Go figure: of the five plays I saw at this year's Shaw Festival, "Harvey" is the one I least wanted to see, yet the one I enjoyed the most. Even so, it's a dishonest play. Elwood P. Dowd, its amiably banal hero, believes that being pleasant is better than being smart. A convivial patron of nearby saloons, he spends so much time talking to an imaginary six-foot-tall rabbit that his sister tries to get him committed. If the play teaches anything, it's the phony truth that loony drunks who like everybody they meet are somehow finer and morally superior to the rest of us.

That said, Peter Krantz as Dowd is so engaging, and Mary Haney as his sister and Norman Browning as a psychiatrist are such masters of broad comedy, that if you give them the merest twitch of a smile, they will sweep away your bothersome doubts. Between Haney's bandy-legged prancing and Browning's facial twitches, even the sternest critic hasn't got a chance.

The festival's reputation for reviving overlooked plays extends this year to composer Kurt Weill, lyricist (and light verse master) Odgen Nash, and librettist S.J. Perelman's 1943 hit, "One Touch of Venus," based loosely on the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea. With writers of such urbane wit, it's not surprising that this is a New York City musical, in the tradition of musical comedies tracing back to the Princess shows of the 1910's.

When a self-important art collector exhibits an ancient statue of Venus, a nice but not very bright barber puts an engagement ring on its finger after an argument with his oafish girlfriend. A flash of smoke and Venus comes to life. She and the barber fall in love but separate when his vision of suburban life in nearby Ozone Park bores her silly. The downhearted barber soon meets a mortal who's a dead ringer for Venus and loves Ozone Park. Curtain.

The book's reputation for satirizing modern art and suburban life, and for sophisticated sexual banter, has survived despite the show's occasional revivals. It has some very funny lines that border on the cynical; "Love is the triumphant twang of a bed spring" is my favorite. But for the most part, the satire lacks bite and the writing is often leaden. It feels as if Perelman reined in his usually antic humor in search of a hit.

Although Weill was a successful theater composer in his native Germany, his score has the feel of an American musical: musically varied yet rooted in familiar song types, from waltzes to a barbershop quartet to music for two dream ballets. Unfortunately, as staged in the tiny Royal George Theatre, the dancing is more "sham dancing" than anything else. It is cramped and not especially expressive.

What matters most about the score is the large number of ballads, appropriate in a musical about the goddess of love. In addition to the bluesy beguine, "Speak Low," Weill wrote richly romantic melodies for "West Wind," "I'm a Stranger Here Myself," and "Foolish Heart."

Nash, primarily a writer of light verse, was writing only his second musical; the first was a flop from 12 years earlier. His love lyrics are perfectly workmanlike until he finds a way to bring wit to bear, especially in the clever but touching "That's Him." When he overloads melodies with too many syllables, they become difficult to sing. The exception is "That's How I Am Sick of Love," an exemplar of Nashian wordplay.

What's missing from the production is the magic. Kyle Blair as Rodney Hatch the barber is a splendid juvenile: his high tenor is pleasing, he moves gracefully, and his ability to combine sweetness and comic confusion makes the character both goofy and likeable. The female characters fare less well. Although tall, blonde Robin Evan Willis as Venus looks the part and has a pleasant but small voice, she is neither sexually compelling nor otherworldly. Julie Martell as Rodney's original girlfriend is merely crass; her nasal shrieking, when you can bear to listen to it, confirms once again that Shaw consistently gets New York City accents wrong. "One Touch of Venus" isn't terrible; sometimes it's quite charming, but it always remains earthbound.

So does Irish playwright Tom Murphy's adaptation of Anton Chekhov's "The Cherry Orchard." Little seems to happen in Chekhov's plays as he peels back the lives of his characters layer by layer to reveal, in this case, that these enervated people are unable to change even though their world slowly grinds past irrelevance to disappearance. Because the play requires unusual patience, it is difficult to sustain dramatic momentum.

That's what happens here. In 1904, Lyubov Ranyevskaya returns after five years in Paris to sell her beloved estate because she is so deeply in debt. Her decision affects family, friends, and retainers, all of whom are helpless in the face of change except for Yermolay, a commoner raised on the estate. He is a rising businessman with a desire to buy the place, tear down the orchard, and build summer cottages. He gets his way and, in the play's one explosive moment, erupts into a dance of almost demonic joy.

Director Jason Byrne is true to the spirit of the play, and the cast's reading of play and character is penetrating despite the overriding sense of stasis. Especially notable are Laurie Paton as Ranyevskaya, the superb Jim Mezon as her practical, sympathetic brother, and Benedict Campbell as Yermolay.

Kevin LaMotte's dimly lit stage, Peter Hartwell's use of nothing but beige for costumes and the minimal set contribute to the sense of enervation.

Director Jackie Maxwell wanted to demonstrate the continuing relevance of "An Ideal Husband," Oscar Wilde's richly satisfyinig 1895 play about the confluence of political necessity and personal morality. She does so by keeping the play in the late Victorian Era but having Judith Bowden's designs take on an exaggeratedly modern look. The resulting costumes are both clumsy and ugly. The sets are equally clumsy: large open areas to no purpose, ungainly high steps, and an open door placed so an actor almost had to twirl across the stage to avoid looking in.

A highly regarded and virtuous politician, Sir Robert Chiltern, played with straightforward ease by Patrick Galligan, risks exposure for a shady deal executed many years before. His blackmailer, Mrs. Cheveley, played with seductive determination by Moya O'Connell, promises to withhold the information if he will pull a similar fast one to protect her investments. Chiltern's wife, played with a little too much sympathy and not enough moral rigidity by Catherine McGregor, refuses any compromise. Only the apparently amoral Lord Goring is flexible enough to solve the problem. Perhaps the best scene of all is the first encounter between Chiltern and Mrs. Cheveley - a threat in the form of a tacit seduction.

Although Goring is less frivolous than he appears, Steven Sutcliffe's performance, despite its gusto, fails to suggest Goring's deeper goodness and practicality. His emerging love for Chiltern's younger sister, Mabel, is barely suggested until it pops up late in the play. Mabel, played wrongheadedly by Marla McLean, lacks innocence and shrewdness; she is too blase and too blunt by half.

Finally, the play I most wanted to see, Clare Booth Luce's "The Women" from 1936, was most disappointing of all. Examining the lives of married women wealthy enough to escape the ravages of The Great Depression, it is supposed to be acidly satiric, but it comes across as slow and obvious, with little telling humor or vitality. The acting lacks polish, except for Jenny Young as the sympathetic Mary Haines, who must move past her protected life to decide whether or not to take back her unfaithful husband. Her friends are unconcerned, spiteful, or self-absorbed as they continue to gossip about everyone else's affairs but their own. Director Alisa Palmer's few attempts at broad humor are amateurishly played by Deborah Hay and Beryl Bain.

The striking sets and costumes by William Schmuck embody 1930's elegance.

In its own time, "The Women" was pointed in its revelation of the ways women responded to male authority through settling for comfort and manipulating husbands and lovers whom they despised. It was also groundbreaking for letting women talk openly about marriage and sex. Rather than remaining pointedly relevant despite its age, though, it has become merely dated.

2010 Shaw Festival

Through October 31

Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario, Canada

$23-$105 | 800-511-7429, shawfest.com