L-R: Brennan Lowery, Molly-Ann Nordin, Jeffrey Brian Adams, and Marlon Meikle in HAPPILY AFTER EVER. Photo by Erik Carter. |
For
much of human history, little distinction was made between one’s gender and
one’s sex, or between one’s sexual characteristics and one’s sexual
orientation, or between one’s biological sexual markers and one’s sexual
self-identification. It was simply
assumed that what it meant to be male was to have a Y chromosome, to have a
penis and testicles, to be physically attracted to and sexually stimulated by
women, and to think of oneself as a man.
And what it meant to be female was to lack a Y chromosome, to have a
vagina and uterus, to be physically attracted to and sexually stimulated by
men, and to think of oneself as a woman.
And all the parts were thought to go together in neat packages:
chromosomes, sex organs, emotional inclinations, and self-identifications. Sure there were tomboys and sissies among us
– and occasionally we even came across blatant homosexuals or lesbians - but those were thought to be rare aberrations
of little significance.
Not
any more. The gay rights movement,
culminating in the broad acceptance of same sex marriage, has led, in turn, to
the recognition of the extent to which all those parts really don’t necessarily
go together, a better understanding of the degree to which one might exhibit
male physical sexual characteristics and a female sexual orientation (or vice
versa), and the belated realization that we were wrong to have believed that
one’s sex (as evidenced by one’s chromosomes and sex organs) and one’s gender
(as evidenced by one’s orientation and self-identification) must necessarily
coincide. Yes, they usually do – but not
nearly as consistently as we once thought.
Indeed,
the very idea of there being any such thing as, say, a lesbian trapped in a
man’s body was once taken to be nothing more than a sophomoric oxymoronic
joke. That is, until today.
It
is this revolutionary change in our thinking about sex and gender that lies at
the heart of Ricochet Collective’s production of Happily After Ever, a rather quirky impressionistic play by Laura
Zlatos currently premiering at 59E59 Theaters on East 59th Street in midtown
Manhattan. The play’s slight plot
revolves around Janet and Darren, newlyweds eager to create a perfect life for
themselves and one that must, of course, include a perfect baby. But life throws them a curve when Janet gives
birth to a baby with both male and female genitalia. Is it a boy?
A girl? Both? And what, if
anything, should they do about – or to - it?
Are
sex and gender absolutes or are they relativistic concepts: in other words, is
one either male or female and that’s all there is to it, or do those concepts
really lie on a continuum so that one can be mostly male or mostly female or
sort of both? And whether absolute or
relative, are sex and gender fixed or are they malleable? Might sex be fixed and gender malleable – or
the other way around? The questions
never seem to end.
While
the play’s primary focus is on these conundrums, the playwright also raises all
sorts of other questions of a relative or absolute nature. Are happiness and unhappiness absolutes or
are they also relativistic – i.e., are we happy (or unhappy) irrespective of
our perceptions of others’ happiness or unhappiness or is our own happiness somehow
dependent upon our perception of the happiness (or lack thereof) of others? Schadenfreude, anyone? To that end, we are introduced to Janet and
Darren’s next door neighbors, Jerry and Dharma, the perfect couple whose own
lives come to represent the standard against which Janet and Darren measure
their own.
In
directing how the characters in her play should be cast, Ms Zlatos specified
that “Janet and Dharma should be played by a woman or someone who is feminine”
and that “Darren and Jerry should be played by a man or someone who is
masculine.” In fact, in this production,
Darren and Jerry are played by two very talented “real” men (Jeffrey Brian
Adams and Brennan Lowery, respectively) and Janet is played by an exceptionally
exuberant and irrepressible “real” woman (Molly-Ann Nordin).. But Dharma is played by a notorious drag queen
(Marlon Meikle) whose over-the-top femininity surpasses that of most “real”
women, only serving to underscore the degree to which our perceptions of sex
and gender are relativistic rather than absolute.
Nor
is it just the concepts of sex and gender that Ms Zlatos contends are more
relativistic than absolute. The same
thing apparently can be said about the concepts of love and loyalty and most
anything else you might imagine. As an
example, in response to Janet’s affirmation that she “was not meant to be
alone,” Darren’s response is much less reassuring in any absolute sense than
one might have expected:
“And now, you never
will be. Except when I leave for work
every day. Or if I take a really long
shit. Or when I need to get the hell
away from you, but it’s pretty damn safe to say that I’ll be there for the
minimum amount of time it takes to keep you around.”
And
when Janet seeks absolute assurance from Darren that
”you’ll love me,
right? Forever. And after that even. And again after that”
the
best that Darren can come up with is:
“I promise to love
you as long as you don’t get fat.”
The
only other character in the play is Tommy (Jim Anderson), a runaway,
misunderstood family dog who, as it turns out, is really a bitch, Tania. Apparently even the sexual identification of
dog can be suspect and relativistic. As
played by Mr. Anderson, the droll and downcast Tommy adds further comic relief
to an otherwise unusual and entertaining production.
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