YEAR IN REVIEW 1995 : THEATER : P.C. and a Mixed Bag : Terribly earnest drama played at the bigger theaters; on stage elsewhere, 1995 provided music, comedy and few risks.

Earlier this year, South Coast Rep produced a play called “Ghost in the Machine” by David Gilman. In it, a musicologist is ecstatic when he thinks he has discovered a pattern in the work of a composer who makes complex compositions from sounds chosen randomly by a computer. In the unordered density of this music, the man believes he has located the first five measures of a 16th century choral work by Martin Luther, a coincidence so mathematically unlikely it would seem to signal the existence of God.

I thought of this play when I looked over the year in L.A. theater. And if anyone can find a pattern in the vast, spread-out and utterly divergent terrain that was theater in and around Los Angeles in the year 1995, I’ll join his or her cult.

Even so simple a task as dividing local theater into convenient segments defies pattern-finding. Let’s start with the shows produced by the only behemoth in town, the Center Theatre Group, which produces at the Mark Taper Forum, the Ahmanson and the Doolittle as well as at the tiny Taper, Too. After that, the categories become location, location, location.

Center Theatre Group. The year began for CTG on a terribly earnest note at the Mark Taper Forum, with “Black Elk Speaks,” a play with dance and music that told the story of the genocide of the Native Americans. Striking a tone perfect for these politically correct times, “Black Elk” fetishized the Indians’ anguish and seems to equate a stiff recounting of their suffering with high art. It was followed by a more sophisticated but similarly dull and virtuous three-hour adaptation of Maxine Hong Kingston’s “The Woman Warrior” at the Doolittle.

Patrons may have wondered whether they would be earning some kind of Scout badge for sitting through such excruciatingly P.C. theater.

Both of these pieces were funded in part by AT&T; grants. Mere coincidence? More common ground (do I hear the strains of Martin Luther here?): Both were authentic autobiographical stories adapted by white writers (Christopher Sergel for “Black Elk” and Deborah Rogin for “Woman Warrior”) for largely white audiences who were asked to contemplate the purity of “the other” and the perfidy of their own kind. In other words, on these stages, 1995 began as just another chapter in the story of forced politeness going on across the country in the arts.

Meanwhile, in its tiny 99-seat annex, the Taper, Too, Center Theatre Group produced a 90-minute autobiographical story both moving and delightful. Marga Gomez’s one-woman show, “A Line Around the Block,” was the wonderfully observed, deftly told story of a problematic show-biz father, a man who ran the Teatro Latino in Harlem, and his young, at-first adoring daughter, Marga. The fact that the family is Latino is inherently important and at the same time irrelevant to the charm of the piece. The play opens at the Joseph Papp Public Theater in New York in March.

Back on the Taper stage, attention to the white man’s moral burden continued in “Three Hotels,” a fascinating if bloodless Jon Robin Baitz play that examined the hidden cost to an American businessman who markets milk formula for babies abroad, where uneducated mothers in underdeveloped countries misuse it with terrible consequences. Richard Dreyfuss was chillingly flat as the man who operates in a world where “any action is justifiable as long as the results are profitable.”

The high point of the year, both for the Center Theatre Group and perhaps for all of Los Angeles, was another Taper show, this one about art that is made out of pure passion. Zoe Caldwell was brilliant in her portrayal of an aging, nasty, yet somehow still luminous Maria Callas in Terrence McNally’s “Master Class.” The play is now a certified Broadway hit, with Caldwell a virtual shoo-in for the Tony in June.

And blessedly, the year that began with “Black Elk” ended with “Candide,” a beautifully sung production that restored several songs and was lovingly directed by Gordon Davidson. “Candide,” from Voltaire’s great short novel, takes a clear-eyed look at the perpetual ignominy of men, and it speaks both wittily and sensibly of our need to use self-knowledge to achieve true responsibility in the world. That grown-up and timeless message, combined with Leonard Bernstein’s gorgeous music, ended the year on a true grace note.

Los Angeles at large. The most powerful producers brought us the most expensive musicals: The arrival of Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schonberg’s “Miss Saigon” at the Ahmanson was inevitable, given “Phantom of the Opera’s” great success there (both shows were produced by Cameron Mackintosh). “Miss Saigon” is so cleverly produced that some people didn’t notice that it lacked the emotional punch of the creative team’s former triumph, “Les Miserables.” Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast,” that easily dismissible yet entirely pleasurable bauble, came to the Shubert and stayed. Can “The Lion King” be far behind?

On a more serious note, sort of: Director David Schweizer gave us Henrik Ibsen on uppers with an amazingly energetic “Peer Gynt” at the Actors Gang in Hollywood. The image of the three-headed troll, played by Ned Bellamy, Jack Black and Molly Bryant, all of them offering a stream of insanely funny commentary amid their own belching and farting, reminded us that raw and raunchy theater is often preferable to the well-mannered and polished kind, the kind that often attracts grant money.

Another talented director, Andrew J. Robinson, found the music in the absurdist landscapes of both Beckett (“Endgame”) and Pinter (“The Homecoming”) at the Matrix Theatre in West Hollywood this year. Robinson is uncommonly good at proving an oddly comforting fact--that what is most bleak can be funniest.

On a less serious note: After a decade of solemnity, theater about gay life in America took an oddly silly and yet audience-pleasing detour. “Party,” the male striptease hit from Chicago and New York, took up residence at the Henry Fonda Theatre, where audience members roar with laughter and then don’t respect themselves in the morning. “End of the World Party,” another gag-a-minute play that shows less skin and more sentimental overtones, is a hit at Celebration Theatre. For the moment, it seems no one has anything new or particularly serious to say in wake of “Angels in America” (an excellent touring production of which touched down all too briefly at the Doolittle in August).

Heterosexual silliness rules in “Bermuda Avenue Triangle,” which had audiences as convulsed with laughter as they were in “Party” when the stripping started. By Renee Taylor and Joseph Bologna, “Bermuda Avenue Triangle” offers no nudity, although the sight of Renee Taylor as a grandma in a white fringed outfit from Les Trashy Chic could cause you to bust a gut. So could the entire cast, which turns obvious jokes into comic gold with impeccable timing. The show reopens at the Tiffany Theatre in January.

The Westwood Playhouse, meanwhile, became the Geffen Playhouse and bravely inaugurated itself with “Four Dogs and a Bone,” one of the most scathing looks at Hollywood since “Day of the Locust.” Directed by and acted by movie people, “Four Dogs” had a realistic tone not seen in a previous production in New York, where Hollywood is not so much an actual place as a metaphor for all evil.

A fonder but still stinging rebuke of the stars was set to famous show tunes. In the very funny “Forbidden Hollywood,” writer Gerard Alessandrini took his scalpel to celebrities like Warren Beatty, Liza Minnelli and Sally Field, sometimes with true nastiness. No matter, there were enough non-famous and un-insulted people in Hollywood to fill the seats and do great business at the Coronet Theatre for seven months. Now the show is off to New York, where it will open at a theater-nightclub called Triad in February.

The funniest chronicler of the other L.A.--the one where characters are not consumed by ambition--debuted a new play at the Cast Theatre in Hollywood. Justin Tanner, the boy wonder of L.A. theater, opened “Intervention,” a play in which a family decides to forcibly interrupt a son’s drug use. The family, it turns out, is in far worse shape than the object of their rescue. This hilarious slice of Americana shows off Tanner’s casual love of the drug culture and his remarkable dialogue.

The beautiful Alex Theatre in Glendale hoped to get back on its feet after a disastrous year with the safest possible formula: Present old Broadway musicals with affordable stars. Thus, Jack Jones in “South Pacific” and Jodi Benson in “My Fair Lady.” Inoffensive, but you just want them to try harder somehow.

Another beautiful theater that has been warding off financial disaster, the Pasadena Playhouse, still has no artistic director. This year it played it very safe with the gentle and geriatric “Radio Gals” and the livelier but still proven revue “Blues in the Night.” The theater struck out with a contemporary update of Chekhov, Richard Alfieri’s “The Sisters,” an impulse that has to be applauded. Unfortunately, the play turned out to be closer to “Days of Our Lives” than to “Three Sisters.”

It turned out to be the last season for the Padua Hills Playwrights’ Festival. Festival founder Murray Mednick went out with a bang with a memorable play, “Freeze,” about a young woman’s manipulation of an unseen couple who want to adopt the baby she is carrying.

Finally, at the Coast Playhouse in West Hollywood, Evan Handler, once most famous for being the actor Nicol Williamson assaulted onstage in “I Hate Hamlet,” performed his one-man play about a far worse experience. “Time on Fire” was a devastating tour of the New York hospital system encountered when the actor found he had leukemia. Handler gave us trenchant reportage as well as a mature and impressive treatise on mortality.

Way Down South. The most exciting debut of the year, though it was riddled with book problems, was Randy Newman’s “Faust” at the La Jolla Playhouse. Directed by new artistic director Michael Greif, “Faust” has an uncertain future: Despite the many delights of its score, the show was not quite finished enough to go to Broadway, as musicals by Greif’s predecessor, Des McAnuff, did.

La Jolla also gave us a magical production of Jose Rivera’s “Cloud Tectonics,” a remarkably unsappy treatise on perfect love.

From the Old Globe came “Full Gallop,” a lusciously entertaining version of Diana Vreeland’s autobiography, “D.V.,” which actress and co-author Mary Louise Wilson later took to the Manhattan Theatre Club. The Old Globe also premiered a funny but ultimately disappointing mystery thriller by Stephen Sondheim and George Furth. Its title, “The Doctor Is Out,” will change to “Getting Away With Murder” in its frankly questionable bid for Broadway success. John Goodman may have had trouble with Roseanne this year, but he had an unmitigated triumph as Falstaff in “Henry IV.”

Just Down South. South Coast Rep gave us a first-rate production of Nicky Silver’s “Raised in Captivity,” with particularly funny turns from actresses Julie Hagerty and Jane Kaczmaric. Down in Garden Grove, the Grove Theater Center featured a hilarious performance from John Fleck as Bottom in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” just before the actor took over the fastidious secretary role in “Murder One.”

Of musicals passing through the Orange County Performing Arts Center on a hopeful voyage to Broadway: “Jekyll & Hyde” wanted desperately to be good enough but wasn’t (future: uncertain). “Hello, Dolly!” is already there, don’t-cha-know. “Stage Door Charley,” now called “Buskers,” suffered a delay in its New York opening when star Tommy Tune broke his foot (future: uncertain).

But the most unlikely musical of all, Rodgers & Hammerstein’s homely “State Fair” arrived in Cerritos in a completely delightful new production. It is scheduled for a Broadway opening in March. Break a leg! (Not you, Mr. Tune.)