The pros in Are We There Yet? suffer indignities, while the amateurs in A Midsummer Night’s Dream hit a glorious Bottom

Sometimes I feel for actors. Sure, the professionals starring in the American Heartland Theatre’s Are We There Yet? have it all going for them: talent, ovations, livelihoods in which they’re doing what they love. At the same time, making that living means that they have to appear in shows like Are We There Yet? where, for all their gifts, they have to soldier through the rapping baby sketch every night.

Yes, a rapping baby. Poor, game Ken Remmert in a crib, wearing a bow, throws menacing hand gestures and boasts about soiling himself, while pseudo Fly Girls Cathy Barnett and Jessalyn Kincaid belt poo poo poo/poopy diapers. A fine drummer, Remmert pounds out his own 808-style beat with a pair of baby rattles, and the women, being professionals, gyrate with admirable spirit. That’s the mark of Equity actors.

The rapping baby is the nadir, and it would have to be unless the writers added Granny Dildo or Toilet Hitler. By its end, Are We There Yet? takes on a depth that’s surprising for a revue built of songs and scenes involving vague characters meant to evoke us all. Some rich stuff follows the cheap stuff. Barnett delivers a stirring monologue about gay adoption. Remmert straight-talks his way through a grown-up monologue about a man fearing Alzheimer’s disease, which runs in his family.

Kincaid and Tim Scott (yes, the Royals’ roving announcer) hit home runs with a set piece comparing a blind date with a roller-coaster ride. Like many of the numbers (all of them by John Glaudini), Kincaid’s and Scott’s are full-blown musical theater, with a narrative arc and internal drama (and reasonably clever rhymes). Under Paul Hough’s sensitive direction, Kincaid and Scott play real adults, melting for and hardening against each other with each new disclosure. The result is the rare romantic comedy that captures the first flush of feeling between people. (They’re aided by Daniel Doss’ fine piano accompaniment and Jerry Jay Cranford’s funny choreography.)

Remmert and Barnett also give accomplished performances, but they sometimes resort to caricature. With Scott and Kincaid, every character seems freshly realized before us. Early on, Scott delights in a long scene about a bored father suffering through his daughter’s opera recital. He’s playing an Everydad, moaning about how he’d rather be at a ball game or something, but instead of broadly playing dads in general, Scott plays this man in particular — and honestly. He sits in the audience, talk-singing in his lashing, rock-edge voice, hitting his jokes with a timing that’s impeccable even as it strikes us as reckless. He’s got abandon, but he’s not over-the-top. And to his great fortune, he’s nowhere near the rapping baby.

While the pros in Are We There Yet? play families living their everyday lives, the doing-it-for-the-love crew at the Barn Players are treating themselves to glorious specifics. Their impressive stab at A Midsummer Night’s Dream offers huge laughs, some hysterical violence and several outstanding performances. Most notably, it stars the strapping David Martin (not The Pitch writer of the same name) as Bottom, the ass-headed character, who is always the funniest thing in Shakespeare’s funniest of comedies. This Bottom is funnier still — with his gangling strut, his lunatic flourishes and his empty-headed smiles, he’s the most top-notch Bottom I’ve ever beheld. The final 20 minutes, when Bottom and company take on Pyramus and Thisbe, are pure dessert.

In a joyous, knockabout performance, Rachael Redler plays Puck as put-upon and childish, an earthly sprite stripped of the smugness that marks many characterizations. Her Puck is given to bizarre enthusiasms but still flits from place to place as if he’d rather be doing anything else. I also enjoyed Adam Luttrell, whose Lysander resembles a dew-eyed Gene Wilder, especially when spitting insults as sharp and brilliant as diamonds at the woman he’s supposed to love.

Director Jeremy Riggs strings memorable gags throughout Lysander’s brawl with Demetrius and the girl-on-girl action that follows. No play better captures the rambunctiousness of love, how it can ennoble, disgrace and transfigure us, and Riggs’ staging does justice to this truth. The set is a workaday dreamscape much improved by Cat Larrison’s moody lights. Some bits of pageantry carry on too long, and the music, by Nathan Towns, drowns out some speeches, including Puck’s apologia.

And here’s an apologia of my own: Because this is a community production, some minor performances hurt a little, and at least one actress fusses with her costume far too often. That’s the tragedy of Kansas City summertime theater: If you want to see a great play, you can’t always expect professionals.

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