Patrick Page, Jason Sanchez, Adrien Rolet, Jake Berne, and Kristine Nielsen Photo by Joan Marcus

And to explore it via sandwiches? They're a talking point from the get-go, as Gavrilo (Jake Berne) and Nedeljko (Jason Sanchez) meet in set designer Alexander Dodge's spooky abandoned warehouse in 1914 Belgrade. Kids, really–19, and not that bright–they've been summoned there under mysterious circumstances, and they circle each other warily. Both are poor and tubercular–"lungers," in their parlance–and probably not long for the world. Gavrilo's fondest memory was gobbling a half-eaten sandwich he found, and one of the convent-schooled Nedeljko's favorite moments was a nun giving him a sandwich. He's quick-tempered and confrontational, qualities not eased by the appearance of Trifko (Adrien Rolet), the slightly older compatriot who at first seems their leader but turns out to be as clueless as the other two, albeit a multiple murderer. He's there to take them to "the Captain," who will give them their orders.

And the Captain, thank heaven, is Patrick Page. A higher-up in the Black Hand, a secret Serbian military society, he's witty, assertive, methodical, and, best of all, he has Patrick Page's voice. What a mellifluous bass-baritone, what polished round tones, what variance of delivery, what timing, and here's one actor who will never need a mic. Employing every clever device he can think of, the Captain unveils a plot to send the three young men to Sarajevo, off the archduke and his wife, secure a place in history, and give their short lives meaning. If Patrick Page were doing this sales pitch on me, I'd probably buy.

But why did the Captain choose these three, who are so unworldly and, well, stupid? A mystery Joseph fails to unravel, even as the sandwich talk continues. It's interrupted by the ministrations of Sladjana (Kristine Nielsen), the Captain's right-hand woman who does the cooking and the serving, and an odd duck. A dutiful servant, she's nonetheless quirky, in unsettling ways.

Devout, and surely one of the first women on the planet to refer to God as "she," Sladjana hates cats, calling them instruments of the devil and delighting in murdering kittens and soaking their hearts in brandy, then passing those off as sour cherries. It's a side trip that does little to illuminate the assassination throughline, but it does give Nielsen ample opportunity to cavort. Now, we love Kristine Nielsen, but director Darko Tresnjak has encouraged her to overdo. Bustling about in what's meant to be a comic gait, dispensing with "harrumph"s and other indefinable noises, and throwing focus, she later tries to convince Gavrilo to abandon the Captain's scheme–or does she? So much ambiguity, and she's not helping to tell the story.

Which progresses in fits and starts. The small talk among Gavrilo, Trifko, and Nedeljko is kind of sweet, an adept fusion of 1914 conversational rhythms and contemporary constructs; these three might be frat bros. Told by the Captain that they'll be traveling to Sarajevo on a train with food (and sandwiches!), they're thrilled, and if murdering an archduke is the price of such an adventure, they'll pay it. But, for all Joseph's evocative dialogue, we don't get to know them particularly well. Gavrilo, obsessed with "lady bones," a female skeleton he saw in a doctor's office that has begun dispatching messages to his addled head, has the most personality, and Berne delineates it well. But maybe there's just not that much to know about these boys. They're immature and excitable (Rocío Mendez stages a number of fights), aware of their low social standing, and grasping uncertainly at the propaganda the Captain is dishing out. And that's about it.

They do make it to Sarajevo. Gavrilo actually fired the fatal shots, after a bomb detonated by Nedeljko failed to do the job, but all of that is dramatized inexactly; I didn't quite follow it. The final scene, with the three in should-we-or-shouldn't-we chatter, is laid out so confusingly that I couldn't tell whether it was actually being said, happening in the mind of one of them, or just an invention of Joseph's.

The point seems to be, if you're a hired assassin, think twice before pulling the trigger. Not a message most of us will have to confront directly. Archduke is a why of a play; still, there are good scenes, and Linda Cho's costumes, Matthew Richards' lighting, and Jane Shaw's elaborate sound design–dogs barking, thunder, foghorns, train clickety-clacks–are all first-class. As for Patrick Page, we could listen to him all night.