Sexual Perversity in Chicago

A A A Comments Thursday, May 27 2004

Steve Shires

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David Mamet's 1974 play, Sexual Perversity in Chicago, takes the audience back to a time when women's rights, drugs, and sexual freedom were in the forefront and political correctness was nonexistent. Prepare for exposed flesh, a cacophony of curse words that would make George Carlin proud, and frank discussion about extraordinary sex acts. If you are easily offended, this adult-only play may not be for you. Although written like a film, with more than 30 scenes, the production crew masters changes seamlessly, with the minutest details being addressed, transforming the stage into a beach, a bedroom, a disco, a classroom, and more. Bernie (Ford D'Aprix) a long-haired, sideburn-coifed, open-shirted man-on-the-make makes the play with his right-on delivery of what could be some difficult dialogue. Although his mentality is toward T&A, we see a glimpse of something vulnerable just below the surface. He "mentors" his fresh-faced buddy, Danny (Sebastian Montoya), who is just cutting teeth on the liberated life. When Danny meets a naive young artist, Deborah (Jennifer Gomez), the relationship triangle begins. Bernie tries to talk Danny out of this thing called love, and Deborah's less-than-candid feminist roommate, Joan (Julia Clearwood), warns Deborah that she is on the wrong path. But the two lovebirds move in together to the chagrin of left-behind friends Joan and Bernie, and a new aspect of their relationship unfolds. This down-and-dirty exploration is exhibitionist, and audience members, lounging on love seats, become the voyeurs. Of course, the slice of life doesn't end according to theater protocol. "When you see that one relationship has clearly won, you know it's over," Artistic Director Robert Hooker announced at the beginning -- just after warming up the audience by letting them scream obscenities. This is experimental theater at its best. (Through June 13th at the Sol Theater, 1140 NE Flagler Dr., Fort Lauderdale, 954-525-6555.) -- Rachel Galvin