For all three of you who might have been wondering what happened to my formerly frequent then subsequently monthly column of reviews of New York theater, here it finally is; editorial wisdom decreed that twice a year was enough. So this is not so much an answer to the question “I’m going to NY this weekend -- what should I see?” but rather my half of our conversation about a handful of plays.

There seem be two trends in the current season: movie stars and Lanford Wilson. The playwright, whose work is the focus of Signature Theatre's year, has three shows on the boards at the moment (rivaling Edward Albee's triple-header last year): Burn This (just extended), Book of Days (see below), and his translation of Ibsen's classic, Ghosts (see below), with two more to come in the spring. And the media-star approach to legitimate theater has its downside: tickets are hard to come by -- if you can afford one -- but here are some of the folks trodding the NY boards:

Al Pacino, Steve Buscemi, Billy Crudup, John Goodman, Chazz Palminteri, Stanley Tucci, Edie Falco, Sally Field, Amy Irving, Frances McDormand, Kathleen Turner, Jason Biggs, Edward Norton, Catherine Keener, as well as the revolving group of high-profile usual suspects in The Exonerated (see below).

Book of Days

A kind of murder-mystery Our Town, complete with chorus and provincial charm, Lanford Wilson takes on the issue of the power and ambition of the Christian Right in the Deep South. The play's pivot is a local production of Shaw's Saint Joan which becomes a microcosm for the crushing of innocence and truth in the town, as well as the crushing of the arts of making theater and making cheese (Kraft and Borden are the baddies here: processed vs. provolone). It is a rare thing these days to see a cast this large (12 actors) and although the principle is ensemble, several stand out -- interestingly, the negative characters: Nancy Snyder as the elegant, willfully blind matriarch, Boris McGiver as the off-kilter pawn in the evildoings, and John Lepard as the smarmy reverend. As for effects: There is a spectacular tornado that would make the Wizard of Oz envious.

Endpapers

Quaint cubed. A creaky, contrived new play by Thomas McCormack, apparently based on the premise that old-fashioned values require old-fashioned vehicles. A fusty head of a book publishing house must hand over his firm to a successor: Will it be the venal, ambitious editor? Will it be the kindly, damaged, ineffectual editor? Every character is a type, every line shows off literacy, every actor seems like a grotesque caricature of a person. The direction by Pamela Berlin is as stilted and repetitious as the script, in which not a single real issue of the beleaguered print-publishing world is addressed.

The Exonerated

Reprise of a show by two actors, Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen, who traveled the country and interviewed prisoners who had been sentenced to death row and who, years later, were found innocent. A rotating starry cast (Richard Dreyfuss, Jill Clayburgh, Sara Gilbert, Jeff Goldblum and Marlo Thomas, among others) sit on stools and read each prisoner's story. The stories are painful, but the characters are never really embodied, thereby wasting a lot of talent; the fragmentation (pieces of each history are interwoven with the others) diffuses the impact and reveals the lack of a real playwright. The six representative cases all have an optimism and saintliness in common: nobody went mad, nobody is bitter, all present a level of forgiveness that is, ironically, counterproductive, since it is impossible to listen to this information and not feel desperation and rage. It's a worthy issue -- there is no better argument against capital punishment -- but it's not really a satisfying evening in the theater. Too much cause, too little art.

Ghosts

This new translation of Ibsen is economical (90 minutes and four pieces of furniture) and utterly lifeless. The play, about the hypocrisy of decency in gloomy 19th century Norway, has been updated by Lanford Wilson in language -- "tie one on," "scam," "hogwash" -- and in implication: The creaky issue of hereditary syphilis now evokes AIDS issues. Daniel Fish's direction does nothing to compensate for Amy Irving's (playing Mrs. Alving) inability to act, and everybody stands still, arms at sides, reciting lines and throwing away every revelation. It is noteworthy that naive, repressed and hypocritical Pastor Manders takes over the production, and is much like -- even in both actors' looks -- the similar pastor in Wilson's Book of Days.

Medea

Euripides' child-killer has become a modern suburban housewife. Making a brief stop on its American tour, this Abbey Theatre production from Dublin stars the famed Fiona Shaw in the title role, directed by Deborah Warner. The gorgeous ruin that is BAM adds drama to the scene of piles of cinderblocks under plastic tarps, a set trying to suggest a patio under construction. There is much jokey business with the children's toys lying about next to a little pool, astonishing at first, and then annoying as it is overworked. Where is Medea's monstrous grandeur? Her Otherness? Why don't all those nasty housewives in the Chorus call the cops instead of just watching the misery, eating popcorn? When Jason asks, "You did this for sex??" we should feel he has misunderstood his wife catastrophically, but in this domesticated, psychologized version, I found myself agreeing with him. It was a thing to be seen, as any great actress essaying a great role is, but the inherent problems of the play seemed to me to remain unsolved in this production.

Next Wave Festival at Brooklyn Academy of Music, closed. Begins a run at the Brooks Atkinson Theatre on Dec. 4, 256 W. 47th St., 212-719-4099.

Take Me Out

An idolized baseball player (the gorgeous Daniel Sunjata) comes out to the press, and the firestorm of reaction is part of what fills Richard Greenberg's newest and very lively play. The characters are largely unknown to themselves and interestingly unequipped to deal with the moral mystery which ensues when a racist, homophobic, wild-card closer pitches a fatal pitch. The nudity is matter-of-fact, the dialogue is word-drunk. The accountant-turned-fan (the splendid Denis O'Hare) provides the running commentary on the action, riffing on the premise that "baseball is unrelentingly meaningful" and a perfect metaphor for democracy. This play is funny, serious and ultimately about America; it is beautifully, cleverly directed by Joe Mantello.