The snowbank-white set of “Hilda,” now playing at 59E59, represents exactly the sort of house that drives housekeepers crazy. For those who have to clean them, stark (or Starck) designs usually mean long battles with window-cleaner and obsessive attention to rugs – “minimalism” that requires the maximum of work. The same is true of Marie Ndiaye’s chilly new play.

Part psychological thriller, part prolix monologue on power, “Hilda” is Genet with a dollop of Racine. Director Carey Perloff tries to pull the old “it’s French, so all we need is icy white light and creepy xylophones” trick but doesn’t have the control to pull off the style. She does have a leading lady, however, who whooshes past poor supporting characters and her own blown vocal cords to give a gale-force performance. If Ms. Perloff has made the show into a teapot, at least Ellen Karas is the tempest inside it.

When Madame Lemarchand (Ms. Karas) tells handyman Frank (Michael Earle) that she wants to employ his wife, Hilda, as her maid, she’s already standing in a house that telegraphs sadism. The long staircase that bisects the space doesn’t have a banister – watching Ms. Karas negotiate it in heels actually induces vertigo. Her character is dizzy, but only with a compulsive desire to hire Hilda.Verging on sexual obsession, Madame Lemarchand murmurs Hilda’s name repeatedly,brooking no opposition from the gape-mouthed Frank.

We never meet Hilda; she is forever just off stage, tending to the children, or hanging up the wash. But Madame Lemarchand cheerfully narrates all we need to know, describing her own generosity while complaining that Hilda doesn’t yet love her enough. Madame wants to offer meager wages, refuse Hilda any time off, and demean her physically in front of her houseguests, but in return she demands affection. Hysterical, she berates Frank for letting Hilda stay so cool toward her. She’s a monster, but one who demands that her prey pity her before she gobbles them up.

The night I saw her, Ms. Karas had lost her voice. Due to marvelously discreet amplification, we could still hear her precise tones better than her healthy co-stars (Brandy Burre as Hilda’s sister was hard to understand, and she can’t have had more than five lines). Strangely, Ms. Karas’s husky squeaks actually seemed tailor-made for the part. Stretching like a cat, Ms. Karas disguised her dragon as a sex kitten – which made her performance even more dangerous.

Ms. Ndiaye (in an icicle-sharp translation by Erika Rundle) has set her claws for the wealthy – the limousine liberals, the trickle-down fat cats, and even entire countries. Madame Lemarchand (literally, “the merchant”) could be the mouthpiece for any rich government. She makes viperish little snipes about Frank’s “handouts,” but evinces a blithe unconcern for his and Hilda’s children.”They’ll be better off in daycare!” she coos, at the familiar point where obliviousness turns into evil.

Ms. Ndiaye has a marvelously slinky way with tone; she winds up in Kafkaesque territory, with the “underclass” permitting its own destruction. Unfortunately, the production undermines Ms. Ndiaye’s cynicism, implying that Madame will not escape unscathed. Certainly, by the end, she has devoured Hilda’s soul and begun gnawing on her own. But Ms. Perloff’s direction devolves into a by-the-numbers hysterical rant, mussing Ms. Karas’s perfect hair and making a mess of what should be an oppressively tidy aesthetic.

***

Meanwhile, at the Culture Project, “RFK” is supposed to be playing dirty. Bobby Kennedy had a reputation for ruthlessness, and actor-playwright Jack Holmes has the same no-holds-barred attitude. Not only does Mr. Holmes’s RFK grab our heartstrings by the fistful, but he gets us riled up, too. Standing easily before us, recounting anecdotes from the adorable (football games with Jackie) to the searing (telling his children that Uncle Jack has been shot in Dallas), he actually levels an indictment against the nation. When did we go from a country whose representatives quoted Aeschylus and Dante to one led by spin-obsessed anti-intellectuals?

Mr. Holmes had an obvious reason for writing and starring in this one-man show – he looks uncannily like RFK. With his hair flopping in his eyes and a note-perfect Boston accent, he doesn’t play Robert Kennedy; he channels him. His piece, a charmingly seamless examination of the man’s ideals and life,wanders like a conversation but pierces like a bullet.

“Hilda” until December 11 (59 E. 59th Street, between Park and Madison Avenues, 212-279-4200).

“RFK” until November 30 (45 Bleecker Street, between Lafayette Street and Bowery, 212-307-4100).