Director Dan Day has turned to a primitive solution--severely pruned text spoken by four talented actors in plain dark costume, with each playing multiple roles. There are three pale, flowing intrusions on his caliginous vision: Long tresses of white sheet dangle from the MAC's high ceiling, and the performers either wrap themselves in the material or drape it over a platform to make love or commit suicide on. The female half of the quartet is the more immediately beguiling. Shelley Tharp as the clown-mouthed nurse earns the most laughs for her faux-coy machinations. Tina Parker manages to infuse a neurotic girlishness to Juliet and not obliterate the dialogue with self-indulgent tics. As an understanding of where adolescent desire and poetic inspiration intersect, hers is a rare modernization. Director Day last season miscast Chris Carlos in the title of Othello, and he commits a similar sin by shoehorning frowny-faced Lynn Mathis into the role of Romeo, and slighting Carlos as a chorus of supporting players. Middle-aged Matthis is too marmoreal, too stately in his thunderous vocal presentation to offer much vulnerability, while Carlos' gender-bent gentleness makes us fall for him the way we should for a confused lover like Romeo. Switch their line loads from one to the other, and you'd have a Romeo and Juliet whose refurbished minimalism truly startled you.