Few regional theaters -- even large and prosperous ones -- expend their resources to nurture new playwrights. (It’s so much easier to produce familiar, audience-pleasing favorites.) Brick does: Vindication, Illinois by young Ryan Kraus, is the winner of the theater’s 2002 Roger Cornish Playwriting Award, a prize which carries with it a full production.

I confess I'm leery of such awards and, in fact, was not an admirer of some of Brick's former efforts. But I'm pleased to note that Brick's current production offers substantial er, Vindication. Kraus' psychological thriller, though flawed, is taut, engaging and shows promise.

As Vindication begins, we're in a seedy hotel room in the presence of a creepy pitchman, Derek, who is involved in a high-stakes scheme to sell something to Todd, a naive young man who has been summoned here for reasons he doesn't completely understand. What exactly is Derek trying to sell? "Investments," he says. "Opportunities." How -- and why -- did Derek find Todd? It's a mystery. And what exactly are these "investments?" Another mystery.

At this point, Vindication smacks of David Mamet (and especially Glengarry Glen Ross), with similar volleys of staccato dialogue and a macho game of one-upsmanship. (Also like Glengarry, the script is hyper-extended -- virtually every sentence is repeated two or three times for emphasis.) But the play also suggests some of the sinister unknown-ness of Harold Pinter and (as things get more horrific) even a bit of Stephen King. Sure, it's derivative -- but there's a cleverness and energy that's original too. By the Act I curtain, we're really on the edge of our seats.

Act II doesn't quite work -- on the basic thriller level, the events aren't resolved and the arrival of Heather, Todd's fiancée, is more confusing than clarifying. On the other hand, things turn intriguingly metaphysical and Kraus shows a deeper gift for language.

Vindication could use another rewrite, but it's eminently worth seeing, and fares well in Mark Cofta's elegantly spare production. Jeremy Chacon is suitably unnerving in the virtuoso role of Derek and John DeFelice (Todd) and Sara Carano (Heather) are both fine.

With Vindication, Brick will end its relationship with the South Street building that has been the company's home for nearly a decade. Let's wish them a hospitable new space in the very near future. A small theater that really promotes young writers is a noble place indeed, and Brick deserves our support.

The one-acts of Tennessee Williams (and there are literally dozens of them, written over several decades) are among our theater’s richest -- though inexplicably seldom-produced -- resources. In some of these miniatures, Williams expands on scenes and characters from his full-length plays, giving additional insights. In others, we see the playwright as a formal experimentalist: These works seem sparer and more daring than his better-known plays. Many of these small pieces are like Beckett’s "dramaticules" and deserve to be better known.

So we owe our gratitude to Random Acts of Theater for bringing us two intriguing one-acts -- I Can't Imagine Tomorrow and A Perfect Analysis Given By a Parrot -- that show Williams' poetry and rueful insight in full flower.

Alas, there's a "but." Each play is given a directorial-concept overlay that takes away more than it adds.

In the two-character I Can't Imagine, a lonely, ill woman is paired with a younger man who suffers from a speech disorder and isn't able to articulate his thoughts. The piece is a study of loneliness and isolation and is infused with Williams' language at its most poignant: "This is dragon country, a country of pain that is uninhabitable but inhabited," says the woman, and we know she knows that world far too well. Director Tina Brock emphasizes a degree of brutality, even sadomasochism, that is at odds with the text (and the character relationships). Jane Stojak (as the woman) has been encouraged to a level of shrewish hectoring that likewise throws off the play's balance. What should seem languid, gentle and ineffably sad emerges instead as hurried and creepy.

A Perfect Analysis builds on a scene from The Rose Tattoo in which Bessie and Flora, two desperate and rather vulgar middle-aged women, are seen en route to a convention where they hope to snare a couple of male companions.

Jane Stojak has made the major directorial miscalculation of placing the scene within what appears to be a mental institution: Here, two crazy ladies (observed by a doctor) are "imitating" a pick-up conversation, which isn't the same thing at all. The conceit both cheapens the play into crude comedy (there should be laughs but it's also touching) and makes the women look more ludicrous than they ought. It's a pity, because both actresses -- Carolyn Byrne (Bessie) and Bonnie Grant (Flora) -- are quite fine and might under different circumstances have made something better of the piece.

Through June 15, Random Acts of Theater at the Triangle Theater, 1220 N. Lawrence St., 215-763-0110

"Like the prostitute said, "It’s not the work -- it’s the stairs.’" So begins Elaine Stritch, with the ring of authority: Though no hooker, the lady knows something about uphill climbs.

No single description can do justice to Elaine Stritch At Liberty, the one-woman show that the diva (a legend among theater folk, though a well-kept secret to much of the rest of the world) has fashioned together with the help of critic John Lahr.

It's a showbiz memoir, full of delicious stories about everyone from Ethel Merman to Marlon Brando -- but it's more.

It's a confession about addiction. For 60 years, Stritch wouldn't go on stage without a reinforcing drink, usually followed by several encores. But it's more than that, too.

It's a cabaret concert that showcases the 78-year-old Stritch's still-spectacular legs and inimitable, gravel-and-bourbon singing voice (in the 30-plus years since she premiered "The Ladies Who Lunch" in Stephen Sondheim's Company, Stritch's imprint on the song remains unequaled.)

And it's more than that. ESAL is a lesson in luminous star quality -- the sort that survives any adversity and glows brighter with the years. In fact, Stritch is no mere star. She's also a great actress, alive to every nuance, utterly engaged in the emotional world around her. Every story is a travelogue, and with each one, we're there: In the Imperial Theatre, rehearsing for Call Me Madam or celebrating with champagne at Toots Shor's. In a sense, the show documents a marvelous New York that now is gone forever; but at the same time, what is so deeply moving is how much Stritch and her life are completely in the present.

Well, all right. Nothing is perfect, and ESAL dips a bit in the second act, as Stritch goes on too long about booze-filled Lost Weekends and her ultimate recovery. But even this has a deliciously sly undertone as we watch the audience weigh the pros and cons. (Let's see -- what do you get from a half century of alcoholism? A mind like a steel trap, razor-sharp timing, the energy of several kindergarten classes and the gams of a Rockette.)

More seriously, who among us would be willing to make a Faustian bargain to take on Stritch's demons -- if we could also have her talent?

For better or worse, we don't get that choice. Let's instead simply be grateful that one of the theater's most brilliant lights is sharing herself with us. ESAL is the first "Broadway show" at the Academy of Music in more than 20 years. I know it will be many more years than that before we see anything comparable. (d_fox@citypaper.net)