To paraphrase Chekhov, if a piñata is dangling from the ceiling as a show begins, should it not be swatted down in time for the final curtain? Well, in the case of Sandra Tsing Loh’s Madwomen of the West, the piñata is left intact, but the façades of its four characters are broken open to reveal some big secrets. Unfortunately, by the time these confidences are divulged, their importance has been overshadowed by the production’s self-referential gimmickry. It is the handicraft of Brecht, not Chekhov, that is at work here as the audience is constantly taken out of the world of the play with the performers speaking directly to them, or reciting stage directions aloud, or dropping character altogether.