The screeching, spewing getaway car that is Adam Rapp's Bingo with the Indians is the most exhilarating play about three douchebag actors that I've seen. To begin, the trio is stuck in a remote motel room, getting ready to rob a bingo game to fund their nascent New York City theater company. Although the thematic framework (of blurry duality between theater and reality, and the necessity of art and escape) is nothing new, you don't have time to care: The material—presented by Portland Playhouse under the direction of Tim True, comes at you in vulgar, visceral heaves. (Be prepared for sex and dicks at eye-level.)

The characters are powerfully acted all around—unsettlingly convincing that they're about to fuck or fight. There's Dee (Lava Alapai), the headstrong director (as indicated by combat boots); Stash (John San Nicolas) the cocaine-rattled actor (see porn-star goatee); and Wilson (Brian Weaver), the stagehand who mediates between them with well-timed quips (I refer you to the unnecessary glasses). While their costumes are too obvious, their performances outrun the caricaturization. Also, they're pretty funny. Steve Wood (Kurt Conroyd), a Bambi-ish post-high schooler longing for experience who stumbles onto the scene is an exceptionally played counterpoint to the others' spoiled entitlement.

Chalk the sex and nudity up to reinforcing the power of theater's fourth wall, and the free-flowing obscenity to the need for an actor to keep his mouth and emotions open. There's not much else to write off.