Is explicit sex a theatrical disease?

"Don't we go to plays for passions we don't get in life?"
—Thomas in Venus in Fur, by David Ives


If David Ives is right, Philadelphia theatergoers must not be getting enough sex at home. For the past month, audiences have been able to see plays that range from the innocent teenage angst of Walnut Street Theatre's production of Grease— in which the big question is whether Sandy Dumbrowski, the "good" girl, will put out for bad boy Danny Zuko— to the seemingly explicit act of fellatio (albeit hidden behind a large red lip-shaped couch) in the Philadelphia Opera Company's Powder Her Face.

Philadelphians have witnessed full frontal nudity with an actual male organ on display in the Wilma Theater's Bootycandy as well as a passel of pseudo-erect phalluses in the Simpatico Theatre's The Lysistrata Project, not to mention a glimpse of breast in Philadelphia Theater Company's ostensibly intellectual Seminar.

Bra and garter belt

Each of these plays explores how sex represents power, be it for political gain or for control of a relationship. In The Lysistrata Project, the original Greek play has been updated to consider the question of who controls women's bodies. When the senate passes the "No Womb Left Behind" law that says women need their husbands' permission to obtain birth control, the women, spurred on by the cheerful feminist Lysistrata, withhold sex from their men. While the women suffer and moan— they miss sex too— the men strut around, engorged penises protruding, threatening violence until forced to capitulate and reverse the law.

Vanda, playing a seeming dominatrix in Venus in Fur, parades her body in bra and garter belt and stockings to taunt her playwright/sexual opponent in her bid for power. She says she wants a part in Thomas's play. Or does she? Does she want to control him? To punish him for his sexist views? Whatever— sex is her tool for attracting his attention, and the audience's.

Similarly, in Theresa Rebeck's Seminar— a play so intellectual that it supplies its audience with a reference guide— sex is the currency for attracting the attention of an egotistical writer. His approval is the equivalent of publication in the minds of the aspiring short-story writers who pay an exorbitant amount for the honor of basking in his presence and receiving his insults.

Threat of arrest

Freud's concept of scopophilia perceived that a glimpse of the human body in itself could be a source of pleasure. In the late "'60s— a time when (like today) an unpopular war was draining resources and young people were in rebellion— just plain nudity sufficed to titillate an audience. In 1968 The Living Theater's production of Paradise Now at the Brooklyn Academy of Music drew Manhattanites to watch as performers discussed social taboos while standing in the aisles and taking their clothes off despite the threat of real (not theatrical) arrest.

Oh! Calcutta!, which opened at the off-Broadway Eden Theater in 1969, shocked audiences with its sexually themed skits. Yet it eventually moved to Broadway and became one of the longest running shows ever in the original and revival. Then Hair opened on Broadway, using nudity as a political statement. I personally remember those performances and the frisson of danger associated with going to see what had hitherto been taboo.

But today's shows have gone beyond the mere display of the human body; they display the body as potential sexual participant. The naked man in Bootycandy bares himself to demonstrate that he wants sex. In Venus, it isn't sufficient for Vanda to display her body in bustier and stockings; eventually she maneuvers Thomas into lying on top of her, just in case he still doesn't get her message. And in Powder Her Face, the Duchess's sexual act, played behind a couch with her back to the audience, states clearly that she wants and enjoys sex.

(That was relatively tame compared to the City Opera's production of Powder Her Face at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, where audiences watched two dozen naked men emerge from that couch, suggesting the pleasure of not just one sex act but multiple couplings.)

Meanwhile, the real world

On the positive side, they show women as sexual creatures, not submissive but equal or even dominant to their partners and enjoying it as well. When the women of New Athens in Lysistrata withhold sex, it's clear that they're suffering from deprivation as much as the men. In Venus, Vanda describes herself as a pagan, a Greek, a status that permits her to enjoy sex without censure. And the Duchess in Powder Her Face, of course, enjoys sex but ultimately pays a price for her enjoyment.

In these cases, the theater companies seem willing to portray women as sexual creatures even while acknowledging that the real world isn't quite so forgiving.

Of course sex and power have always been essential elements of the theater; after all, that's the essence of drama. Today's overt exploration of sexuality could reflect the isolation of the Internet age, in which people are so tied to their computer screens that they've forgotten how to actually interact with another human being. In such a world, nudity and profanity may be necessary to shock us into paying attention to what's right here: our bodies and our relationships.

On the other hand, as Vanda/Venus puts it in Venus in Fur, "I am Venus. I must be all ze time naked, or who knows me?" Who indeed? Maybe someone with a soupçon of imagination?♦


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