the whole women
Apparently, “Women secretly love to talk about their vaginas.” The Vagina Monologues, however, makes no secret of this subject, preferring to celebrate it through a host of anonymous characters, each one happy (even if only when pushed) to divulge the deepest details of and thoughts about their genitalia. The play is a festival of the fanny, a pageant of the pussy, a carnival of the clam. More than this, it is an exploration of what it is to be a woman.
The Vagina Monologues relies on its range. Developed from interviews with over 200 women (“What would your vagina say? What would your vagina wear?”), the tales offered are uniquely individual and wide-ranging in tone; at times, hilarious, at others horrifi c. Yet this production fails to capture the breadth of its script. In offering up fi ve light and comical monologues in the press preview, the company seemed to be shying away from the more brutal and tragic elements of the piece.
The characters portrayed are all too similar, despite their divergent stories. The 11-strong cast of women list their vaginal pet-names, vagina-friendly cities and facts about examining one’s vagina. However, they fail to work as a group. For the most part, cues are not picked up quickly enough and deliberate pauses are not left hanging in anticipation. Thanks to poor timing, the comedy isn’t used to its full potential.
The monologues are all engaging • drawing an audience into the personal stories that lie beneath the performances. Yet we are always aware that this isn’t the actor’s own story. The constant level of eye-contact attacks and grips the audience, but there is rarely any thought behind those eyes. Emotions aren’t real enough; feelings run fl at.
Lucy Murphy’s My Short Skirt is the best of these: confi dent and strong, with a fantastic sense of rhythm, at once accusing and warning off her audience. Joanna Thapa’s My Angry Valentine isn’t angry enough; more light stand-up routine than amusing call to arms. Emily Heikamp’s The Flood is absorbing, but the character, spectacled and crossed-legged, is closer to a sexy secretary than the 73-year old woman embarrassedly discussing her lack of control over her sexual organ.
The script far surpasses an average production, though, elevating it to a decent show. The sensual language forces an audience into feeling; affronting and comforting, amusing and accusing. “We forget the vagina, each one of us.” The Vagina Monologues is a play well worth remembering, despite this rather forgettable production.
23rd Feb 2006