“According to The Solitary Vice, a book for doctors that came out in the 1890s, women who masturbate tend to eat a lot of foods containing mustard and vinegar.” 

This fact, amongst a plethora of others, is what greets me as I take my seat in the dimmed Basement Theatre. It has been fourteen years since Eve Ensler, an American playwright, performer, feminist and activist, wrote the first draft of The Vagina Monologues and eight years since Auckland audiences last experienced a professional production of this internationally acclaimed classic. 

In short, The Vagina Monologues is a manifestation of the interviews Ensler candidly undertook with women across the globe to ascertain their thoughts on sex, relationships and violence against women. The production is episodic, made up of duelling monologues, with every monologue relating to the vagina, whether through sex, rape, menstruation, orgasm, birth or masturbation.

 

Originally a solo performance, The Vagina Monologues has been subjected to an ever blossoming cast, with this particular production adopting a revolving cast of twenty renowned Auckland-based actresses, with only five performing on any given night. Similarly, each permutation is guided by a different director. Last night The Basement played host to Alison Bruce, Chelsie Preston-Crayford, Michele Hine, Toni Potter and Fern Sutherland, directed by Caroline Bell-Booth.

The performance begins with a strong opening monologue by Bruce, as she confidently, through the perspective of Ensler, ponders the awkwardness of the word vagina: “It sounds like an infection at best, maybe a medical instrument, ‘Hurry, nurse, bring me the vagina’.” This comic segment visibly relaxes the audience and seamlessly fades to the next monologue, which happens to focus on the virtues of pubic hair.

Each monologue, whether it relates to Sutherland’s Angry Vagina, Preston-Crayford’s Little Coochie Snatcher, Potter’s sexual experience with Bob, or Hine’s reclamation of the word cunt, is periodically segmented with vox pops that are projected on the wall behind the evenly seated actresses. While this is a fascinating way to break up the dialogue, I find it somewhat disconcerting to now know what Judy Bailey, the Mother of the Nation, thinks her vagina smells like. Ahem.

All five actresses are flawless, all simply enthralling and all embody Ensler’s women expertly, as they shift between ages, ethnicities, social classes and countries. But it is Bruce who truly impresses with her performance of the penultimate monologue, which concerns a former-lawyer-now-sex-worker that specialises in assisting women to locate their unique moan. Evidently, what follows is a recital of numerous moans – the militant bi-sexual moan, the machine gun moan, the wasp moan – climaxing with the triple orgasm moan.

Despite the restraints of a tight script and a handful of convincing accents, the performance manages to embody a distinct New Zealand flavour through local references: Queen Street, The Britomart and Westfield St Lukes, and the soulful tunes of L.A Mitchell, Flip Grater, Opensouls and Julia Deans. 

If the success of a production is marked by the number of sell-out shows and the sheer rapture of the audience, then this production of The Vagina Monologues is a remarkable triumph. 
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