Donnon Root and Paula Goldie in How to Defect Yourself | Photo by Elana Emer
“It’s not that hard to not rape someone.”
This might be my favourite line in Liliana Padilla’s play. It comes at a moment (a series of moments, actually) when these young adults are examining their darkness, reconciling the nuance and ambiguity of intimate interactions with the clear-cut slogans of “consent” that inform our current zeitgeist. The statement is meant to be grounding, a wake-up call amidst the festering guilt of potential complicity in the sexual assault of one of their peers—Suzanna, who is recuperating in the hospital.
And the statement lands, in that moment, like a mic drop. But then, alas, it ultimately settles into the semantic landscape. Without even addressing the possibility of conscious deception, the sticky knots of ambivalence, misconstrued intention, unreliable memory, and the subconscious machinery of trauma—these still exist and intrude, relentlessly, even when the statements are so crisp.
How to Defend Yourself, presented by Icarus Theatre, tracks the solidarity and fracturing amidst a group of seven college students as they gather for a self-defence workshop in the wake of Suzanna’s assault. An aspect of the narrative that appeals to me is how thoroughly it commits to the circumstantial framework of these “fight club” meetings. We are often forced to split our focus between multiple interactions at once, our eyes and ears landing where our interest dictates, as the group break off into pairs for the exercises.
Brandi (Kaeley Jade Wiebe), the facilitator, has an almost oppressive enthusiasm with which she tries to wrangle control of the various personalities in the room. Wiebe masterfully augments her bright, encouraging persona with disconcerting cracks in the facade. Without explicit details, we recognize the traumatic context of her over-zealousness. She eventually unleashes her pent-up angst in an unhinged barrage.
She’s not prudish exactly, but certainly unreceptive to the notion of any sort of roughness or power play in sexual encounters, admonishing the violent aspects of the fantasies expressed by, most specifically, her foil: Kara (Donnon Root). I’m not confident saying Kara’s my favourite character here, but I did find myself searching the room for Root’s face, even when the focus was elsewhere. At the risk of revealing my own ethos and kinks, her’s was the attitude I most consciously related to.
I was won over by Parastoo Amanzadeh’s wide-eyed and playful Mojdeh. She’s the most petite of the group, a vibrating bundle of infectious pluck. Not really an antagonist, yet establishing herself as challenger to the overall tone and functionality of Brandi’s leadership, Paula Goldie’s Diana is an amped-up wild-card. The last young lady to join is the mousy, introverted Nikki (Sasha Khan). Khan’s endearingly nervous deal is a source of giddy amusement as she cowers amongst them, her whole body an apology for taking up any space at all. Ironically, she’s the one to take these teachings out into the real world. Her devastating final testimony is one of the show’s most powerful moments—where Padilla subverts the trope of the timid wallflower overcoming her inhibitions and manifesting her power. The play knows the world doesn’t perfectly conform to comfortingly heroic narrative patterns.
Anthony Goncharov and Samel Sunil in How to Defend Yourself | Photo by Elana Emer
And then there’s the dudes: Andy (Anthony Goncharov) and Eggo (Samel Sunil) burst onto the scene like a Super Non-Toxically Masculine freight train. At first, I found them insufferable. Their aggressive allyship, the bombastic, pro-consent rhetoric—it’s all too much and I wasn’t entirely sure how authentic they were meant to be. As they eventually reveal more sincere and nuanced sensibilities, I think their group personae are intentionally dubious.
Despite the obnoxious showmanship of their performative anti-misogyny, there are nuanced differences apparent right away. Sunil’s Eggo seems not entirely comfortable with his embodiment of solidarity, whereas Goncharov’s Andy has a solidified swagger. Their scene alone together, though, is Goncharov and Sunil’s most compelling work. While opening up to each other about Suzanna’s violation and revealing their connection to it, the tension and vulnerability is fully compelling. I also found myself unnerved and intrigued by the force and focus of Goncharov’s practice punches during this scene, hinting at same barely contained anger Andy never articulates.
Emily Anne Corcoran’s direction is a persuasive balance of artfulness and earnest emotionality. Her design work is less cohesive. I appreciate the consistent juxtaposition of pink and blue. Traditional gender associations haunt the colour scheme of the athletic mat panel flooring, the wrist guards and boxing gloves, the outfits and accessories. There’s an eerie, Barbie-doll aesthetic to this narrative of complex and messy sexuality and social dynamics. The faux cracks in the walls are a bit too cartoonish and unnecessary, as their symbolism is well established by the gradual dismantling of the floor panels.
The final sequence, where the aesthetic cohesion of Corcoran, Lilian Adom (lighting) and Erik Richards’ (sound) design is playfully disrupted in a poetic and haunting epilogue. From the bouncy resilience and naïveté of childhood to their tangled present, the collective journey of these characters is conveyed in a lyrical inversion that affords us a glimpse at the central figure this whole scenario revolves around.
It’s worth noting that the people given a voice here, despite the acknowledged ambiguities, are the “good” guys and gals. The rapists, though named, are never seen or heard from. Their perspective, though uncomfortable and potentially enraging to consider, is a aspect of this portrait. Their humanity, though, is not a consideration here, nor does it have to be. They are in the back of my head though, spectres Padilla’s play inadvertently conjures but doesn’t allow the space to unpack.
How to Defend Yourself
November 12 to 28, 2026
The Theatre Centre, BMO Incubator
(1115 Queen St. W.)
100 minutes
Parastoo Amanzadeh in How to Defend Yourself | Photo by Elana Emer