He treats Kafka's parable with bloodless philosophy and marinates some very silly set pieces in pretentious language about sex and beauty and soul. Tori Hinkle plays an aloof and glamorous Josephine with cropped mouse-colored hair and fiercely glaring eyes, but her lines are too self-conscious to bring the prima donna fully to life. ("You cannot have the heights of my potentialities!" she tells a fawning fan. "You cannot have the whole spirit!") We're not allowed to forget that these are mouse folk, small-minded and petty. The show does have charming surprises -- like a giant yellow cake dismantled by the mice, or a Narrator with an eye patch and a missing foreleg (mangled by The Cat), or a well-choreographed bit with mouse-ghosts -- but it lacks any real urgency. The one question a play can answer that the story can't is, "How does Josephine sound?" and the answer here is predictable. For all his silliness, McClure turns out to be one of those people who take Kafka too seriously.