Gender. The greatest performance? It is constructed, it is imposed, it requires a degree of conformity. These are the things that Pussyfooting seeks to address, and does so with a certain degree of panache.
Pussyfooting begins charmingly, if slightly unsettlingly, with its actors dancing around onstage with earbuds in. It’s an engaging beginning that drags the audience into the interior spaces of the self that the play will come to explore. It’s just innovative enough to pique the interest, and it sets the stage for this intensely personal, character-driven piece.
Upon first entering the BT, I’m slightly disappointed to see the stage strewn with underwear: it seems a cheap, obvious way to begin a play about gender. However, as the play goes on, the characters strutting around stage in homogenous binders, I find myself increasingly drawn into the discussions of femininity and performance: each character refuses, both visibly and verbally, to perform adequately. Recollection is brought to life by the five actors, vividly depicting the way that it is often others – teachers, mothers, friends – that paint women into particular versions of their gender.
The real strength of the piece is the apparent veracity of its dialogue. I was particularly struck by Jessy Parker Humphrys’ candour, and vulnerability, while Frey Kwa Hawking’s aggression struck a real chord with the audience. There are moments where the dialogue falters slightly, but when at its most naturalistic the flow is unstoppable and its difficult to take your eyes away. Furthermore, the Greek chorus-like layering of dialogue, with characters repeating actions and snippets of speech, works wonderfully as a depiction of the imposition and continued performance that gender requires: repeated, almost jerky motions that seem meaningless in isolation. It’s an effective technique.
The black box theatre lends itself to the piece well – as the play takes a turn for the choric, the actors seem to hang in empty space as they repeat the words of those that have sought to frame them as women. I’m particularly impressed by Daisy Hayes’ delivery, and the piling up of different shreds of dialogue as the five talked about their mothers. While an odd trick with some red ribbon leaves me bemused, the interplay between the five, distinct characters, half talking to themselves, half to each other, is an emotive, arresting climax for the piece. The piece ends with an odd segue into a pseudo-concert scene and I can’t say I entirely understand why. Perhaps its another comment on performativity – the climax of the play’s ritualized repetitive actions. Certainly, the interlocking chorus of experiences is a defiant statement, that lingered far more than any of the tricks with set dressing.
As the play comes to a draw with another no-holds-barred dance, this time the audience is drawn up onto the stage. Some look uncomfortable, some entertained: perhaps the exact response Livi Taylor’s play wishes to create.
While sometimes obvious in its aesthetic choices and the framing of the discourse of gender, Pussyfooting is a brave stab at a difficult topic, and one that utilizes innovative dramatic techniques to emotive effect.
