Continued: Theater review: Laugh today, ponder tomorrow in 'Robots vs. Fake Robots'

In science fiction, robots appear in many guises: everything from helpful sidekicks to scheming wannabe humans, the saviors of the Earth or our worst nightmare. But ultra-sexy, cutting-edge club-scene denizens? That's playwright David Largman Murray's unique take in "Robots vs. Fake Robots," the newest offering by Walking Shadow Theatre.

As an opening voice-over explains, the setting is the year 6000. The few surviving human beings scrabble out a meager existence on the surface of a post-apocalyptic Earth that is ruled by robots. Meanwhile, the robots themselves, who have become the epitome of beauty and invulnerability, live mindlessly luxurious lives underground, engaging in a continuous round of club scenes and indescribably awesome sex.

The "Peetles," or humans, are the world's second-class citizens. Robots are revolted by humans' scent and kill them for sport if they happen upon them. Choose your favorite prejudice and Murray's scenario fits it. And, as with all oppressed peoples, there are some whose only desire is to pass, as it were, for one of the oppressors.

That's the state of mind of Joe, played by John Catron. Bedazzled by the robots, he deserts his human girlfriend and finds a subversive robot who agrees to take away his scent so he can pose as "Advent Calendar," the new kid on the robot club scene. As Joe becomes immersed in the hollow, loveless world of the robots, the play explores just how far he will go to excise his humanity in a quest for mechanical immortality.

Murray has some heady material on display, and director Steve Moulds and his cast give it free rein. Nathan Surprenant is a magnetic presence as the king of the robots; his campy lounge act is a highlight of the show. Jennifer Phillips evokes a touching vulnerability as a rusting robot prostitute, while Lindsay Marcy informs the role of Joe's girlfriend with grit and an appealing directness.

Despite strong acting and a clever, comic script, "Robots" starts to feel a tad self-indulgent toward the end of its 90 minutes. The robot dance-club scenes (cleverly choreographed by Ariel Dumas) and inane robot dialogues are cute, but how many of them do we need to be shown that the oppressors are soulless, shallow and cruel?

That quibble aside, this is at its heart a bleak and disturbing work that will keep you thinking long after the laughter has died away.

Lisa Brock writes regularly about theater.