Before seeing the co-world premiere (with Actors Theatre of Louisville) of Liliana Padilla’s How to Defend Yourself, read their program note. In it, they reflect on their fear that the play might be “harmful and re-traumatizing” (it might). They also state their aspiration “to be in the truthful chaos—to hold a space of pain and grief and complexity.” This it certainly does. With forays into montage and speculation, clearly delineated by shifts in light and sound, the truth is not in the reality, but in the emotional journeys of the characters. Padilla has an ear for realistic dialogue that cuts to the quick, despite a good dose of situational humor. Directed by Marti Lyons with a cast that physically and emotionally throw themselves into the highs and lows of the fraught relationships they navigate, How to Defend Yourself is a taut and powerful, if ultimately frustrating examination of sex, sexuality and consent in a world where #MeToo and Tinder hookups coexist. As one of the characters points out, it’s hard to express one’s desires if one isn’t sure what they are (and whether they are acceptable).

The play begins when a young college student, Susana, is hospitalized after a brutal sexual assault. Her sorority sister and mentor Brandi, a black belt, decides to act and host a self defense class. She recruits her sorority sister Kara to help. However, despite the emotion that the crime elicits, only three students show up—Diana and Mojdeh, who seem as eager gain access to the sorority they hope to pledge, and painfully shy Nikki. Diana is disappointed in the lack of firearms. Mojdeh is distracted by her upcoming date. Nikki struggles to speak audibly. After an empowering session of punching, Brandi introduces the fraternity men who have agreed to assist with the workshops, the overbearing Andy and the well-intentioned Eggo. It soon becomes clear that all the participants are bringing their own baggage and attitudes to the workshop, and a fair amount of guilt. The characters are well-drawn and well-spoken; all articulate their views with clarity, though emotions soon run high as they prove to have some irreconcilable differences. Despite the reason for their meetings, most of the conversation revolves around sex: communication, consent, and sexual desire. There are no villains, but sides are chosen and there is no way to avoid the feeling that complicity in the rape culture that led to Susana’s victimization takes many forms.

Reinforcing Padilla’s script, director Marti Lyons has assembled a cast that is diverse racially, ethnically, and in body type. The contrast between the leggy, confident sorority sisters and the shorter, less secure would-be pledges and the mousy Nikki serves as a constant reminder of the power dynamic they inhabit, as does the difference between the powerfully built Andy and the less physically imposing Eggo. In addition to the physical types, which serve as a reminder of the typical dynamic between victim and attacker, the characters cannot escape their skin or their backgrounds. For example, it is clear that part of what has shaped Eggo’s considerate attitude toward sexual partners—besides the fact that he’s a nice guy—in contrast to Andy’s gladiatorial attitude, is the fact that, as an African-American male, he needs to be more concerned about mis-read cues than Ken-doll Andy. Lyons keeps the rapid-fire dialogue tight and pulls no punches with the heavy themes that underscore the play. Yu Shibagaki’s scenic design transforms the Victory Gardens space into a photo-realistic gym. Christine Pascual’s costumes show the evolution of the characters in athletic wear, as well as giving insights into their transformations outside of the safe space, and, in an extended sequence of evolving parties, traveling through time and developmental stages. Paul Toben’s lighting design and Thomas Dixon’s sound design shape the focus on the play between intimate exchanges, amped up training sequences and resonant emotional asides. Movement director Steph Paul, fight director Matt Hawkins and intimacy director Rachel Flesher work seamlessly to show the relationship between fighting, friendship and sex. Training violence spills over into real violence, which gives way to an easy physical camaraderie, a simulated attack leads to the recognition of a spark of attraction. The balance between violence and sexuality that is explored in the script is well represented by this movement design team and the actors who realize their work.

The cast not only looks perfect, they fearlessly commit to Padilla’s vision, which is not always comfortable. Though on the surface, the characters are the sort of enviable success stories of college, the assault on their sorority sister reveals doubts and fears that are impossible to shake. As Brandi, the woman who tries to teach her peers how to defend themselves, Anna Crivelli is poised and self-possessed until the questions from her trainees start chipping away at her surprisingly brittle veneer. Crivelli portrays Brandi’s downward spiral initially with gritty resolve, then with frightening vulnerability. Isa Arciniegas’ Diana struggles to fit in, but her role as outsider makes her a sounding board for the other characters’ fears; Arciniegas finds the insecurity behind her character’s survivor mentality. Ariana Mahallati’s Mojdeh is awkward and desperate, trying to achieve the comfort in her own skin that the other characters seem to have by adopting the script that she thinks she is supposed to learn, whether or not it is her own. Andrea San Miguel’s Nikki goes from barely visible and audible, hiding behind a baggy sweatshirt, to embracing her physical and verbal power, with heartbreaking results. San Miguel navigates this journey in an often hilarious portrayal as her character surprises herself moment to moment. In a powerful and complex performance, Netta Walker as Kara defends her desires while recognizing that they might give license to men who extend them to other women. It is arguments like the one between Kara and the solicitous Eggo that most powerful convey the difficulty of effective communication. Invited into the space by Brandi, the men in the story struggle with their role there, as they find themselves cast alternately as attackers, objects of desire and representatives of masculinity. Jayson Lee’s Eggo brilliantly encapsulates the dilemma faced by men who want to care for women the way they want, while Ryan McBride’s Andy articulates the need for positive consent but disparages Eggo’s version of this as less masculine, calling him an Incel at one point. McBride somehow balances his character’s entitled self-confidence with a desire to do the right thing. All the characters do their best to communicate and ensure a sense of safety, but even with the best of intentions safety proves elusive.

Liliana Padilla’s How to Defend Yourself does not give any insight into how to do this. In fact, it clearly shows the difficulty in doing so when attackers are often people one knows, when even shifting attitudes and the ability to clearly and openly talk about desires and sex do not necessarily get to the point, and when one is smaller or less well-armed than potential aggressors. Padilla’s play articulates that, with all the progress that appears to have been made, there are still entrenched attitudes about gender, sexuality and communication that make this world no less dangerous than the one that fostered Harvey Weinstein. Under the incisive direction of Marti Lyons, supported by a crack team of designers and an ensemble that mines the script’s humor while committing fully to the underlying themes. Often raucously entertaining, How to Defend Yourself finally arrives at the conclusion that learning self-defense may not be as effective as one would like, and, more importantly, it should not be what we learn.

How to Defend Yourself runs through February 23 at Victory Gardens Theater, 2433 N. Lincoln Avenue. Performances take place Tuesdays – Fridays at 7:30 pm, Saturdays at 3 pm and 7:30 pm, and Sundays at 3 pm. Regular performances are $31 - $65. Tickets can be purchased at www.victorygardens.org or at the box office. 2433 N. Lincoln Avenue. 773-871-3000.