Entertainment Centering  Something is disquietingly wrong with
David Esbjornson's production of Maria Irene Fornes's Mud. It
doesn't perturb me much because I'm used to being disquieted by
Fornes's works; disquiet is their natural habitat. Fornes writes
very simply and clearly: The actions in her plays are always
specific, the words few and precise. There's no fuzz and very
little decoration. Yet the overall effect is of something
complex, initially often puzzling, and ulti- mately quite rich
in retrospect. If the surface bareness is what disquiets new
arrivals, they should be warned that only deeper disquiet lies
ahead. You never "solve" a Fornes play; it lingers at the back
of your mind to bother you.  Mud, for instance, is a sparse,
70-minute piece bursting with matters left unexplained. Mae and
Lloyd live in a house in what's apparently a rural area; only
later do we learn what their relationship is and how they came
to be there. Radios and telephones exist, yet the 20th century
seems barely to touch the