The world premiere of "Baby's Blues" at the professional Playhouse Rep, the program intones, "focuses on an important women's issue." But postpartum depression is surely a human issue. Which of us does not have a mother?

		'Baby's Blues' Where: The Rep at Pittsburgh Playhouse of Point Park University, 222 Craft Ave., Oakland. When: Through Nov. 14; Wed.-Sat. 8 p.m., Sun. 2 p.m. Tickets: $18-$22 (discounts); 412-621-4445.

Or maybe that's just too easy to say. This is also true: because postpartum depression most directly afflicts women, it historically did not get the medical attention it deserved. In that sense, Tammy Ryan's new play is on a mission to raise awareness, which the Rep honors through a partnership with Magee-Womens Hospital and post-show Q-and-A sessions on Thursdays and Saturdays.

But an important social concern does not make a play.

"Baby's Blues" does make a strong impact through some powerful dialogue, inventive directing and acting and also structure. It takes an emotional dilemma and winds it tighter and tighter and tighter to a wrenching peak, leaving us vibrating with the final impact. But there's nothing you'd call even a tentative resolution. It's all exposition, really: The problem is heightened and we're left stirred, but dramatically, that doesn't seem enough.

It's not that we want a pasted-on happy ending, just some conclusion or something to complicate the onward thrust. But perhaps it's exactly the point that there is no resolution, or at least that any resolution has to be in our own recognition of and empathy for the problem.

Still, a disease is not dramatic in itself, since it's hidden and internal. I don't think Ryan has solved this problem. You can see the difficulty right from the start -- a monologue of frustration by our hero, Susan, is delivered as a voice-over. That distances Susan, depriving her of a chance to tailor her monologue to the audience. Right off, she feels like a case study.

Soon enough, Susan becomes a living presence. But the dramatic conflict has to be found outside her -- among those others affected by her illness or between her and those who don't recognize its seriousness.

Ryan does give us some of the latter. We meet Susan several weeks past due, then see her bewildered by the speed with which new responsibility piles upon her. I must say she is singularly unprepared, not even having learned how to burp her baby; she hasn't even decided if she will breast feed. She has a supportive husband, but it doesn't help; her mother is bossy but distant; her best friend is ineffectual.

Now a stay-at-home mom, Susan struggles with powerful feelings she can't understand. The baby cries all the time. Something is deeply wrong, and while Susan is sympathetic and willing, she's confused and distraught. She begins to realize she is a danger to herself or the baby, but she doesn't seek counseling. Things get worse.

That's the plot.

There are, however, two additional presences. One is a dapper Frenchman whom the program identifies as Louis Victor Marce, author of a mid-19th century work on postpartum illness. When he isn't speaking French, he provides sporadic commentary, but he remains a playwright's conceit: Susan is dimly aware of him, but nothing is made of that, and it makes no impact on her real world.

The other presence is doubtless a clue to the play, a teenage woman listed simply as Girl. I thought Girl might be Susan's sister (she refers to a sister), but only Susan seems aware of her presence, so it is more likely that, like the Frenchman, she is imaginary or symbolic. But what or who? The younger Susan? The baby grown up?

Whoever, the Girl is a mirror for Susan's distress and the object of her climactic fury, and she is played with tremulous feeling by Chelsey Shannon. The scenes between her and Melanie Julian's Susan are plaintive, rich in chaotic need.

Susan is the soul of the show, of course, and the appealing Julian gives her an earnestness that draws us to her in spite of her erratic behavior. She does not solve Susan for us, but as I say, that's the play's fault -- and perhaps also the play's point.

No one could fault the supporting actors: Paul Ford as the caring but ineffectual husband; Eve Amplas as the brisk, detached doctor; Janelle Baker as the brittle, bewildered friend; Barbara Burney as the tough, funny mom; and Greg Longenhagen as the sympathetic Frenchman.

As I list them, though, I think of the missed opportunities. Ryan uses them mainly as objects for Susan to talk to, their incomprehension reflecting back her needs, un-met. There could be more. The mother is a strong character we hardly know; there must be a history Ryan could explore. At just 100 minutes, "Baby's Blues" could accommodate development. Perhaps these other characters could help us understand Susan better.

Staged in the Playhouse's intimate studio theater with 60 seats encircling the action, "Baby's Blues" has undoubted immediacy. Designer Pei-Chi Su provides costumes that help set the characters and a unit set that director Sheila McKenna exploits imaginatively. As Susan panics, soiled diapers explode from one direction; she can barely find the baby among piles of stuffed toys; a hidden bathtub plays an explosive part.

There's also a continuous sound presence by Liz Atkinson, often the rush of water, which is a powerful image throughout, from the moment Susan's water breaks at the start. Add lights by Jennifer Ford, and you have a largely female artistic team.

But a male can still respond to this human dilemma. Unfinished it may feel, but the cry for help at its heart is sincere.