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writer's house journal: The Play That Must No Be Named
Jen and I went together to see Vagina Monologues on opening night last night. It's a much, much better play performed than read-- so much of the meaning, especially the humor, is in the sound and motion and spontaneity and fellowship of it.
Much like sex, I suppose. Although I've read some pretty good all-dialogue sex scenes.
Anyway, what really struck me about the play was that it wasn't really a play about vaginas, most of it. Even disregarding the skits which didn't talk about cooches at all, which I suspect were added just for this performance-- it was really a show, not about owning your vagina, or even about owning your femaleness-- it was about *sex*, and reclaiming femininity for pleasure. This was made very obvious with the last skit, where the playwright cofessed that she hadn't even *noticed* the complete lack of any mention of childbirth in a play ostensibly about the vagina...
Much like sex, I suppose. Although I've read some pretty good all-dialogue sex scenes.
Anyway, what really struck me about the play was that it wasn't really a play about vaginas, most of it. Even disregarding the skits which didn't talk about cooches at all, which I suspect were added just for this performance-- it was really a show, not about owning your vagina, or even about owning your femaleness-- it was about *sex*, and reclaiming femininity for pleasure. This was made very obvious with the last skit, where the playwright cofessed that she hadn't even *noticed* the complete lack of any mention of childbirth in a play ostensibly about the vagina...