The Civilians have more than survived the last several years: They have gained a faithful following and staked out a new aesthetic corner for themselves. In “Nobody’s Lunch,” a piece devised by the Company, they return to their documentary-meets-musical style, which they still do better than anybody else.

If you answer your phone tomorrow and someone asks you “How do you know what is true?” it might be a member of the Civilians. By cold-calling all the women named Jessica Lynch in the phonebook, or tackling their closest family members with questions about Iraq, the troupe amassed a stack of strange characters and accidental revelations. The group, steered by director Steve Cosson and Tony-nominated dramaturg Jim Lewis, cut the mass of responses together into a series of monologues, and composer and lyricist Michael Friedman recycled some of the material into songs – if Anna Deavere Smith sings in the shower, this is probably what she’s humming.

A guard at Penn Station confessing his gun is just for show, a cult survivor, a freaked out woman who believes she was a brainwashed sex slave to the Senate – at first it’s as confusing as flipping channels during the talk-show hours. Having become professional “channelers” of other people’s words, it seems only natural that the group should also interview a medium. On demand, the psychic shares her body with an otherworldly being who explains our real-world situation.

Apparently, energy-dependant beings surround us, siphoning off our fear and playing little tricks (like luring us into cities) to maximize their feeding schedule. Damian Baldet gets some cheap laughs as the bow-legged spirit, but we sober up as we realize how close to our own occasional paranoia this explanation cuts. And the spirit gives some pretty decent advice.

The show, gaining political edge, loses some of the loveliness the Civilians found in “Gone Missing.” I missed the wandering, wistful tone of their earlier show – before, even the songs seemed to integrate more cleanly. There’s that same, game attitude towards the musical numbers, but with less virtuosity from the singers this time around. Mr. Friedman’s big group numbers, however, sound great, and pianist Andy Boroson plays beautifully even with a stuffed cow on his head. In the inspired lunacy department, “Watch Out Ladies” skirts all comparisons with its alien-language chorus and Christina Kirk’s simultaneous, deadpan “translation.”

There are no props, no crazy costumes to hide behind, because this cast doesn’t need the crutches. Caitlin Miller can be a J. Lynch six times without doing the same voice twice; while Ms. Kirk flips easily between liberal matron and glazey-eyed proselytizer. And despite all the joshing, there’s a deep American pride and affection at the show’s heart. As one Jessica remarks, even with mouse droppings on the floor and a landlord who refuses to acknowledge it, “it’s good to be home.”

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Compared to the postmodern mixed salad of the Civilians, Friedrich Schiller’s “Don Carlos” is a hearty meal of incestuous yearnings, political awakenings, and sleazy Dominican friars. It got a sturdy presentation recently courtesy of Prospect Theater Company.

Prospect, known for producing Peter Mills’s sassy musical comedies, here turns to director David Kennedy and a gaggle of New Jersey Shakespeare alums for a slog into 18th-century German Romanticism. They come out smelling like roses – and Lancasters and Yorks. Aided by a deft director and their Shakespearean training, the company speaks John Rafter Lee’s translation with confidence and clarity.

Young Don Carlos (Michael Stewart Allen), son and heir to the increasingly wretched Philip II of Spain, has fallen for his own stepmother. To add insult to incest, the state’s behavior is growing ever more draconian: Philip wants to meet Flemish uprisings with brutal reprisals. Carlos’s best friend Posa (Maclain Looper) tries to rouse him to political action, reminding him of his youthful, humanist ideals. But hopeless passion has a way of blinding Carlos to his better nature – one almost overthrown by the machinations of a spying and sycophantic court.

Schiller requires young, virile talkers – and he almost gets his due here. Mr. Allen and Mr. Looper sound great; they just don’t look much like heroes. Hampered by unflattering costumes, Katherine Hampton Normand had to dress 15 people for 16th-century Spain), they lack physical charisma. Their passion, however, never flags. Special kudos also go to Darren Matthias’s devilish Duke of Alba. His dagger-sharp beard and basilisk stare dare you to make fun of his puffy doublet, and he won’t get many takers.

As Posa assures us, success or failure aren’t important, “the beginning is everything.” Finding the fun in three hours of Schiller is a heck of a good start.