Last weekend I was lucky enough to see two shows. The first was on Friday afternoon at an esteemed crèche in a genteel area of Toulouse (average age of audience: 1.9 years).
The second was held in a café-theatre on Saturday afternoon, and entitled “Les monologues du vagin” (The Vagina Monologues, for all those who dropped French in third year and never got as far as learning the word for “vagina”). Average age of audience: 40 (all age groups represented).
There were some notable similarities between these two performances. Both relied wholly on the talents of three women, for example. In both cases, the actresses managed to convey an impressive range of emotions with only minimal props. Both made use of music, though not in quite the same way. All the actresses made savage, animal sounds at some point… but not for the same purpose. Both audiences were captivated.
Which did I prefer? Well, on Friday afternoon, I was pink-cheeked with happiness at seeing the whole-hearted fascination of BB and his comrades. On Saturday afternoon, I was pink-cheeked with embarrassment after realising that I perhaps wasn’t quite as liberal-minded as I’d thought. On Friday afternoon, my mind wandered affably at one point: isn’t this nice? Isn’t it refreshing to take a break from reality for a while, to be in a place where the roses are red, the sky is blue, and even the carrots have big smiley faces?
On Saturday afternoon, my mind wandered uneasily at one point: wouldn’t it be nice if they said something other than the V-word occasionally? Anything else, really. I’m not fussy.
Don’t get me wrong: The Vagina Monologues is funny. It made me laugh: I’m no prude (I think). But on the way home the thought crossed my mind: thank goodness it’s a high-brow, intellectual sort of play that started life in the arty theatres of New York. Otherwise… well, otherwise you might be mistaken for thinking it was just three women saying the V-word a lot.
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