First things first. Hello. It's been a while. Right. Pleasantries over, let's go...
Don’t get me wrong, there’s so much that I loved about this
show. How bloody marvellous it is to see a stage occupied solely by woman
without bearing the warning disclaimer that you’re about to endure an ‘all
female’ production (I know…can I get you a glass of water?). How often do you
sit in the theatre for two hours and the only woman you see is in your
peripheral vision, and it’s the mate you turned up with. Yet you’ll receive no
warnings, you won’t have to sign any forms, don a radiation-proof jumpsuit or
go into quarantine to attend one of these ‘all male’ productions. Whilst some
might harp on condescendingly about how traditional Jacobean theatre was always
that way, I might barricade entrances to the foyer bathrooms and invite members
of the audience to find a suitable corner to defecate in at the interval,
because clearly, when in the theatre, do as the Jacobean’s did…no loo roll? No
problem, use the corner of your tunic…
Anyhow, I digress. The point I’m trying to make is that, in
the theatre, you don’t usually get a fanny-fest onstage, and it’s great to see
one without having been extensively warned of it beforehand. In fact the
greatest thing about Blurred Lines is the immediate and sad realisation that
this particular collection of genitals onstage is an unusual one. My niggling
problem is that I wanted to feel significantly less comfortable. Half the
audience was bopping away in their seats to Robin Thicke’s bestselling single
of 2013, and I have a feeling that they’ll do the same thing next time it pops
on the radio.
The production creeps forward with claws bared in its last
scene, but retreats before any real confrontation materialises. Compare that
with the audience member who was asked to cough up some change or requested to
publically admit whether they’d touch a homeless person in ‘Protest Song’ last
month, and the confrontational chasm is exposed. ‘Blurred Lines’ has incredible
content, but feels a little incoherent in places, which would be fine if we
were wrenched out of our seats into the chaos. I just wanted to hear more, I
wanted to feel compelled to kick off, start a protest, ANYTHING. The reality is
that last night’s performance felt like a quickly resolved pub kerfuffle that
fizzled with no need for intervention, when what I really wanted was an all-out
brawl, a chance to emerge with a bit of a sore brain and a sense that I was
being dealt a strong dose of injustice. Maybe I just enjoy a bit of a barney.
I’ll indulge my temptation to flog out a tiresome metaphor further, I just wanted
to feel a bit of a punch in the head, something buzzing through my head on the
train home…instead I looked up pictures of cats wearing hats on tumblr.
I’d love responses on this one. So if you’ve seen it. Go,
go, go.
Now.
PS. Sorry for saying ‘fanny-fest’, I tried a number of
alternatives but they just weren’t as good.
PPS. ‘Fanny-fest’, sorry? Nah.
