shouted down the relatively few times they make a good point. The show boasts essentially the same songs as before, which both impress musically and are cultivated for maximum comedy. The more wrong the point of view, factually or ideologically, the bigger and more impassioned the number, and the giggle-inducing juxtaposition is turned to full laughter by whip-smart lyrics. The city's few wins and mounting losses are presented almost as inside jokes; when a descendant finally succumbs to mounting crime rates and white flight and moves to the suburbs, the attendant tune is an eviscerating ode to whitewashed Livonia, with Jill Dion's ironically idyllic choreography blossoming on a larger stage. Also retained is the well-executed framework and story line, tracing three hundred years of melting-pot LeMerde lineage (and, by extension, Detroit history) throughout the first act, then drawing out its present-day plot in the second.

Halloween is a time to celebrate the unexplained and/or supernatural, but fright and danger can just as easily originate from the better demons of our corruptible human nature. This season, Planet Ant Theatre delights in a manmade horror show in Nightmare Box, an assortment of original short plays by local writers. Not quite it-could-happen-to-YOU cautionary tale, but certainly not a bloodbath for its own sake, the production is an examination of the dark and depraved motivations of people who could, at first, almost pass for normal.

The structure of this two-act play intersperses the title piece, a hero’s journey to prevent a mystery-shrouded event of mythical proportions, among half a dozen stand-alone vignettes. Playwrights Dave Davies, Margaret Edwartowski, Kelly Rossi, Marke Sobolewski, and Shawn Handlon (who also directs) present a handful of characters and scenarios that seem far removed from real life, but each has a kernel of humanity at its core that makes it — if improbable — still frighteningly believable. As the production was created via a call for submissions, it’s understandable that the resulting show is a bit at a loss for unifying tone. A grab bag of styles ranges from aggressive confrontation to feather-light black comedy to unveiling intimate horror; twist endings and staggering reveals abound. Although the production has a few gory surprises in store, the intrigue relies in large part on story and character, preying on emotional and intellectual fear responses rather than resorting to shock value.

The play on opposites in Jane Martin's Criminal Hearts begins even before the Planet Ant production gets underway. Faced with the challenge of making a mattress, towering pizza boxes, and myriad Dr. Pepper cans resemble an upscale Chicago apartment, set designer Dave Early fills the Spartan surroundings with details, from beautiful molding to accent lights that tastefully mark the space where a featured art piece used to be. The play quickly explains the circumstances behind disturbed, nearly agoraphobic Ata (Kate Peckham): her cheating husband took everything that wasn't nailed down, which is especially problematic because Bo (Sharon L. Brooks) has just come to rob the place.

Under Will Myers’s direction, this production has a streak of unevenness. For every perfectly timed laugh-out-loud retort (and there are several), there’s another choice that runs contrary to the text. Myers’s staging generally compensates well for a challenging L-shaped seating configuration, but leaves characters awkwardly stranded when the focus shifts. As endearing as Peckham is while neck-deep in desperation and squalor, it’s difficult to imagine her Ata even passing as a functional adult capable of basic hygiene, let alone the strong woman whose unconventional departure from the bourgeoisie the viewer is expected to celebrate.

The Planet Ant Theatre's almost-insane goal to produce all three plays of Joseph Zettelmaier's The All Childish Things Trilogy in repertory seems, on its face, like an answer to the summer blockbuster. Sure, the movie quotes, criminal activity, action, heroism, and sequel format may be familiar fare, but to pass off these productions as mimicry or parody is to undersell them. Any notion of big-budget fluff should be disabused from the start: director Shannon Ferrante and her workhorse cast and crew infuse this immense undertaking with an underdog sensibility that makes for one winning series.

On the Star Wars superfan end of the spectrum, ACT is stormtrooper approved. Not only are members of the Michigan chapter of the 501st Legion frequently in attendance, but Zettelmaier has been inducted as an honorary member of the premier fan-organized society, signs he must have done something right. Yet this epic adventure about childhood best friends grown up — and still growing up — is equally accessible to viewers whose familiarity with Star Wars is limited to its considerable cultural footprint. Take it from someone who has actually seen ACT Episode I more times than all but one of the George Lucas films: "Boba Fett is that one guy, with the...thing" is a perfectly acceptable entry point. Star Wars amateurs will likely understand the references better than they expect, and, more importantly, these characters' specific devotion translates to a more universal kind of passion that any audience can appreciate.

With no prior exposure to the work of playwright Martin McDonagh, I can't say I was prepared for what The Lonesome West had in store, but my lack of background didn't hinder my appreciation of the Planet Ant's production. One part of a trilogy with a unique point of view, the play nevertheless stood fiercely on its own. Indeed, the bleak portrait of beyond-reproach values and beyond-saving relationships in hellish Leenane, Ireland, landed like a series of emotional punches — a savage, unrelenting, exquisite beating.

The play is lousy with death, even opening immediately after a funeral: the father of Coleman (Stephen Blackwell) and Valene (Kevin Young) has died by accidental shotgun blast to the head. Other deaths, primarily murders and suicides, are discussed; it's unclear whether anyone in town has ever managed to die of natural causes. The focus of the show is the contentious relationship between the brothers, who somehow live together in their father's house, despite their greatest source of enmity — an impressive distinction, given this world — being each other. Young gives Valene a manic, Rainman-like drive to consume and protect, displaying and coveting his potato chips and menagerie of religious figurines just as much as his flashy big purchases. Coleman, conversely, has signed over his share of the inheritance for some reason, and cannot even afford to eat or drink; Blackwell gives the character pranksterish delight in numerous little revenges.

The severity of a blank stage sends a clear message to an audience: do not make assumptions. The Planet Ant late-night offering Henrietta Hermaline's Fall from Great Heights aims to keep the viewer guessing in just this way. In an abyss of black-painted walls and floor, a reality with so many incongruous elements lets the audience take nothing for granted and also insists that something must not be true — but just what that is remains withheld until the final moments.

Director Molly McMahon won this time slot for her work in the 2009 BoxFest showcase for women directors, which makes this scaled-back and female-centric piece seem rather fitting. The title character (Jill Dion) is a pathologically awkward, shy woman who finds little about herself interesting. She cannot believe any man would look twice at her, but one does, in the quite attractive form of Richard Prymus (Jonathan Davidson). He graciously indulges her desire to fly by taking her up in his small plane, and a romance of sorts is born. If this all sounds straightforward, consider the third character of Birdman (Richard Payton), the literally avian narrator. Do not make assumptions about a world in which a talking bird hails Henrietta Hermaline as his queen.

News flash: Some people actually love Detroit so much, they're willing to sing about it. That's the kind of misplaced astonishment we're used to reading in the national media, the disbelief that anybody would willingly live in Detroit, and it makes some locals' blood boil. In that same defiant spirit, the Planet Ant original musical Detroit Be Dammed: A Beaver's Tale addresses both the history and the heart of the city, embracing them in an infectious surge of passion.

Written by Mikey Brown and Shawn Handlon and directed by the latter, the show evades the traditional mold of setup, song, setup, song. Musical numbers are used sparingly, leaving plenty of room to unfold numerous stories and even more jokes. The first act is a sweeping retelling of defining moments in the history of Detroit, each told through the lens of the LeMerde family. (For readers not versed in French expletives, a nice way of translating the name would be the poop. LeMerdes through the years are accordingly bumbling and hapless, but all are likable and never moronic.) Most of the progression is chronological, leading from French rule to British to American, briefly back to British, and then to American again. The city's role in the Underground Railroad is addressed, and Augustus B. Woodward and Henry Ford make appearances. The three men in the cast each play different men of the LeMerde ancestry, which is helpfully made clear by the use of a projection screen. Projected images also remind viewers of the year, provide visual aids, and feature a line-drawn cartoon beaver that belts brief synopses and exposition to a bluesy refrain.

There are some who like intense drama, who enjoy nothing more than to leave a theater feeling devastated. Others like a brief show, without those pesky intermissions. Margaret Edwartowski's new Snowbound, the latest in the Planet Ant late night series, proves one doesn't have to choose. Clocking in at just under an hour, this period piece rapidly piles on one unnavigable decision after the other, mistakes that accumulate to an inevitable but searing conclusion.

In late-1870 Colorado, what remains of the Adler family is preparing for — and fearing — another winter in isolation. However, this isn't a story of human perseverance; a sense of foreboding runs throughout, and death seems to be the only possible outcome unless they uproot themselves and move closer to the city. With the weather constantly looming, timing is everything, and on-the-spot decisions are often regretful and irreconcilable — leading to more impossible split-second choices. We spend little time with these characters; the scenes are almost like snapshots, but under director Michael Carnow, the detail and clarity of what unfolds more than makes up for its brevity.

At Christmastime, plays about Hanukkah seem risky. Many Hanukkah stories concede to offer a sort of Christmas Lite — after all, Hanukkah is primarily known in the Christian world because it is What Jews Do At Christmas; it's "not even one of the high holy days," as one character kvetches in the The Hebrew Hammer. Adapted for the Planet Ant from a Comedy Central original movie, Hammer's plot also depends upon Christmas: there's a new Santa in charge, and he's a racist power monger who plans to end Hanukkah and Kwanzaa once and for all. The Jewish Defense League is desperate to stop him, and the only man resourceful and (ahem) unorthodox enough to do it is the title character (Jon Ager). With his love interest, Esther (Sarah Switanowski), they encounter hordes of characters, played by a supporting cast of five, on their adventures.

The influence of the blaxploitation genre shows, from the music to the montage sequence hilariously aping drug pushers. Ager and Switanowski give serviceable performances as the Hammer and Esther, infusing the genre with plenty of Jewish stereotypes. The ensemble plays an overwhelming number of characters, and although I'm not familiar with the source material, it seemed that some bits — and bit parts — could have been further distilled or eliminated for a smoother flow. The ensemble doesn't always shine when all its members appear together, but each actor had at least one outstanding character or scene to showcase. As the only woman in the ensemble, Lisa Melinn took on a large share of the character work, and her work is spot-on each time she's onstage.

The audience at the final showing of One Flea Spare was one of the largest I had seen at the Planet Ant for a while, which brightens my spirits before any performance. Having arrived extremely early, I scrutinized every word of the program, including the short primer on the play's setting and history. Although the specific mention and definition of a few terms did aid my understanding, I later wondered why these could not have been made clear in context rather than by glossary. It turned out to be only my first concern with playwright Naomi Wallace's script.

The plot of One Flea Spare moves in fits and starts, beginning with a heap of exposition. A wealthy couple is quarantined in their home after several servants die of the plague, but just before their confinement ends, an AWOL sailor and the daughter of a neighbor separately infiltrate the house, and the quarantine begins again. This is all explained at the beginning; what the audience sees is the subsequent, "They wait."