I couldn't help it, thoughts of Taylor Swift kept intruding while I absorbed a kinda heartbreaking critique of feminism in Liberation, a self-described memory play that examines the lives of five women, all members of a women's consciousness-raising group that meets in an Ohio recreation center with a basketball court. "19:70" appears on the scoreboard.
Lizzie (Susannah Flood, flakey but sincere) welcomes the audience as well as the women with a mission statement: in a double role, she's going to interrogate how her mother, the kind of woman she never has wanted to become, could have organized the group and what happened to its members over the last 50 years. Playwright (and Gen Xer) Bess Wohl uses the first act of Liberation to introduce the era's archetypes including Margie (Betsy Aidem, who transcends cliche oh-so-movingly), a semi-embittered housewife; Celeste (Kristolyn Lloyd, fierce), an Angela Davis lookalike with her short Afro and hexagonal glasses, convinced of her acute intelligence but hiding a secret; Susan (Adina Verson, fiercer) a radical Marxist lesbian, who believes only artificial wombs will save humankind; and Dora (Audrey Corsa, FANTAStic), a Barbie whose brainpower, if not her sexual pleasure, is on par with her good fortune and determination. Only Isidora (Irene Sofia Lucio, galvanizing) as an Italian immigrant with peculiar politics, seemed unfamiliar to this regular reader of popular feminist fiction back in the day (The Bluest Eye, Memoirs of an Ex-Prom Queen, Fear of Flying, Rubyfruit Jungle & The Women's Room, off the top of my head, in chronological order). The women's interactions are fairly predictable, too, as their "community" and politics evolve but watching the winning cast establish their characters is thoroughly enjoyable.
To feminize a male metaphor, director Whitney White (Saturday Church) takes off the gloves in the second act, after the brief but critical appearance of Bill (Charlie Thurston, persuasively anodyne) the chivalrous, ambitious hunk who competes with Lizze to clear the meeting chairs before shooting some hoops. Sparks fly and Lizzie turns her mother's role over to Susan (Kayla Davion, fiercest) because "it would be creepy" for a daughter to be sexually interested in her father, and begins watching the action instead of participating in it, an effective sleight of theatrical hand. Susan, as a woman with four kids who, like Bill, hasn't been given much to do in the first act, dominates the second playing both Black and white and poor and privileged characters, a performance that serves as a powerful metaphor for what appears to be Wohl's theme: as much as women's age, bodies, class, race and sexual orientation differ they all face the same challenges when fighting for equality, challenges that have diminished over time but remain formidable particularly in the face of love, the chemical reaction that fuels human reproduction for the majority of people.
Which brings me back to Taylor Swift, who from this fangirl's perspective seems to have it all. The megastar's track record prior to her engagement and the release of her latest album surely more than qualifies her as a contemporary feminist icon. To cite just three examples: as a young woman, she successfully sued a radio promoter who grabbed her ass; her lyrics for "The Man" offered the most tuneful, transgressive and amusing distillation of sexism to ever appear on a pop album; and she re-mastered much of her back catalog when a male recording executive refused to sell them back to her, a seemingly impossible feat.
Now, in The Life of a Showgirl, Swift admits that she lied when she said "I don't believe in marriage" ("Eldest Daughter"); she's queerbaiting in a public catfight with another pop star ("Actually Romantic"); and she's rhapsodizing about her fiancé's endowment ("Wood"). I can't say that I'm looking forward to her songs about motherhood.
Lizzie, look no further than basic biology for the answer to your question. Maybe Susan is right about those artificial wombs, after all.
* * * *
Liberation, because of its second-act shocker, has a better reason than inconsiderate people to insist that audience members secure their phones in Yondr pouches upon arrival at the theater. For me it's a worthwhile inconvenience because use of phones during live performances and movies DRIVES ME NUTS. So when I sat down in my orchestra seat and immediately spotted a masked woman about my age in front of me removing her phone from her purse, I confronted her.
"You know, you're supposed to check your phone upon entering the theater," I admonished.
"You don't understand, sir" her companion, also masked, replied. "She's got diabetes."
"Oh yeah? What did she do before she had a phone?" I snapped.
"It's none of your business," replied the diabetic who continued to scroll her phone in a manner that suggested she wasn't monitoring her blood sugar.
Furious at the insensitivity of an individual who would use her phone in a theater where everyone else had been denied access to theirs, I got up from my seat to look for an usher. "If she's wearing a white band around her wrist, it's OK now, but not during the show," the usher explained. Somewhat chastened, I returned to my seat where the woman's scrolling continued on and off with nervous looks over her shoulder until Liberation began. I couldn't see if she was wearing a white band or not.
As soon as the curtain dropped for intermission, out came her phone. She briefly checked her mail, but returned it to her purse as soon as she heard me scoff in disgust. Fifteen minutes without my phone gave me even more time to stew.
Am I the asshole? Would I have confronted a man in the same situation?
