When you watch Salt Lake Acting Company's "The Caretaker," it helps to know that playwright Harold Pinter is considered part of "theater of the absurd" school -- a reaction to the existential absurdity of post World War II society.

If you walk out of the theater feeling a little anxious, as if the story that just unfolded remains incomplete, you've been what one might call "Pinterized." For that to work, solid and precise direction of the performances is key. In this case, director John Vreeke knows exactly the intention --- or lack of intention -- of Pinter's script.

"The Caretaker" is an unusual choice for the Salt Lake company dedicated to producing contemporary works, as Pinter's play might be considered more of a "contemporary classic," after becoming the playwright's first significant commercial success when it opened in 1960 at London's Arts Theatre Club.

Nearly 50 years later, Pinter's language needs the right punctuation, inflection and intonation to make it effectively land in the ears of theatergoers. Vreeke lives up to the challenge of the wordy script by helping his three-man cast achieve a consistent pace. Of course, he's aided by three very different, very smart actors who listen and understand both the script and their characters, working together to create Pinter-level anxiety.

Take the character of Davies (Joe Cronin), for example, an old man who talks nonstop, for such extensive stretches that you can't help but be impressed at Cronin's memorization skills and want to stick around to figure out what the character is jabbering about. With less confident direction, Davies' speeches might either drive an impatient audience mad -- or to sleep.

Cronin's physical twitches, both subtle and overt, help the actor embody a weathered man, down on his luck, who is on the verge on dementia or just plain exhaustion. You learn he's been fired and nearly caught up in a bar fight, before he's invited to share the night by Aston (Daniel Beecher), whose act of generosity seems more complicated than the characters let on.

"What's your game?" challenges Mick (Matthew Ivan Bennett) Davies, with a judgemental, and mischievous yet dangerous grin. Bennett, known locally as the quiet resident playwright of the Plan-B Theatre Company, can act, too. His onstage confidence and stealthy movements make his character's quicksilver transitions believable as he turns from bully to vulnerable, frustrated dreamer.

Davies repeatedly talks about going down to Sidcup to find the man who has his papers. Aston, a mostly passive, aloof character, reveals much of the play's absurd humor in the way he doesn't respond to the old man's accelerating demands. He thinks his house and life will be repaired when he builds a shed in the garden. Mick ricochets between challenging the stranger and inventing his own perfectly decorated household.

In act two, Aston reveals his vulnerability with a detailed account of his time in a mental hospital. Beecher gives the speech a nuance that underscores both the effect and significance of the experience. He begins his story by talking with Davies, but thanks to Jim Craig's skillful, subtle lighting design, his revelations build to become an intimate soul bearing conversation with the audience. And Beecher gets the demanding story's pace and tone just right.

What makes the performances so effective is how each of the three characters work individually, as if they are on their own mental islands, and have just happened to cross paths with the others. They remain true to themselves, each of their stories not quite adding up, each character humorous at times, and also isolated, erratic, frustrated and fearful.

Finally, Keven Myhre's set is impressive both in its scale and detail. Expanding the stage gives the actors the liberty to move about physically -- and metaphorically -- while delivering their long speeches. The dimension offers the audience depth and contrast in a world that seems constricted by each character's limitations, making the story add up to something bigger than its parts.

rorellana@sltrib.com