I want to start this by saying: I love a good fairytale transformation. And by “transformation” I don’t mean a frog turning into a prince or vice versa — I mean retellings of old tales with a new lens or viewpoint as a way of transforming traditional thoughts about gender, power, and sexuality to make a statement about social change.

There have been, over the years, an uncountable number of fairytale transformations trying to change the established canon that perpetuates female fragility and masculine menace. My favorite fairytale transformation involves the misogynistic “Bluebeard;” it lends itself to dismemberment (haha) of toxic patriarchal paradigms. It’s a hard retelling to do well without coming off as “preachy” or placating, but when it is achieved, it’s nothing short of amazing.

Helen Oyeyemi’s Mr. Fox is one such fairytale transformation. Angela Carter’s short story collection The Bloody Chamber’s titular story (as well as the other contained stories) qualifies as a fairytale transformation, executed incredibly well. Ex Machina is one, believe it or not, and I loved it. If they throw in a “Little Red Riding Hood” twist, I’m sold (I wrote my undergraduate thesis on David Kaplan’s short film Little Red Riding Hood).

That’s why, when my graduate school announced Performing Arts Chair Melia Bensussen and Masha Obolensky were debuting a play they had written that “adapts the French Bluebeard folktale, wherein a powerful man destroys a series of women, as a backdrop to explore questions of gender, objectification, intimacy, differentiation, and ‘what price art’[sic]” — I felt compelled to attend.

The play begins with members of the feminist punk group the daughter/muse character Miranda will later end up joining — much to the chagrin of her photographer mother, who loses her subject (all of her work is composed of photos of Miranda) in the process — playing a song containing the lyrics, “Fairytales will fuck you up/Fairytales will knock you down.”

I wanted to start with the band members because their names are only spoken once, in passing, in the middle of the play and never revisited. In fact, I was only able to catch two of the three, that’s how cursory their mention was: Daphne and Echo. If their names weren’t indicators, as the play progresses, it’s obvious they serve as a Greek chorus for the action on stage, commenting on and interacting with the other actors. The two names I caught, plucked from Greek mythology, further this choral connection and specifically refer to two myths: Daphne, the nymph who was turned into a laurel tree while escaping the lecherous Apollo, and Echo, the lover of Eros who was punished by jealous Aphrodite for indulging in his questionably-consensual seduction. I’ll return to the problematic bandmates shortly.

After the chorus’ introduction that serves as a warning to the audience and girls everywhere that fairytales are rarely magical, the photographer/mother Cameron tells her young daughter a variation of the “Little Red Riding Hood” fairytale. No doubt this is a direct homage to Angela Carter’s short story “The Company of Wolves” from The Bloody Chamber. It’s an endearing moment that illustrates a child waking up scared and a mother comforting her with a story that transforms a cautionary tale about strangers in the forest into reclamation of female agency. It also harkens back to the original oral history of “Little Riding Hood,” where women would pass the story to one another and contained more references to their livelihoods of sewing — creation instead of destruction.

This scene also shows how a mother/daughter relationship inherently begins with lies in the guise of “protection.” Miranda asks her mother if there’s someone in their house, and Cameron denies any company. Meanwhile, a man waits to be photographed naked in her studio. But the question is, why not tell her daughter she’s doing a photo shoot? Who is she really trying to protect?

And that sentiment is repeated when the play jumps to Miranda at age seventeen meeting one of Cameron’s art associates — a producer — who has seen Miranda’s transformation from young girl to slightly-less-young girl through Cameron’s fairytale-themed photographs.

The interaction is awkward and uncomfortable, but the most awkward and uncomfortable part is Cameron’s lack of awareness. She’s uncomfortable having someone watch her work — not because someone is watching her daughter be objectified and actively engaging in the objectification. The part this play gets right is how it shows Cameron’s complicity with her daughter’s seduction. Miranda does not draw this connection directly but sings a refrain about individual parts of her body every time she is photographed by her mother. It would seem she was being dismembered long before the Bluebeard character ever enters the picture.

The idea of female complicity in male destruction of women resurfaces when the band (told you I’d get back to them) talks about being objectified on stage. It’s a short conversation that doesn’t delve too much into the topic, but one woman says the objectification gives her power. The most “punk” member of the group isn’t a fan, but she likes it as a way to get her opinions across. This “punk” violin player will be the same one who later sees Miranda leaving with the producer Ike; she will say she feels weird about it, but will do nothing. Everyone is trying to “make it” and what power do these other women have against a powerful producer?

Up until this point, I was onboard with what the play was doing. But the ending…well, before I start, just know I’m going to give away everything.

Anyway, Miranda leaves a gig, abandoning her bandmates, to chase after Ike, who is too preoccupied and important to pick her up from the train station. At the station, a random man heckles her and, in theory, the audience recognizes that some monsters are obvious while others (Ike) are not.  As Miranda takes a train, then a car, to Ike’s place, the band members and her mother engage in a disorienting singing session that is supposed to lead them to her?

Meanwhile, Ike, playing the part of Bluebeard, tells Miranda not to enter a locked room downstairs while he’s away on important business. He provides her with the key then says his rage will be justified if she uses it. Typical dude, am I right, ladies and dudes that date dudes?

Of course, she uses it and discovers behind the door…I don’t know. The play doesn’t make it clear at all, but Ike, like a homing pigeon for female disobedience, pops up with a knife, ready to slit Miranda’s throat. But, she asks to sing one last time and her singing somehow brings her mother and bandmates to her. This is when the most infuriating part of the play occurs.

Ike, realizing he’s caught, says he “didn’t mean it” and “didn’t think anything was going on” before skulking off stage.

That’s it; the play ends.

I understand the playwrights intended Ike’s lack of punishment to reflect the reality of powerful men who do heinous things, but why not give us some sort of ending? Why can’t Miranda and her bandmates commiserate? Miranda and her mother show they’ve grown and need to actually protect one another?

You know something is off when your ending involves a man literally getting away with the attempted murder (metaphorically, rape) of a young girl and your audience laughs. There’s pastiche, there’s parody, and then there’s this.

My roommate, who I attended the play with, had a problem with the lack of trigger warnings. I want to address that, but this is already long enough and trigger warnings deserve their own long-winded examination. So, uh, coming soon.

Photo Essay

Here’s another photo essay featuring the lovely Jean Lundquist. If you want to see another with Jean, check out “Lady Luck Makes a Lucky Lady Out of You.”

The artwork is from Rolly Crump‘s collection ‘It’s Kind of a Cute Story.’

“Pièce De Résistance”