Liz Anderson’s new hour-long piece has great conceptual promise but little real-life payoff. Anderson's written an ostensible one-woman show comprising eight short solo bits, and each week tasks a different actor to perform the whole thing cold. So cold, in fact, that the actor/victim can’t even peek at the script before curtain. From offstage Anderson’s voice is heard instructing, coercing, and at times mercilessly critiquing the performance. It’s a fun, volatile premise, but the pieces feel so indiscriminate—describing a failed childhood crush, plugging a rosacea treatment, raising money from the audience before improvising a scene at the cantina in Star Wars, explaining the nature of death—that in the end there really is no show. Andrew Bailes’s perpetually unsettled opening-night performance did little to help things cohere. —Justin Hayford

Price: $5