Barely out of her teens, a former gangbanger and the product of a violent home, Fatima is in prison for poisoning several customers in the fast-food joint where she worked. She claims to be able to see the future, and she exerts a profound influence on everyone who comes in contact with her -- whether that influence is beneficial or malign is open to interpretation. Full of dark fury, Jackie Billotte played this role as if her own life depended on it. She was brash and insistent, arrogant and manipulative, sometimes full of tenderness, sometimes bawling like a lost child. A mind-bending performance.

Kim Staunton was silent for long stretches of the play as she cooked, cleaned and did the laundry for the imperious, semi-mythical central character, Aunt Ester. But her silence was more eloquent than most other people's impassioned speech. You could see what Staunton's character, Mary, thought and felt in her body, the curve of her spine, the way she used her hands, her sidelong glances at the others. She took Aunt Ester's criticisms meekly, but when she decided -- in a ringing speech -- to reclaim her soul, it was clear no one on earth could have stopped her. Among a talented ensemble, this performance gleamed.

Kristina Denise Pitt comes across as a smart, self-contained little cookie -- not at all conceited, but quite aware of her own attractiveness. Her voice is clear and pleasant. She holds herself well. "Spunky" is the word she brings to mind. In short, she's the perfect choice for one of those witty, confident Shavian heroines -- which is why she was cast in Heartbreak House. Pitt didn't disappoint, whether her Ellie was worrying about her good-hearted father, realizing she loved the retired Captain Shotover or holding her own in the cat-and-mouse games that the two older women in the play loved. This was a bright, strong, appealing performance.

The protagonist of Neil LaBute's play views the September 11 disaster as an opportunity: It means he can let his wife and children assume he died at the World Trade Center while he runs off with his equally contemptible mistress. And yet there were moments during the Paragon production when you felt a guilty empathy for both of them. Director Warren Sherrill's production of this uncomfortably honest play was first-rate, with a sparse, elegant set and evocative sound. Michael Stricker and Martha Harmon Pardee jostled brilliantly with each other as the soulless couple, their timing swift, precise and hungry.

Sure, it was a tiny role -- the woman didn't even really have a name -- but there was no mistaking the electricity that zinged through the air when Annette Helde shot on stage in her wheelchair and cut through the other characters' confusions and rationalizations with commands barked out in a fierce German accent. As authoritative in comic roles as in tragic ones, Helde has been sorely missed on local stages in recent months.

Assassins, with music by Stephen Sondheim, tells the story of assassins and would-be assassins of American presidents, from Booth to Oswald. With its controversial theme and difficult songs, this was an amazingly gutsy choice for a small company. Next Stage made it work with an excellent cast and a group of skilled musicians. Under the direction of Gene Kato, the production blew through the mind like an unsettling wind, hurling aside platitudes and raising a host of tormenting questions.

Isabella is a would-be nun, the sister of a young man whom Angelo, a religion-crazed deputy, condemns to death for fornication. Although she pleads for her brother's life, Isabella is in her own way as narrow and judgmental as Angelo; it is through suffering that she is eventually humanized. Isabella is a very difficult role to get right -- she's a tragic figure in a comedy, by turns cold and sympathetic, and given some of the most profound speeches Shakespeare ever wrote. Ruth Eglsaer confronted these problems with passion and integrity, and vanquished them; she made Shakespeare's language her own. In the early scenes, her Isabella had the chilly radiance of an icicle; her anguish later in the play tore at the heart. A stunning achievement.

For five years, some of the area's most interesting theater took place on a small, square stage above the galleries at the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art, courtesy of Brandi Mathis, artistic director for the space. There was Eric Bogosian skewering the zeitgeist, singer-actress Ethelyn Friend singing Songs My Grandmother Taught Me, Nancy Cranbourne kvetching about menopause, the subversive performance art of Michelle Ellsworth and the first ever Colorado performance of a work by Suzan-Lori Parks. Almost every performance found the place filled to overflowing. Mathis left her post last spring, a few months after directorship of the museum was taken over by Penny Barnow and Joan Markowitz. No one is saying why.

It takes a lot of poise and talent for a teenager to romance a middle-aged woman on stage, but that's what high school sophomore Scott Ryan was called on to do in Kimberly Akimbo. The protagonist is a teenage girl suffering from a rare disease that causes her to age at warp speed. Jeff can see the young soul behind the wrinkled facade, and he grows to love her. Ryan made his mark on this quiet but telling role and revealed a stage presence many older actors would envy.

He was lewd. He was lurid. He was omnisexual. He was delicious. Whenever Nick Sugar steps onto a stage, he owns it, and Dr. Frank-N-Furter is a role he was born to play. What can we say, except that he strutted and preened and sang and flashed that crimson-lipped, lemon-wedge-shaped smile until he'd worked his way into the nightmare fantasies of every person in the audience.