Part I
Writings on Wallace
1
Death and Desire, Apocalypse, and Utopia: Feminist Gestus and the Utopian Performative in the Plays of Naomi Wallace
Shannon Baley
Capitalism plunders the sensuality of the body.
āTerry Eagleton (qtd. in Gornick 1997, 31)
Some labor destroys the body . . . If your hands are damaged, it doesnāt just mean you can no longer work and earn a living, it also means that you will no longer be able to touch someone you love. If your body is destroyed and exhausted, then how can you desire?
āNaomi Wallace (qtd. in Gardner 1996b, 5)
I could touch myself at night and I didnāt know if it was her hand or mine. I could touch myself. I could put my hand. I could. Maybe I was asleep. I donāt know but sometimes I put my hand. Inside myself.
āDalton Chance (Wallace 2001, 310)
In the final scene of Naomi Wallaceās Depression-era play The Trestle at Pope Lick Creek, the two youngest charactersāDalton Chance, the 15-year-old protagonist, and Pace Creagan, the 17-year-old young woman whose presence literally and figuratively haunts the playāengage in a highly erotic sex scene without touching. This scene, like the prologue, book-ends the play in a kind of āno-space,ā which is neither the place of memory (the āwhenā of the majority of Trestle) nor the present moment, as indicated by Wallaceās opaque stage direction: ā[Dalton] is in a place that is both the past and the present at the same timeā (2001, 340). During the course of the scene, Pace completes her armās-length seduction of Dalton from beyond the grave, commanding him to lie down upon her dress (a material presence that complementsāand complicatesāher own ghostly presence), and to ātouchā her by touching himself. Dalton complies, and audience members watch both characters climax, a charged and complicated ālookingā that, for audience and actors alike, balances on the thin edge between radicalism and voyeurism. Paceās last line, and the last line of the play, is particularly lyrical and complicated, apropos of Wallaceās writing throughout Trestle. After a few āquiet moments,ā she observes: āThere. Weāre something else now. You see? Weāre in another placeā (342). What they have been transformed into, and what or where that other place exactly isāwhether it is apocalyptic or utopian, a place of redemption or a place of lossāare the open questions of the play.
A similar scene takes place in Wallaceās One Flea Spare, set in plague-ridden seventeenth-century London. Trapped in a quarantined home, Morse, a mad servant girl; Bunce, an escaped conscripted sailor; and William and Darcy Snelgrave, the elderly, wealthy lord and lady of the house, wipe the walls with vinegar and mercilessly enact physical and emotional torture on each other while waiting out the disease. Near the climax of the play, Darcy, who had been horribly scarred in a fire when she was much younger, asks to see Bunceās wound, an unhealed hole in his side. Obliging, he takes her hand and guides her finger into the hole; her reaction echoes Daltonās experience with Pace in Trestle as she comments with wonder, āMy finger. Iāve put my finger. Inside. Itās warm. (Beat) It feels like Iām inside youā (53). Afterwards Wallaceās stage direction dictates she, ālooks at her hand as though it might have changedā (54). The much younger Bunce then begins slowly, almost scientifically, to explore Darcyās body while relating the horrific details of life as a conscript in the Royal Navy, searching for places where she can feel through the layers of scar tissue. Wallace juxtaposes Darcyās slow sexual reawakening and Bunceās own digital penetration of her with his bleak, jarring narrative of a young man vomiting his āstomach into [his] handsā and gulls whose wings ācaught fire, so close did they circle the sinking mastsā during a sea battle (55ā6). Darcyās sexual climax, like Daltonās, occurs in an odd, liminal āsomeplace else,ā a space in which intimacy and physical desire can subsist with war, immolated birds, and bodies literally unmaking themselves, whether it be throwing themselves from a railroad trestle or throwing their internal organs out into the light of day.
These scenes open up fascinating questions about sensuality and trauma, presence and absence, materiality, and the limits of representation in Wallaceās work. In both Trestle and One Flea Spare, Wallace combines an unflinching, distinctly feminist attention to gender and sexuality with unabashed socialist politics.1 The real tragedy of these plays, Wallace implies, is not only the ravages of the Black Death or of the American Depression, but also of the crushing economic forces and class-based hierarchies attendant to laissez-faire capitalism that not only denies Pace and Dalton, Bunce and Darcy access to material ease, but also cuts them off from themselves and, to paraphrase Terry Eagleton, from their āsensualā capacities (qtd. in Gornick 1997, 31). Each of these plays gestures to apocalypse, whether it be unleashed by the bubonic plague or by junk bonds; however, these apocalypses exist on the edge of utopia, a place where death and desire co-exist, where bodies can be expanded, become fluid, and new horizons can be seen from what is possible, both in the world of the play and on stage in production. Though the men and women, boys and girls of One Flea Spare and The Trestle at Pope Lick Creek scramble to survive in the most horrendous conditions, through these plays we can glimpse the possibilities of a better world, a radical feminist utopia in which the conundrums, pleasures, and dangers of gender, class, and sexuality are made palpable for audience and artists alike.
In āPerformance, Utopia, and the Utopian Performative,ā Jill Dolan proposes that theatre is an ideal place to glimpse utopia, a place to āenact an ideal futureā by moving away from the real and into the realm of the āperformative,ā a doing made communal by the presence of the audience that gestures to ābetter ways to be together as human beingsā (2001, 457). The utopian performative, as defined by Dolan, is not only something that happens on stage, propelled forcefully into being by the virtuosity of actors and directors, playwrights and dramaturgs, designers, and technicians, but a collaborative āintersubjectiveā and affective event occurring among all present at a performance. This co-creation of the utopian performative is a distinctly social, public process that models democracy as a āparticipatory forumā as much as it models what a more just, equitable world āmight feel likeā (456, my emphasis).2 Dolan notes that, contained in the collective effort of the utopian performative is a sense of ārelief,ā a respite shared between performer and audience, during which āgestic moments of clarityā can occur (475). I wish to explore this small thread of Dolanās observation further, looking at how gestus itself can serve as the point of origin for utopian performatives and, more particularly, how an explicitly feminist gestus can help draw the counterpublics of theatrical audiences into a momentary construction of a world in which desires, bodies, and identities are fluid, escapable, anything but fixed.3 In addition, I am interested in exploring how the utopian potential of gestus can help us understandāand perhaps better harnessāthe staggering but often elusive, affective power of gestus, its ability to make us feel, even just for a moment, part of something larger than ourselves. Naomi Wallaceās plays, her ongoing engagement with issues of representation, class inequities, and desire are an ideal site to trace this kind of feminist gestus and its resulting glimpses of utopian performatives; to that end, I will more closely explore several of the gestic feminist moments that pervade One Flea Spare and Trestle, looking for clues to how they gesture towards both apocalypse and utopia.
I draw my understanding of gestus and its affective power not only from Brecht but also from Elin Diamondās Unmaking Mimesis, and her insightful interpretation of how the strangely apt relationship between feminism and Brechtian theory and theatreāmore a āfellow-travelingā than a wholesale endorsementāemerged through a shared desire to explode realismās stranglehold on theatre and its subsequent ārecontainment of differenceā, whether those differences be class-based (Brechtās favored critical lens) or gender-based (feminist criticsā forte) (1997, 54, 44). Diamond defines Brechtian gestus as a āgesture, a word, an action, a tableau, by which, separately or in a series, the social attitudes encoded in the playtext become visible to the spectatorā; it is a moment that āexplainsā the play, but also āexceedsā the play (52ā3). Like the utopian performative, gestus is elusive, latent in the words of the text but only fully realized when it is embodied by an actor and received by the spectator. Gestus becomes feminist when its power to comment upon class or economic inequities is harnessed and expanded to condemn gender and sexual inequities ever-present in patriarchal power structures; it reveals gender as ideology and performative, a āsystem of beliefs and behavior mapped across the bodies of women and men which reinforces the social status quoā rather than as something fixed or irrevocable (47). Feminist gestus and feminist gestic criticism thus assist in the project of āruin[ing] the scopic regime of the perspectival realist stage,ā and opening up a āprovisional, indeterminate, nonauthorativeā space for a distanced, distinctly alive and empowered spectator, and, even more importantly, an actor who is āfreeā to gaze back at her audience (53ā4). Gestic feminist criticism, to paraphrase Diamond, thus allows the reader/spectator to engage dialectically rather than masterfully with the playtext before her, to āseeā as a ātransformative act of cognition,ā to witness the, āpossibilities emerging of another reality, what is not there, but could beāāto enact, in other words, the utopian performative (145).
For Wallace, this longing to witness, to see possibilities of another reality, a utopia in the midst of chaos and death appears in her writing as just thatāa desire: āDesireāthatās really what Iām talking about . . . I donāt mean love. Iām not sure I know what that means. Desire serves the need to end oneās singular state. It creates the space in which to reimagine oneself. That alone ends lonelinessā (Wallace qtd. in Gornick 1997, 31). Desire imbues Wallaceās work, an ever-fluctuating configuration upon which the need for communion overlies the unruly sexual desires of her characters whose hunger for each other is equally paced by their hunger for community. Feminist gestus like Daltonās unnerving dis-substantiation of himself and Darcyās penetration of Bunceās open wound demonstrate the points where the two axes of physical and communal desire intersect, points at which the bodyāand all its attendant identity markersāblazes into being with a startling intensity for character, actor, and spectator. Ron Daniels, director of One Flea Spare for the Joseph Papp Public Theater in 1997 and Wallaceās Slaughter City at the Royal Shakespeare Company, notes Wallaceās particular gift for hailing, and implicating, bodies into being in her plays:
Danielsās connection between the effluence of the live body and āhopeā is useful in illuminating how Wallace uses her textual bodiesāas well as the physical bodies of the actors who take up the roles of her charactersāto dramatize the ongoing history of class struggles. Like Dolanās utopian performative, Wallaceās bodies are anything but static: the body, a site of unmaking or remaking, is a place where, Wallace observes, āitās possible to make a new visionā of oneself as well as a ānew vision of desireā (Greene 2001, 466).
It is this new vision of desire that is the hope and the heartbeat of One Flea Spare. Drawing its title from John Donneās tongue-in-cheek carpe diem poem, in which a man asks his lover to āspareā the life of a flea in which his blood comingles with hers (āWhere wee almost, yea more than maryed areā), One Flea Spare investigates the power of desire under the most extreme circumstances. When two vagabondsāBunce, the escaped sailor, and Morse, a servant girl masquerading as her dead mistressāsneak into the Snelgrave house looking for shelter, they breach the houseās nearly completed quarantine cycle of 28 days, imposed by Kabe, a āguardā hired to keep the quarantine enforced. When confronted, Kabe, a shrewd capitalist, observes merrily that itās not his job to keep people from breaking and entering the Snelgrave home, but to āmake sure no one gets out,ā the prospect of further profit for āguardingā the Snelgrave residence making him positively gleeful. Like Helene Weigelās much-cited purse-snap gestus in the Berliner Ensembleās staging of Brechtās Mother Courage, Kabeās periodic carnivalesque appearanceāonly at the window and no furtherāserves as a reminder of the profits to be made from great suffering caused by war or plague (Wallace 2001, 12).
Under the pressure of enforced quarantine, the Snelgraves initially attempt to maintain the rigid class hierarchies of 1665 London, forcing Bunce to swab down the kitchen repeatedly and attempting to force the amoral, often cryptic Morse to behave like a āChristianā (13). These class distinctions, however, quickly break down under the pressure of impending apocalypse, and desire, both physical and imaginative, erodes the line between master and servant. In one particularly vivid scene, William Snelgrave, whose wealth, Wallace implies, is a result of his work with the Royal Navy, tries to push Bunce into revealing what he did at sea when his ābaser instinctsā took over (47). Williamās interest in Bunceās imagined homoerotic activities is salacious and romanticized; his use of multiple euphemisms for how Bunce might have used his āfoul and fleshful instrumentā is interrupted only by Bunceās blunt observation, āYou mean my prick, sir?ā (48). Frustrated (one suspects sexually), William commands Bunce to speak; in a stunning display of gestus, Bunce instead chooses to act:
Figure 1.1 Richard Thompson (Bunce) and William McNulty (Snelgrave) in the 1996 Actors Th...