#the mutilated

A Pair of Old Bitches Bury the Hatchet:

The Mutilated at the New Ohio

Review by Jennie Gruber __________________________________ The Mutilated is a play about boobs. To say more would be too - if you’ll excuse us - revealing. It’s a boozy, faggy tragicomedy from late in the boozy, faggy tragicomic life of Tennesee Williams. Originally seen (though barely) on Broadway in 1966, on a double bill (with The Gnädiges Fräulein) aptly called Slapstick Tragedy, it’s an energetic show that revels in the woozy sadness of aging femininity. For the revival playing now at the New Ohio, director Cosmin Chivu wisely allows legendary actresses Penny Arcade and Mink Stole to chew up the New Orleans scenery. Played with fourth-wall-breaking gusto by Arcade, Celeste Delacroix Griffin is an opportunist in the style of Holly Golightly. She is interested in immediacy – shoplifting for clothes, fucking for cash, and keeping a lonely heiress company in return for lunch and endless gallons of California Tokay. The heiress, whose Texan oil fortune keeps her purse filled with wads of bills “that could choke a horse!” is portrayed with something resembling restraint by the remarkable Mink Stole. The friendship between these two women reaches an impasse one Christmas Eve - or maybe what we’re seeing is the same old codependent cycle repeating itself. Bandleader Jesse Selengut’s live original jazz is a treat, invoking the perfect French Quarter mood. The confident and diverse chorus do more than accompany the action - they bolster it, each with his or her own sensual personality, bringing dimension to the vaudevillian supporting characters. Anyone who has ever appreciated a performance by Arcade or Stole knows they share a rare talent - they know there is nowhere better to find humanity than in vulgarity. The Mutilated may be crass, but it’s a touching spectacle that bestows a moving Christmas miracle onto two down-and-out women, regardless of how well endowed they are.

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Will have their holiday this year

And for a while, A little while,

There will be pity for the wild.

A miracle, A miracle!

A sanctuary for the wild.

I think the mutilated will

Be touched by hands that nearly heal,

At night the agonized will feel

A miracle, a miracle!

A comfort that is nearly real.

The constant star of wanderers

Will light the forest where they fall

And they will see and they will hear

A radiance, A distant call.

A miracle, a miracle!

A vision and a distant call.

At last for each someone may come

And even though he may not stay,

It may be softer where he was,

It may be sweeter where he lay,

A miracle, a miracle!