In keeping with the spirit of Edward Albee's "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" let me begin this review by being awkwardly personal. I've spent the last two weeks in a dark place (artistically, spiritually, practically, relationally, every-ally). So when time comes 'round to review Warehouse Theatre's latest offering, here was my gut reaction: "I really don't want to spend three hours in a room with people screaming obscenities at each other." My beleaguered husband's gut reaction was "Maybe you should call in sick for this one." Dark places or no, maybe this is also your inclination regarding such painful masterpieces of the theatre: Why on earth should I watch people lacerate each other?

Now let me borrow another convention from the play: erudition. The Greeks had a handy concept for why these stories are important. It's called catharsis, and I think it works something like this (correct me, George, if I'm wrong).

1. You go to Warehouse Theatre, and you watch Mimi Wyche be one witch of a woman as Martha. You can't help but watch her. Wyche's work is like fire--entrancing, beautiful, and sickeningly destructive. (If you've only got the fortitude to see one Martha before you die, you'd do well to pick Wyche's.)

2. You feel her husband George (played by Chip Egan) sink deeper and deeper into the bogs of his dead-end middle-aged nightmare. Thanks to Egan's raw, natural performance, you feel yourself slipping into that slew as well.

3. You watch them air their dirtiest secrets, tear at each other's most tender places, and generally destroy each other in front of two complete strangers, Nick (Brock Koonce) and Honey (Debra Capps), both of whom get singed in the fire, and both of whom know how to occupy the right amount of space in the story. Capps is charming and frail; Koonce is bullish and condescending; neither try to wrest your attention from the real fire between George and Martha.

4. You enjoy director Roy Fluhrer's masterful pacing, and (no thanks to the Greeks) you take breaks, called intermissions. All of this helps you survive the fire.

5. Then you see them all burn up: George, Martha, all their pretenses, and all the little illusions they've created in order to survive.

6. And you could have a miniature light-bulb moment, say, "Hey, I don't have it that bad," feel better about your life, and move on until the next flavor of existential crisis blah strikes your fancy.

7. Or, you cold have genuine (Greek) pity for the characters, the people around you, yourself. You might even be able to recognize and confront some of your own fear-filled illusions, and step forward with George and Martha into something that isn't radiant and isn't perfect, but just might be a little bit more truthful.

That ending is one of the most truthful moments I've scene in a theatre in a long time, and it's worth every bit of agony to get there. It's not easy. It hurts. But it is (as so few things are) truly vital. Darkness or no, I'm especially glad I didn't call in sick.
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Edward Albee's "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"
Presented by Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through February 5. Tickets $25.