Chris and Jodi,
It’s not for reasons of gender alone that we all seem to be dividing this discussion into two separate parts, even though the division does occur along gender lines: Of the three books under discussion, The Vagina Monologues clearly lies on one side of the divide, the only one of them laying claim to literary or artistic merit. The other two, which are remarkably similar to each other in a number of ways, occupy that hazy, modern middle ground between social science and self-help.
Which suggests, despite the areas of overlap the three books share, that rather different criteria apply from one group to the other. With Eve Ensler’s … what? Book? Play? Performance piece? In any event, with Eve Ensler’s product, we’re implicitly asked to judge it as a work of art, even if its actual significance is rather as a social artifact. On the other hand, when we discuss the male body image books, we’re much more likely to be addressing the issues they raise than the qualities of the books qua books.
The most remarkable and important thing about The Vagina Monologues, and the reason, I’m convinced, it’s such a success, is its title. Without in any way questioning Eve Ensler’s sincerity–all the evidence suggests her motives are as pure as her skills are deficient–the title is a stroke of marketing genius. Simply getting the word “vagina” out there, in advertisements in the New York Times, in respectable reviews, and in cocktail party chatter and discussions of the mayor’s wife’s employment prospects, guaranteed the play the kind of attention PR agents would kill for. Prior to the play’s appearance, I doubt if I heard the word “vagina” spoken aloud more than 10 times in my entire adulthood. Whereas now it’s like MasterCard, everywhere you want to be.
But oh, what a disappointment the play itself is. I have no doubt there is a series of world-class monologues to be written about vaginas–and about penises and anuses and even nasal passages, for God’s sake–that could reveal something fundamental and disturbing and new about the human condition. I don’t mean this ironically, incidentally; I began reading The Vagina Monologues with high expectations. But what a letdown! It promises us revelation, and it gives us … nothing. Less than nothing. Its sentimentality in matters other than vocabulary is almost Victorian. Its whimsy is leaden. (“If your vagina got dressed, what would it wear?” Give me a break! The answers are altogether banal, incidentally, although it’s worth noting no one suggests a hair shirt.) Its morality is bizarre (the celebrated “Coochi Snorcher” monologue, which, we are told, regularly brings audiences to raucous standing ovations, first bemoans heterosexual child abuse, and then actually celebrates lesbian child abuse.) It belabors the obvious and the self-evident and keeps patting itself on the back for doing so.
OK, let’s all agree that women have periods, babies, orgasms. Most of us sort of knew that already, at least at second hand. And many of us already feel a certain awe about these phenomena. So please, tell us something new about how you experience them. Give us a sense of them we may not have had before. Shock us, surprise us, offend us, titillate us, educate us, amuse us, move us. But don’t just stare into your speculum and assume you’re making art.
Does seeing the piece performed reveal merits invisible to those of us who merely read it? This is possible, I suppose, and Jodi’s posting suggests as much. However, I wonder if it isn’t just as possible that the social aspects of such an event, the rock-concertlike excitement along with the celebratory group ethos, actually camouflage some of its weaknesses.
The evening Jodi describes is fascinating, an amazing and (at least to me) incomprehensible phenomenon. All these famous, distinguished, accomplished women yelling “cunt” in public to a cheering, echoing throng: Is the appeal of this so gender-specific that men shouldn’t judge it or even try to understand it? Clearly, something tribal is occurring, some ritual that draws strength from its own repetition. But does that validate the play? No more, to my mind, than a rowdy midnight showing of TheRocky Horror Picture Show turns that camp monstrosity into a good film. And I even question the role the play per se performs in the resultant delirium: Most of that delirious throng goes to the theater with the decision to get delirious having been made well in advance. It’s part of the experience. It’s part of the show.
A few final words about The Vagina Monologues as a book since it is in that form that we are reviewing it. It does not give good weight. The play itself occupies only 122 pages, with large print and very wide margins. You can read it in less than an hour. The rest of the volume contains Gloria Steinem’s remarkably fatuous introductory essay, an embarrassing and self-serving collection of congratulatory letters from viewers and participants in various productions of the play, and an essay about V-Day, part of the campaign against violence directed at women with which, for no obvious reason other than–again–marketing savvy, the play has become associated. At $12.95, the phrase “rip-off” doesn’t seem inappropriate.
Tomorrow, the guys get theirs. Till then. …
Best,
Erik
