Many theater junkies get a little twitchy around one-man shows, despite their nearly universal ubiquity. For every quirky and dangerous “Thom Pain,” there are thousands of autobiographical indulgences masquerading as dramatic events. In fact, “drama” usually has nothing to do with it. Interaction, conflict, and the imitation of life give way to the cozier medium of “storytelling;” nine times out of 10, the story isn’t worth hearing. Heather Raffo’s many-voiced “Nine Parts of Desire,” Roger Guenveur Smith’s electric “A Huey P. Newton Story,” or even “Belfast Blues” (which continues to play the Culture Project most evenings), all stand as gorgeous exceptions to the rule. But Deb Margolin’s most recent exercise, “Index to Idioms” cannot escape it.

Ms. Margolin’s lauded prose style (last year’s “Three Seconds in the Key”) and subject matter would best lend themselves to a series of personal essays. “Index to Idioms” even has a bookish title. But Ms. Margolin insists on staging her pieces, working with a minimum of theatrical sense and a lecture style that might look more at home behind a podium. In one excruciatingly self-referential moment, she tears up over the “performing body” that “has at once the hubris and humility to offer herself to me.” Though her sketches of her domestic life have the occasional moments of grace, humility doesn’t have too much to do with it.

Basing each short monologue on a phrase like “String Someone Along” or “To Keep Under One’s Hat,” Ms. Margolin interprets each idiom literally. An actual string is the instrument of a petty revenge taken in college, and her hat covers bald patches left behind by cancer medications. Ms. Margolin’s stories make you want to get to know her – she may be a mother of two, but her earthy sensibility hasn’t dried up into prudery. She seems to see sex everywhere, even in a shock of wild grass in her own backyard. She exposes the dilemma of the working mother with honesty and regret; she fesses up to having the junkiest car in New Jersey. But candor isn’t the ultimate test of stage-worthiness, and likability doesn’t translate into watchability. Unless your taste runs to the confessional, Ms. Margolin’s “Index” just isn’t worth the reference.

While upstairs at the “Culture Project” Deb Margolin makes do with the absolute minimum of stagecraft, downstairs, they’re dripping with it. The Synaesthetic Theater’s version of Kafka’s “Trial of K” has clearly never met a trick it didn’t poach. Live-broadcasting digital video cameras, a spooky author character who slinks around the edges of his creation, and a dozen queasily sexual dance numbers all blend to make some nonsensical theater soup. Densely written program notes try to convince us that the cabaret-noir-goth aesthetic emerged after years of careful adaptation. That a clear and incisive adaptation did not emerge from those years of work means the time was rather wasted.

While directors Joy Leonard and Chris Nichols are busy throwing the kitchen sink at Kafka – casting “K” as a woman, turning trial scenes into strip teases – only one presence on stage manages to actually tell the story. Unfortunately, it’s not an actor, it’s the set. David Szlasa’s patchwork platform does a number of nifty things, but none of them so nifty as its big finish. The story – a familiar one about an opaque, murderous judicial system – finishes with K, the universal defendant, going to her doom. As she stands – adjusting her tie, shooting her cuffs – the entire stage begins to raise over her head. Like the famous Buster Keaton wall, but moving in reverse, it leaves her standing on a tiny platform while a ton of plywood lifts overhead. After 90 minutes of the show’s pointless trickery, Mr. Szlasa pulls off a menacing, poignant moment. It’s great design, and worth applause. But otherwise, this “Trial” can be dismissed.

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If the arrival of “Sin City” in movie theaters filled you with protectiveness, or if you have a position on the “Stan Lee” controversy, then you might be in the market for some of the more “graphic” material hitting New York’s stages. The fierce appetite for all things comic-book has finally devoured the theater, and two new plays show us what all the fourteen-year old boys have been crowing about.

At the Kraine, Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa’s “Golden Age” brings us up-to-date on a well-loved, freckled red-head and his two gal-pals. If you squint, you’ll see Archie, Betty, and Veronica, though even Mr. Aguirre-Sacasa’s comic connections (he writes for “The Fantastic Four”) couldn’t get him the rights to their names. Perhaps it’s because of the play’s overt sexuality: Who could choose between blonde and brunette when all Archie (here “Buddy”) really wants is a boyfriend?

Switching tones, universes, themes, and styles faster than a speeding bullet, “Golden Age” tells the tale of one young comic-book character growing up and eventually coming to terms with his sexuality. Though its darker moments work about as well as X-ray glasses, plenty of joy can be had from vampy Monica (Tami Mansfield), cleancut Buddy (Christopher J. Hanke) and the real love of his life – adorable, nebbish Herbert (Greg Felden).

Meanwhile, across town, the Vampire Cowboys’s Qui Nguyen and Robert Ross Parker crib from a different comic-book collection, though it’s equally well-thumbed. “A Beginner’s Guide to Deicide” brings manga to Milton, anime to Aquinas. Following the diabolically hot schoolgirl Lucy on her quest to kill God, the Cowboys lasso their audience with escalating silliness. It might seem like a lot of chop-socky nonsense, but somehow it also manages an intelligently reasoned invective against faith. That’s impressive kung-fu.

“Index to Idioms” until April 24; “The Trial of K” until April 9 (45 Bleecker Street, between Mott and Mulberry Streets, 212-307-4100).

“Golden Age” until April 23 (85 E. 4th Street at Second Avenue, 212-868-4444).

“A Beginner’s Guide to Deicide” until April 17 (48 W.21st Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, 212-696-7806).