Meanwhile, Donna, who's been nursing her foul-mouthed kidnapper, practically kills the poor guy with her sexual advances. "More slang!" she demands, while straddling him, not caring that he turns out to be a spoiled white kid from Riverdale who's studiously taught himself to talk like a homeboy. Like all of Spitz's characters, Larippo cobbles together an identity from popular music and MTV. The result is an epidemic of the most vicious "Highway to Hell" behavior punctuated by the occasional mawkish "I Believe I Can Fly" sentimentality.
While the playwright has some trouble maintaining control of his black-comic farce (there's some silly business involving Dexter's hermaphrodite exchemistry teacher, and a lame showdown ending), he's clearly attempting to inject contemporary thrills into the form. Avoiding any kind of explicit moralizing or didacticism, he hasn't yet arrived at an alternative dramatic style coherent enough to focus his perceptions and purpose but he's definitely on his way. His twentysomething actors, particularly the wittily brittle Gifford, and director Carlo Vogel are certainly moving him in the right direction unmasking their own generational reality, mindlessly gruesome as it may be.