Howard McGillin, Kimberly Doreen Burns, Polly McKie, Ashley Robinson, Reed Lancaster, and Ali Ewoldt Photo by Carol Rosegg

This is a Dylan Thomas radio play, one he worked on for several years and recorded in 1952. It's essentially a memory of his boyhood Yules, a series of anecdotes and youthful impressions laced with carols, tons of carols. While musical director David Hancock Turner toils diligently away on the upstage grand, our troupe of six portray various members of the Thomas household or other locals enjoying a very traditional Christmas holiday in Swansea. That's really all there is to it.

You couldn't ask for a lovelier set than Colm McNally's, with its two Christmas trees, two beribboned holly wreaths, stockings on the wall, comfy plush furniture, and Michael Gottlieb's warm lighting to highlight featured soloists at key moments. Charlotte Moore, who directed, adapted Thomas's text, and wrote a couple of pleasant carols to go along with the standard ones, has her sextet mostly face front and declare, smiling, smiling.

Rosy-cheeked Reed Lancaster is our Thomas stand-in; judging from his delivery, the young Dylan Thomas was a pretty nice kid, intelligent and curious and with an obvious descriptive gift. You may have to do some mental arithmetic to reconcile this bright young fellow with the glum alcoholic poet who died at 39 after over-imbibing at the White Horse. I'm not sure how accurate a portrayal Lancaster's is, but he might make a swell J. Pierrepont Finch, or dreamcoated Joseph.

His mother is Kimberly Doreen Burns, resplendent in costumer David Toser's red velvet gown; there's lots of red and green on that stage. In figure-flattering green velvet is Ali Ewoldt, playing several roles and giving out with an "O Holy Night" that just about stops the show. Ashley Robinson is Dylan's da, given not enough to do, and Polly McKie gets to be several locals, notably tipsy Aunt Hannah, who spikes her tea with too much rum. Howard McGillin, graying attractively and voice intact, is generally the authority figure–the officious Smoky the Park Keeper admonishing the mischievous local boys, or a local recalling Christmases past, far older than the early-1930s ones being honored here.

Among the memories: telling ghost stories, throwing snowballs at cats (why?), gathering with a plethora of uncles and aunts to savor the holiday feast, enjoying the sight of a neighbor's house on fire–that's how little entertainment there was. These episodes are punctuated by some amusing ensemble numbers, such as "I Don't Want a Lot for Christmas" (but they do) and "Miss Fogarty's Christmas Cake" (it's terrible). Plus such evergreens as "All Through the Night," smoothly caressed by McGillin, and a bracing round of "A' Soalin'," aka "Hey Ho, Nobody Home."

But, but, but. The language is poetic and effusive; the performers are appealing, if a little given to over-emoting and over-gesturing. But there's only one mood, a genial nostalgia that curdles into monotony. It has a community-theatre feel to it, and that's not a dis; it's intimate and modest, six actors who appear to genuinely like one another doing their best to show their castmates off to good advantage. We're just left hungering for conflict, character, shifts of tone.

A Child's Christmas in Wales is pretty as a picture, a Christmas card come to life. And if all you're after are the usual Yuletide accoutrements, a happy celebration of the birth of Christ and the goodhearted cultural customs it inspired, graced by the lilting strings of words of a great Welsh poet, you're sure to spend a rewarding 75 minutes. Me, I had a better time at Elf.