When presented with the uncomfortable truth, we are given a choice: to reckon with it, or to keep living in blissful ignorance. Ignorance may be bliss, but the truth is always lurking just below the surface, waiting to be found.
“Our Committee of 55 hard-working devoted theatergoers each see more than a hundred plays a year. Our membership is diverse, with all ages and diversity.”
MARY PAGE MARLOWE is snippets from one woman’s life (played by six different actresses), a woman said to be ‘unremarkable’, a thrice-married CPA with two kids and a drinking problem. But I didn’t feel that I was watching a play about someone unremarkable, at all. I felt I was watching the story of a thousand women, of a hundred thousand women, maybe a million women — women who lost and found themselves a dozen times over, in their lifetimes. Women who can’t please their mothers, or become their mothers; who can’t please their children, or be their children; who can’t please themselves, or be themselves. Women capable of more, but lacking some essential element to make it so; like maybe equal footing, or a society that sees them as people.