Challenging Taboos

I am of two sharply conflicted minds about Joel Lehtonen's production of Eve Ensler's "The Vagina Monologues." On one hand it strikes me as one of the lamest pieces of theater I have seen in some time; on the other I was appalled, even indignant, about the reception many afforded it on opening night last week. "The Vagina Monologues" is an emblematic contemporary play, a succes de scandal in many ways, a piece of documentary drama based on the real words of real people talking about their own experiences. In this case, it is a collection of comments women made to Ensler about their perceptions of, and relationship to, their vaginas. It has been the object of censorship and worship ever since it premiered in New York in 1998. According to the press packet provided by the producers, the play has been seen in 53 countries and has inspired a flourishing charity movement called V-Day. Lehtonen, a young director from Finland, is the first to bring the play to Russia.

In essence, "The Vagina Monologues" is an exercise in minimally theatricalized sociology. Ensler talked to women of all ages, sizes, races and cultures and learned what joys and sorrows they have encountered thanks to their vaginas. The topics range far afield, from the importance of pubic hair and the mystery of orgasm to the mechanics of lesbian seduction and the deathly horror of rape. In the original production Ensler performed the monologues herself; in Lehtonen's Moscow production, the stories are shared by three actresses, Vera Voronkova, Yekaterina Konisevich and Anna Galinova. It is hard to imagine the play itself having any significant aesthetic effect. There is no plot, no action, no characters in a traditional sense. What the play can do -- and, I'm sure, often does -- is to shake people out of the torpor they are accustomed to living in. It can make them think about issues they seldom consider. Whether or not such a pure instance of sociological activism is truly compatible with theater is questionable. Certainly it fits the general American view of theater as a platform for social problems. But also, surely, this is one of the reasons why the international reputation of American theater has dropped significantly in recent decades. In its weakest incarnations it has increasingly gone the way of the issue play, the play that tweaks the problem of the month.

As the performance of "The Vagina Monologues" progressed, I found myself wanting to see this topic explored in a documentary film. I wanted to see the real faces connected to the voices of pain, despair and delight. I wanted the authenticity only they could provide. I wanted to get away from the flip asides, the cute punch lines and the horribly superficial treatment of some truly devastating problems. This is the trouble with sociological theater: It rarely, if ever, is capable of doing justice to the wrongs it seeks to right. Most often it trivializes and simplifies rather than truly explores. In the end, Ensler figuratively holds up a few relatively lifelike portraits of suffering or joyous women, but they are little more than picture postcards of the originals. It is no accident that I am spending so much time theorizing and so little time offering specific observations about the performance. In Lehtonen's production, there is precious little to observe. Three women dressed in black sit on three red chairs and talk. Each is given two or three opportunities to stand and speak -- or, in one case, to yell -- but to all intents and purposes there is no action whatsoever.

Lehtonen's biggest miscalculation, however, was to try to inject a sense of eroticism into the proceedings. Costume designer Ruzanna Gukasyan outfitted the actresses in sexy, slinky black, with generous portions of bras and panties and corsets showing through. The women cast come-hither looks about the hall and often spoke in breathy, feminine voices. It is as if Lehtonen didn't realize that Ensler's play was not about sex at all, but rather about the crimes, the humiliations and the discoveries that women encounter because of the often skewed attitudes society has about sex. Whatever I may think Ensler's text lacks as a play (as opposed to a social document), it has more shades and nuances than this production reveals. Humor here is more often covered over by titillation. Shock is buried beneath schlock.

Say what you will, but Ensler's play is bold. But I didn't see anyone truly trying to toss down challenges in Lehtonen's production of it. More often I saw an effort to emulate a slick, glossy, hip manner that might make the show easier to market.

So what will audiences think of this play in Russian? It's a known fact that theaters and the public have been reluctant to embrace what is called "non-normative speech" in Russian. The taboo is falling, but it is not dead yet. That was clearly evident at the opener on Sept. 8. Many in the audience were extremely uncomfortable with the actresses bandying about long lists of the words used to refer to a vagina. One man cried out in despair -- whether mocking or not, I could not tell -- when one of the strongest Russian words for vagina was uttered openly for the first time. There was laughter, but it was often clearly nervous laughter. More often there was icy silence. And, at a few key moments in the play, there were stampedes for the exits.

The first exodus, relatively small, began following a series of tales about women's experiences with their first menstrual flow. A protracted exodus began as we heard the story of a Muslim woman from Kosovo who was raped repeatedly for seven straight days. This was a noisy, demonstrative act on the part of many of those leaving. They stomped their feet, spoke out loud and took their time doing it. On occasion, the actresses could only stop performing and wait for order to come again. One prominent elder Moscow critic was among the group that could not take any more. I cannot help but ask -- and I do not have the answer -- were these people from an Orthodox society with close ties to Serbia scandalized by the politics of the moment, or were they simply unable to withstand any more graphic descriptions?

Later, one of the actresses, speaking for one of her characters, proudly declared she had made peace with one of the "obscenities" that commonly describes the vaginal tract. Standing at center stage, she shouted the word over and over, attempting to turn it into an incantation. When she finished, a prominent younger critic sitting in the third row, certain that he was demonstrating his wit, shouted sarcastically, "And will this last for long?!"

I was not impressed by Ensler's play, which I found lacking in the depth it seems to claim for itself. I was still less impressed with Lehtonen's production, which rode roughshod over the nuances Ensler does provide. But I was outraged by the large number of people whose strident demonstrations of intolerance I can only describe as a flimsy veil for flat-out ignorance.