ORPHEUS AND EURYDIKE
Why? Why were some people making frenzied attempts to escape this “feminist-inspired” two-hour reinterpretation of the Orpheus myth using new music, dance, theater, film, and video? The answer lies in the question: too many elements, poorly edited and orchestrated, strung together.
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But I hungered not for a man’s interpretation of feminism, but for Birringer’s own true voice as “the gazer.” Not the same old male obsession with young women as representations of truth and beauty or innocence, and with the salvation possible in a dalliance with a Eurydice. I wanted a flip-flop of this traditional male artistic stance, “looking out,” to an artistic stance of looking within and addressing the issues of a man’s identity at this time. I wanted to see his portrait, his monologue, his struggle with identity, his “apologia pro vita sua.” I wanted to feel it, see it, have it rubbed in my face. I did not want his interpretation of my (everywoman’s/Eurydike’s) struggle. Just as we are now suspicious of white interpretations of the African American sensibility, so I am suspicious when an artist or writer seeks to interpret or reinterpret the feminine. Every time a man seeks to explain how it feels to be under “the male gaze,” a true female voice is subverted. To his credit, perhaps the fact that Birringer is attempting to answer these questions marks a turning point, the beginning of the male gaze turning inward on itself.
Six figures in space, reaching out, then withdrawing their hands, striking their own bodies. (Over and over the actors will touch their mouths and their bodies with their hands, as though their hands will form the words that their minds and voices cannot.) Laughter and sound in the audience, actorly “plants.” Within the first 15 minutes, we will have seen numerous metaphorical images. A person in red high heels, swathed in white like a mummy with a veiled head, inches across the stage like a worm or caterpillar. A beautiful girl is struggling and screaming, wearing what appears to be the dull green gown of someone in a mental institution. The hysterical woman? A man’s interpretation of the feminist sensibility. Or is she angry? She’s obviously hysterical! Calm her down! She’s placed in a Plexiglas tub and bathed. Has she died? Is she being prepared for death? Is she being purified in some way station on the astral plane? What is this ritual? Now someone is wearing the corset that had been hanging stage left.
Perhaps this was intentional. It’s hard to imagine that anything in this production was actually accidental. Everything seemed planned and orchestrated, from Birringer straddling his camera barefoot (i.e., making love to his production) to the placement of the performers in the space to Margaret Kendrick’s fabulous costume design. There’s nothing wrong with this sort of scrupulous planning in and of itself. The 22 performers and several collaborators exhibited a staggering, almost awe-inspiring amount of talent. The orchestrations and musical production by Winsberg, Tobias, and Morehead were absolutely wonderful: rich, varied, and exciting. The singing, by Bonita Hyman, Isabelle Ganz, and Elise Kermani, was strong and moving. Yet I was left unmoved. Perhaps if this ambitious effort were carefully edited and gained a true voice, a male voice, it could become the breathtaking work it was clearly intended to be.
