'In the Next Room' gives good vibrations

Behind closed doors at the Players Backstage, Sarah Ruhl’s “In the Next Room” explores the hype and hope of late 19th-century America. That includes notions of race, class and gender, the impact of electrification and, yes, vibrators.

Ruhl’s Tony Award-nominated play unfolds in an era of scientific discovery and quackery in equal measure. John Kellogg launched the “clean living movement” of virtue, vegetarianism and cornflakes from his sanitarium in Battle Creek, Michigan. Thomas Alva Edison coldly electrocuted an elephant in Coney Island to discredit Tesla’s alternating current. And entrepreneurs around the nation had invented various motorized, electric devices designed to stimulate unhappy women to, uh, “paroxysms” via pelvic massage. This treatment methodology was based on a crackpot theory of female hysteria. Nothing sexual about it, of course. No, never!

Nudge-nudge, wink-wink.

In Ruhl’s play, this straight-faced scam unfolds under the patriarchal practice of Dr. Givings (Tony Boothby). And a very hands-on scam it is. The good doctor treats a number of women (and one man) but is reluctant to treat his restless wife — the punningly named Mrs. Givings (Rachael Scheer). Because that just wouldn’t be scientific. Heavens, it might even be onanistic!

The procedure unfolds in “the next room,” an on-site clinic in the Givings household. The room is supposedly under lock-and-key and thus out of sight, out of mind. But we can see and hear everything. Nothing explicit, mind you. But the loud shouts of happily treated clients shake the rafters. And Mrs. Givings is determined to get to the bottom of it.

It’s an entertaining show, but not what you’d expect. Based on Ruhl’s “The Clean House,” I anticipated a madcap, anarchic farce along the lines of Joe Orton’s “What the Butler Saw.” A fast-paced farrago (with vibrators).

There’s a bit of that. But it’s a surprisingly talky play. And, aside from the periodic shouts of pleasure, surprisingly serious.

Ruhl maintains a relentless focus on male dominance. Attention must be paid to the patriarchal subjugation of women. “Our Bodies, Our Selves?” Not in this era. Men hold the control switch and won’t let go.

It’s a fine production. Director Michael Newton-Brown guides you through Ruhl’s sometimes realistic, sometimes surreal world. The actors all do a great job with their realistic/surreal characters. But, just to be clear, this play’s not for kids. And if you show up with a close relative, the after-play discussion might be a tad awkward.

Ruhl’s play asks more questions than it answers. From the standpoint of 21st century sexual liberation, we can look back on the prudish Victorians and smirk. Yes, we know better now. But we don’t know much.

The playwright hints of a tension between materialism and spirituality. Physical love on the one hand; true love on the other. She also hints that, as Harlan Ellison once put it, “Love ain’t nothing but sex misspelled.” So which is it?

Is love as mechanical as a pinball machine lighting up? Is there something more to it?

Ruhl doesn’t pretend to have all the answers.

But the questions she poses are electrifying enough.