Performer Aurélia Thierrée is a flexible pixie with a heavyweight pedigree

Pixie alert!

The Seattle area has been under attack by a band of stage pixies, clowns, acrobats and imps. And all we can do is cheer them on.

Teatro ZinZanni's reopening a few months ago was the first salvo. Then came the Moisture Festival in Fremont, a popular neo-variety hall jamboree. Now Cirque du Soleil is laying siege to Marymoor Park, performing its beguiling extravaganza "Corteo."

And this weekend, another battle is being waged — and won — at Seattle Repertory Theatre, by a sly sprite named Aurélia Thierrée.

In her enchanting show "Aurélia's Oratorio," this lithe, pretty and intrepid Frenchwoman begins the battle for our wonder and affections by (literally) popping out of a chest of drawers, limb by limb by limb.

And whether she's flying on a crimson sling, dancing a hot tango with a male suitor (and a raincoat) or somehow turning her body into a train tunnel for a toy locomotive to zip through, Aurélia conquers.

Co-presented by the Rep and the Seattle International Children's Festival, "Aurélia's Oratorio" revels in the kind of nimble encounters with a topsy-turvy universe you'd expect from a Charlie Chaplin movie.

Funny about that: Thierrée is the granddaughter of the divine Charlot. And her mother is Victoria Thierrée Chaplin (daughter of the silent move star), who visited Seattle Rep in the 1990s with her troupe Cirque Invisible and eloquently directed this show.

Pedigree aside, Thierrée's stage persona is her own: that of an urbane, silently perplexed young woman just trying to navigate a seductive and threatening universe.

She's no scruffy "little tramp" like her grandpere's alter ego. But her adroit, very visual breed of humor here has (like that of many a grand clown) the deadpan charm of an everyday person coping with the bizarre little turnabouts of existence.

In this trompe l'oeil theatrical sphere, objects (often red, against a black drop) have a rebel will of their own. Heavy stage curtains get violently rambunctious. A scarf winds on for miles. A brass hourglass transforms into a woman (a stunning image of mortality).

The show is smartly rigged with switcheroo paradoxes. Thierrée drags an empty cart, but her arms are full with a precarious pile of groceries. A kite flies the woman, not vice versa.

And in an extended bit, Thierrée is suddenly the human star of a puppet show, for a crowd of ... mais oui, puppets.

"Aurélia's Oratorio" unfolds vignette by vignette, or minidream by minidream, with many ingeniously wrought illusions and gags. Jaime Martinez, a vigorously acrobatic modern dancer, is Thierrée's chief comrade in mirth, and an earthy foil for her whimsical adventures.

Performed to scraps of gypsy jazz, music from the zany band Tiger Lillies (with whom Thierrée has performed) and snippets of Vivaldi, this "oratorio" can be interpreted variously, and appeals to patrons of different ages.

If you bring a child, however, just be prepared to explain a lot of things that are gloriously inexplicable.

Misha Berson: mberson@seattletimes.com