Saturday, March 03, 2007

V Day, late

Periods can sometimes be late, and that can be good news, or not. This year, V Day came late, for me: The Vagina Monologues, normally on Valentine's Day, were showing last night and tonight at the Bronson Centre, on, you guessed it, Bronson. I went because my resident niece was one of the players and also because I am happy to support fundraisers for worthy causes. This qualified.

That said, there were some lovely highlights and a few disappointments. This is the fourth time I've seen the play staged, and the first time my husband went along for the immersion in the feminine side. We were a cuddly group: two eldest daughters, one boyfriend, one current friend-and-colleague, one past colleague and friend, one sister-in-law, me husband 'n me. A very good job done by: the young lady who did the blue mat, getting-to-know-your-vagina encounter group scene (despite the fact that she had crib notes). A believable job by the woman playing a Bosnian rape victim. Delightful to see both women of colour and a woman in a wheelchair on stage. Disappointment: the famous moan scene. Orgasmic it was not. Also a little strange: a rather young woman, somewhat glamorous, playing a grandmother in the paean-to-childbirth scene. I know that grannies can be glamorous, but they are unlikely to be thirtyish or less. There were older women there who might have been more credible. At least her cue cards were guised in a journal-looking document. And the short-skirt scene was...contrived. I find it passing strange that reclamation of sexuality is accompanied by denials of sexuality. On the other hand, I understand, I get it: it's the liberation from objectification. I think I might have found it slightly more believable if the person in the short skirt had not been quite so rail-thin. There was still a paucity of women of size participating: maybe this is still the last domain of prejudice. If you're fat, don't show up in a mini-skirt.


I also have gone beyond my initial raptures of delight in the production as I have listened to the "I-ness" of the vaginal monologues: "My vagina is me" , "I am my clit" and the repetitive litany of comparing our woman smells to lush forests. Please. I personally am much more than the sum of my parts, and the idea of dressing up my parts with anything remotely rocky (diamonds?) begins to wear, if you'll excuse the phrase, thin.

Still, a worthy cause, an immersion, an opportunity to venture out in the lull between the storms. All in all, a little slushy.


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