Filling in the gaps 08/11/2013 - 1:38am

Editorial
This is where things get interesting. Still reeling from the impact of There’s No Place Like Home, I walk with my friends to the car to shuttle towards the Red Eye. At the bend in the road by the Mixed Blood are an ambulance, a sedan, a cop, two people seated on a guardrail, and a woman flailing her arms on the street corner. I frown, remembering the last time I saw flashing lights at this theater, and try to walk by. “Excuse me, darling! Where is the Red Eye?” “Y’know, I was actually heading there myself. Here, let me pull up the directions--” “You’re going there? Do you drive?” “...Yes? Well, I already have a ride--” “Drive my car!” “I’m sorry, what?” “Darling, drive my car! I am late for the Red Eye!” “You want me to drive your car to the Red Eye? Right now?...Okay, let’s go.” My friends look at me in disbelief, miming if they should intervene or rescue me. The woman seems legitimately confused, flustered, and harmless. Bedazzled in a bright yellow and turquoise tunic and pantsuit, she glimmers with nervous energy. A few things flash through my brain: if a friend was telling me this process, I would be livid and think they were reckless for getting into a car with a complete stranger. And yet I held the upper hand and was driving her vehicle and my friends clearly knew I was with her. Besides, I really was headed to the Red Eye myself to catch Marilyn and Jackie at the Pearly Gates and this would save my friend the driving time. An entertaining if short ride later, we pull up to the Red Eye and she continues to compliment me: “Darling, you are an angel! You were sent to me! You are my destiny and you have taken me here. Your parking is marvelous, don’t worry about it! We have made it! You are with me, we will meet the playwright! This is him now: Tell him you love the show!” Smiling and confused, I greet the playwright Jon Skaalen and truthfully offer: “Congratulations. I have heard good things.” (Online reviews, but still.) “Wonderful! Well now that you’ll see it yourself, if you walk out, at least do it quietly.” “Nonsense. If I walk out, I will make a scene, I promise.” Chuckling, we part and I move through the line with my companion Leilee, who soon chastises a man who claims to understand Bollywood from journeying to Mumbai once upon a time. “Go more places! Go more places!” she insists. She makes him promise to try to go back. I understand again why I got in the car with a random woman. Leilee is a force. The theater is fairly packed, but only three look to be people of color. I sit front and center, genuinely curious about this show. I chat with an older couple seated to my right, asking about their Fringe habits and anticipation for this show. Now here is the rough part: the show itself. Confession: I do not particularly care for Marilyn Monroe or Jackie Onassis. I respect them as bold and impactful women in their own rights, and draw the JFK link between them certainly (I know my Boston boys), but missed the media’s infatuation with the two of them. So I guess I wanted this show to explain to me why I should care about these women, especially now that they have passed. The playwright and director must have had other intentions. Much of the script was hard for me to follow: the language meandered from discussing nothing at all to something just not particularly profound or important. Many seemed jokes that some of the audience found funny, tongue-in-cheek references to real events, I suppose. I was confused but still trying hard to figure out the nuggets that garnered such a large crowd on a Friday. Sure, the actresses were both fairly good. They were likely well-cast, but seemed to lack consistency and depth, sometimes even interest and energy, and I could not connect to either of them--nor did I particularly want to, sadly. The music I thought was brilliant. “Where were you in the 60s?” sets the atmosphere well and reminds the audience of the passage of time and its impact on our upbringings. Excellent. I even started blaming myself. I was listening intently, watching carefully, thinking hard, and still could not get on board with this show. And then--and this I do not apologize for. The show ends with both women respecting one another, bonding even, over their strength and tactics and resilience, blah blah blah--and so, newly empowered, they both turn and flash the black male Gate Keeper. That is how the show ends. This tableau. Isn’t it enough that these two fierce women were skimping around in tiny silk bathrobes for the entire hour? That there was already a scene of Marilyn naked, the Gate Keeper dressing her, holding her hips, looking at her chest? Even if you want to insist “that’s how she was” or “that’s what she wanted” or any of a number of inane things, what rationalizes this kind of a closing tableau? It was intentional. It was long. It was lurid. It was unnecessary. Any scrap of power these women, who are typically relegated to “sex symbol” status anyways, garnered through this show evaporated with that ending. Don’t tell me it didn’t. Don’t tell me that’s not victimization of women. Don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about. This is not about me being a prude or hating nudity or sex. This is about me living in a body that is traditionally seen as an object, this is about me working with girls who were told they were only bodies, this is about me holding together friends who believe they are how they look naked. Specific choices like this one perpetuate this psychological warfare on women. The director and playwright might be a great guy, but I for the life of me do not understand this choice at all. I brace myself and smile primly at my neighbors. “What did you guys think?” “Well...it was unexpected. I guess this is not what I expected.” After a bit more prodding: “Okay. They flash the Gate Keeper? Really? Why? I thought we were past all that! Really.” Ah, there it is. Her husband nods in perplexed support. They are put off for the night and decide to go home to walk their dog to clear their heads. Spilling onto the street, I quickly stalk off to avoid the playwright, needing more time to be “diplomatic” about the violence I have just witnessed. Don’t tell me I’m being crazy. I need a walk to clear my head too.
Headshot of Lisa Hu
Lisa Hu
Filling in the gaps: Musings from a mind bustling with questions amidst the chaotic shenanigans of the Fringe: Who hardcore Fringes when? How are we products of our environments? Do these shows interact with one another? Does it matter?