Zarinaha Russell’s open, pleading face frames almost every moment of Machinal, a play so loud and chilly it needs each bit of the warmth she offers it.With her as rudder, the production almost never sinks into the distance that Expressionist works impose upon modern audiences who expect realism and get dystopia. The production’s greatest feat is that the dystopia still comes through, and effectively, thanks to pitch perfect staging, lighting, sound, and acting that are nearly as consistent as Russell’s magnificent tour through isolation.

The elements of Expressionism – man (or woman) fighting the machine of oppressive society, fixation with the taboo or undesirable – are certainly present in Jack Zerbe’s direction, but he added something tricky: race. With an African American in what may be assumed as a white role, the show updates itself to Guilford Present, American Present, and the effect is never preachy or muddled. Her color is used poetically, and underscores the story’s feminism, emphasis on human dignity, and examination of what it is to be utterly alone.

Consider Russell’s first major open-soul cry early in the first half. She’s been toyed with by slimy executive Chris Imms (imprecise and graceless, but bearing a fortunate resemblance to Charles Foster Kane) and could end a life at the bottom by toying back with someone on top.

She stands alone, and in a raw stream monologue bears her every pang, fear, and hope; marry a monster and sleep late some mornings, or get out of bed every day to type? Floorlights project the silhouette of wobbly legs and a girlish skirt onto a blank canvas, and her voice echoes in the empty chasm of her solitude.

The play manages five or six such perfect moments (as she stands trial, the judge’s bench seems to reflect wings on her back), and the time inbetween them is mostly almost as strong. An electric Bradley George splashes us with Chianti, while the delight he provides is never a distraction. Kate McNeely typifies Expressionism’s bizarre coldness in her scene as Russell’s mother, but when tears begin to flow, the immediacy of sympathy we feel surprises us. The side commentary on the non-objectivity of journalism challenges us as consumers of information.

Mr. Jones, Imms’s character, is accused at one point of imagining things. “That’s not true! I’ve never imagined anything in my entire life!” he barks, never looking at his wife as he addresses her. The Theatre Studies Department’s ironic, unnerving, compelling production of Machinal is about as opposed to Mr. Jones as theatre can get.