A Woman Without a Name
There’s a venerable tradition in philosophy and literature holding that everything that’s wrong–with everything–is the fault of Mom. Romulus Linney makes his contribution to this genre in A Woman Without a Name, in which he compares his protagonist, a turn-of-the-century housewife, to a crocodile chewing her own breasts. Though the play may be intended merely as a portrait of mother hatred, in Eclipse Theatre Company’s Chicago premiere it serves as an example of it.
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What did the eponymous woman do to provoke the playwright’s wrath? It seems she considered the possibility that life might hold more for her than the nurturing of children. Some aspects of the journal-keeping woman–let’s call her Medea–appear to be based on the temperance militant Carry Nation, whose journal is quoted in the program. Perhaps Linney eradicated Nation’s name to liberate the character from our image of her as a foolish fanatic who invaded saloons wielding an ax. Or perhaps he wanted to diminish the importance of her public activities so we’d be properly horrified by the private failures he invents and ascribes to her.
Most of these secrets were introduced earlier in the form of dreams and symbols, each repeated several times before they’re said straight-out in this flood of shame and dysfunction, which sounds like the classic spoof of southern literature: “The night the hogs ate Junior, Mama almost died when she found out what Daddy’d done to Sister.” Medea then turns to her faithful African-American retainer, and with barely a pause at making her a substitute daughter goes right to orgasmic lesbianism; a shocked observer cues the audience about the reaction we’re supposed to have. Then Medea gets up, dresses in white, and agrees to her election as leader of the temperance movement. (I know that men are sometimes awed by the power of female orgasm, but this is ridiculous.)
