Imagine an ooky-spooky woodland wonderland whose inhabitants are defined by angsty-faced interpretive dance that's an unintentional parody of interpretive dance. Tack on a narrative comprised of shopworn fairy tale clichés. Factor in some would-be lesbian erotica that's actually about as erotic as, oh, a menstruating five-year-old represented by a wooden puppet. And welcome to the world of Laura Jacqmin's 10 Virgins.
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Playwright: Laura Jacqmin
At: Chicago Dramatists, 1105 W. Chicago
Phone: 312-633-0630
Runs through: June 1
Photo by Johnny Knight
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One wonders what ill-favored substance has infiltrated the Kool-Aid at Chicago Dramatists, where the season 'til now has been defined by the dramatic riches of 'A Steady Rain' and the marvelously entertaining 'Cadillac.'
With 10 Virgins, Jacqmin trots out just about every fairy tale trope you can think of—golden spindles, red shoes, enchanted keys, Gretel—they're all belabored with a mix of forced whimsy and plodding earnestness. The title characters are 10 orphaned sisters, five young women and five little girls, the latter represented by wooden puppets. They speak to in a mix of faux Elizabethan quaintness and modern vernacular. But the inconsistent style ( Lines such as 'Your bodkin begs a hard scrubbing' or 'What were ye doing in sleeping's stead?' come alongside dialogue utterly 21st-century modernity ) isn't the core deal breaker here. The real problem is that for its laborious, two-hour duration, 10 Virgins doesn't have a single believable character engaging in a single believable act. Even as fantasy or fairy tale creatures, the goings-on here are eye-rollingly preposterous. The biggest eye roll arrives during a discussion of menstruation. Apparently, Sister Marchen notes, all 10 siblings are bleeding at once. Enchanted faerieland or no, one can't get around the fact that the puppet sisters are supposed to be about five years old. Last we checked, menses is rare unto impossible for even the most precocious 5-year-old.
But Virgins doesn't linger long on the mysteries of prepubescent menstruation. Most of the piece deals with the dubiously erotic machinations of Marchen, whose flaming libido and interpretively flinging limbs find respite in the arms of Jenny Greenteeth, a swamp witch who favors Rastafarian dreadlocks and Jane-of-the-Jungle loincloths. At various junctures, Jenny claims to be the sisters' mother, father, brother and, really, we lost track of who all else amid all the stylized pseudo-symbolism, over-boiled metaphors and continuity-killing blackouts.
Directed by Russ Tutterow, 10 Virgins is a bastion of affectation. Moreover, many a scene is little more than tangential filler. Take, for example, the story-stoppers that arrive in the form of the quirky games the sisters play to avoid their chores. One involves the adventures of a frolicking squirrel. One is a cross between charades and a Precious Moments comic strip. Both are so much dead space in what plot exists within Jacqmin's artificially mannered flight of fancy.
