Scarlet Confessions: The Infamous and the Innocent, a Musical Diary
“Love demands expression,” explains the nameless, genderless narrator in Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body. “It will not stay still, stay silent, be good, be modest, be seen and not heard, no.”
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O’Reilly and Smith last teamed up for Hello Dali: From the Sublime to the Surreal, a tribute to art and its evolving role in human expression that ran off and on for two years. Directed, like Scarlet Confessions, by Paul Amandes, that production was overtly theatrical, with a decidedly anarchic tone (thanks in part to Beau O’Reilly and Jenny Magnus’s contributions), while Scarlet Confessions is more of a cabaret concert. But thanks to O’Reilly’s crystal soprano, Smith’s virtuoso guitar playing and world-weary voice, and Anne Hills’s honey-soaked alto, the songs and stories shine through with clarity and integrity. Director Amandes also performs, giving a wry, folksy twist to several of the pieces with his guitar and voice, and Al Ehrich plays a solid bass.
The second act begins with “The Tale of Raven and Viola,” a Victorian-style shadow-puppet piece by Jennifer Friedrich and Damien Hinojosa that uses an old-fashioned paper cranky to tell the story of a jealous girl who drowns her sister and the father who finds a downright creepy way to preserve the girl’s remains. But then the theme shifts from stories of personal passion and retribution to a more universal portrayal of how quickly hearts can turn bitter and how necessary compassion is. Randy Newman’s “In Germany Before the War” captures the just-below-the-surface disturbances of the Weimar Republic. Smith’s “Crazy Mary” pays tribute to a lost soul, the local lunatic who is the butt of children’s jokes. And the evening ends with the most compassionate revelation of all, rendered with quiet intensity in Phil Ochs’s folkie classic “There but for Fortune.” Prisoners, drunks, lovers, and losers–our fortunes may differ, but Smith and O’Reilly’s creation reminds us that we are united by our need for dreams and passions.
But Bloodrut doesn’t reveal anything about women’s menstrual cycles that hasn’t been broadcast since at least the first appearance of Our Bodies, Ourselves. (Gosh, did you know some women actually feel sexy during their period?) And using menstruation as a defining marker for feminine experience comes dangerously close to the biological determinism that feminists have fought against forever. In a booklet of quotes and factoids accompanying the performance, Garneau cites one Demetra George, who maintains in her book Mysteries of the Dark Moon: The Healing Power of the Dark Goddess that the “denial and rejection of menstruation is central to the excruciating pain and discomfort that many women experience prior to and during their period.” With all due respect to Ms. George, that sounds like a kinder and more New Age way of saying “It’s all in your head, sweetie.” Me, I prefer to take some ibuprofen and get on with more important things.
