A Fairy Tale, but Not to Read to Your Children The lecture has only just begun on the Shiva stage at the Public Theater, and yet, already, your eyelids are getting heavy, so heavy. That disagreeable man at the podium, shiny with self-satisfaction, has promised to read from his memoirs, and the tome in front of him is the size of the collected works of Joyce Carol Oates. His voice is a nasal, complacent drone that could put a rabid pit bull to sleep. But the state of hypnosis into which you subsequently fall, and remain for roughly three hours, is no coma of boredom. It's more like one of those dreams that make you writhe and sweat and cry out in your sleep. It seems that you've fallen into a fairy tale, a nasty and erotic fairy tale that, no matter how bewitching it seems at moments, murmurs a cautionary whisper all the while: Something is very wrong in this world, it says, and life may not be any better when you wake up. So, thank you (I guess), Wallace Shawn, for guiding us so skillfully into your personal nightmare, and making it feel like our very own. Mr. Shawn is the star and author of this lyrical, creepy and richly detailed (and, oh yes, pornographic) dreamscape, which goes by the name of "Grasses of a Thousand Colors" and opened on Monday night. Part of the Public Theater and Theater for a New Audience's celebration of the four-decade collaboration between Mr. Shawn and the director André Gregory, "Grasses" follows this summer's superb revival of "The Designated Mourner," a political fable of moral cowardice that made anyone with a conscience squirm. "Grasses," which I first saw at the Royal Court Theater in London four years ago, is also guaranteed to make anyone uncomfortable, though partly for different reasons, including detailed descriptions of exotic sex that the Marquis de Sade might shrink from. Like "Mourner," "Grasses" could be described as the diary of a narcissist. But this particular egomaniac, Ben (a lovely name that I have previously associated only with the meek and humble of the earth), is even less conscious of his toxic character flaws than Jack, the passive protagonist of "Mourner." This is especially unfortunate since Ben, a scientist and doctor, is powerful and smart enough to change the basic ecology of the world. When we first see him at the podium, Ben (played by Mr. Shawn, as Jack was) is in poor health and, he says, incapable of remembering even what happened yesterday. Yet the memories do indeed start rising, miasma-like, with the assistance of women from Ben's past, played by three delicious actresses: Julie Hagerty, as Ben's wife, Cerise; Jennifer Tilly as Robin, his mistress; and Emily Cass McDonnell as Rose, one of his later girlfriends. Though these women are all unforgettable, Ben's most memorable partner in Kama Sutra diversions is a cat named Blanche, whom we never actually meet. Or do we? Ben lives in a world of transformations, the most unpleasant of which can be laid directly at his feet. Ben made his fortune by solving world hunger. This was achieved by developing a special grain that alters the metabolisms of animals in ways that allow them to feed on their own kind and to multiply at unprecedented rates. If you hear a rumble of apocalypse in that description, your ears do not deceive you. This basic information is delivered early, from the podium. After that, Ben pretty much retires to that long white sofa that occupies much of the stage. He is soon joined on that sofa by one or several of the aforementioned women, who alternate narratives that are mostly about Ben's exceptionally varied sex life. Ben may be the most phallocentric character ever conceived for the stage. His penis, he says, is his best friend, possibly his only friend. And when he describes his erotic escapades, his penis accompanies him as a separate and indispensable companion, as if it were Leporello to his Don Giovanni. And, oh, the places they go! This includes a marvelous castle in the woods that might have been devised by the Brothers Grimm in concert with Pauline Réage (of "The Story of O"). I'm not going to say much more about what happens in that castle, except to advise that if you are the least bit prudish, then "Grasses" is not for you. Still, it would be a shame for anyone to miss such a thorough deployment of the powers of enchantment as is offered here. For though the characters speak largely in monologues, you somehow feel you have joined them, step by step and blow by blow, in their sometimes violent, often twisting odysseys. And they always, always, seem to be interacting with one another, even when one lies asleep on that big sofa. Under Mr. Gregory's direction, an inspired technical team - including Eugene Lee (set), Howard Harrison (lighting), Bruce Odland (music and sound) and Bill Morrison (video) - keeps extending and blurring the boundaries of what's real. Human voices shade into guttural feline purrs; the single-room set keeps changing color in ways that alter the colors of the performers; rumbles from the deep portend metaphorical earthquakes. (Or is that just the subway line beneath the theater? Whatever, it works.) The acting is fantastic throughout - and, by that, I mean fantastical as well as very good. The defiantly ripe sensuality and sandpaper voice of Ms. Tilly have never been better used. Ms. Hagerty becomes an ethereal, whispery ghost of a girl, who suddenly acquires startling flesh and volume. And Ms. McDonnell is their perfect foil in her matter-of-factness about the perversity of love, life and death as they exist in their world. And then there is, supremely, Mr. Shawn. Has there ever been an actor so willing to present himself, baldly and unblushingly, as a fatuous, selfish, porcine and downright pathetic specimen of homo erectus? Like the seductive right-wing pundit of Mr. Shawn's "Aunt Dan and Lemon," Ben is a monster, scarier than anything from a George Romero movie. That's because his breed walks among us, chatting, schmoozing and, yes, even charming us. So when Ben talks, you listen, and not only because he spins a brilliant yarn. You should also pay attention so that you can recognize his ilk the next time you meet someone like him in some fancy environment, like Davos or the Four Seasons restaurant. Be very much on your guard, and, oh yes, try not to stare at his crotch. Grasses of a Thousand Colors By Wallace Shawn; directed by André Gregory; sets by Eugene Lee; costumes by Dona Granata; lighting by Howard Harrison; music and sound by Bruce Odland; video by Bill Morrison; special assistance by Rob Weiner; production supervisor, Production Core; production stage manager, Jennifer Rae Moore; associate artistic director, Mandy Hackett; associate producer, Maria Goyanes; general manager, Steven Showalter; production executive, Ruth E. Sternberg. Presented by the Public Theater, Oskar Eustis, artistic director; Patrick Willingham, executive director; and Theater for a New Audience, Jeffrey Horowitz, artistic director; Dorothy Ryan, managing director. At the Public Theater, 425 Lafayette Street, at Astor Place, East Village; 212-967-7555, publictheater.org. Through November 24. Running time: 3 hours 30 minutes. WITH: Julie Hagerty (Cerise), Emily Cass McDonnell (Rose), Wallace Shawn (Ben) and Jennifer Tilly (Robin).