Sex comes to MATCH via Dirt Dogs Theatre Co.’s up-close-and-personal production of David Ives’ Venus in Fur.
Riffing on the once-scandalous 1870 novella by Austrian Leopold Sacher-Masoch, whose “pain is pleasure” principle of its main character gave us “masochism,” Ives gaily dances through sexual politics, submission, man vs. woman, obsession, toxic masculinity, power dynamics, femininity, and even the essence of show business.
He upends these assumptions using his patented wit suffused with a tingling mystery and a deep dive into “who’s on top,” how did they get there, and how long will this delicate balance hold before it shifts, ebbs, and maybe rises again. It’s a mesmerizing concept, and he relays it to us in tantalizing bits and pieces as this 90-minute, two-hander dark comedy unfolds.
We’re in the ratty warehouse office of theater director/writer Thomas Novachek (Jay Sullivan), who’s at wit’s end in finding the perfect actress for his production of Sacher-Masoch’s tale. On the phone he wails to his fiancée about his fruitless search for his Vanda, the noblewoman who will dominate pitiful Severin. He whines over the unsuitability of every actress he’s auditioned, berating their lack of intelligence, their insatiable need for bringing props and costumes, their tinny voices. Controlling and domineering, and a bit of a prig, he knows what he wants.
About to leave, there’s a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder. Who blows through the door, windswept and bedraggled, but one more aspiring prospect – Vanda Jordan (Olivia Knight). She drops her bags, umbrella, and f-bombs as she regales him with her tale of woe in getting here: the crowded subway, the creep next to her feeling her up, the downpour, her heel that got caught in the sidewalk grate. She’s two-and-a-half hours late, but she insists she’s perfect for the role.
Thomas has had enough today and says no to her audition. He’s due home for dinner, he’s exhausted, and she’s everything he was moaning against only moments before. What’s more, her name’s not on his list. Vanda cajoles, insists, even cries that she knows, I’m not pretty enough, too tall, too short, not skinny enough, too fat, all the litanies used by every rejected actor. Before he can insist again, she takes off her coat revealing fish nets and black bra. She pulls out an antique white dress from her bag. Oh, no, she brought a costume. Incredulous at her chutzpah, he relents to let her read for the part. “Zip me up,” she purrs. Reluctantly he does.
All right, only the first three pages. She stands near the doorway, turns around to face him, her voice drops, and there is his Vanda, fully formed, letter perfect, ideal. Astonished, he can’t believe it. This ditz has morphed into his fictional goddess. Vanda has come to life. They read more pages, interrupted at times by low-down Vanda interjecting her own opinions of the script. This is S&M porn or “porn-ish.” Thomas vigorously defends his work. No, it’s a love story. It has real passion. Maybe for a man, she parries. If he’s to become her slave, what about her? She’s only performing what a man wants. What’s in it for her?
And so, Ives’ battle of the sexes continues, surging forward fleetly. Seduction is in the heady air. Thomas’ resolve slowly erodes under Vanda’s perceptive put-downs and proto-feminist ideas. She now begins to direct him. Get into it, she forcefully instructs. He does, smitten by her power. At her bequest, they improvise a scene not in the script. During a break, she tells Thomas all about himself, his desires, his intimate life with Stacy. How do you know this? he wonders. She shrugs this off, as she does most of his prying, and keeps digging deeper. Does he admire this book so much because it’s a glimpse into his own life? He protests, but his excuses sound feeble and desperate.
Vanda takes command, but in the play’s weakest section, they reverse roles. Thomas, now as Countess, minces his desire to be conquered, Vanda cruelly mocks him. How could she ever love a man who so debases himself for love? She’s a pagan who lives for pleasure. I deny myself nothing. At the end, Thomas, whimpering, is tied to a pole by her stockings. She stands triumphant as thunder cracks and lightning flashes. I am Aphrodite! she shouts.
Like Sacher-Masoch’s Venus, Ives’ play is over-the-top, but it leaves us wanting more. What happens next? Ives gives us mystery. Who is Vanda? Has Venus returned to wreak vengeance on man, smothered in fur while brazenly revealing her eager body? This is a sly comedy of sexual manners of the perverse kind. Director Melinda L. Beckham plays it straighter than necessary. There are laugh lines for sure, but the tone here is serious, not playful, as if channeling the 19th century instead of the 21st. Ives’ irony is dampened, not deepened.
But the cast is ideal. Sullivan impressively grows from toxic to timid, and even his face falls under the debasement Thomas so craves. Knight is an enlightened heroine, switching from screwball daffy to continental soigneé in a heartbeat. She’s mesmerizing. At one point, only for an instance, she stands near the wall. The light (John Baker at his best) hits her face at the perfect angle, and she looks as luminous as if von Sternberg were lighting Dietrich. Vanda and the Countess meld. Knight looks iconic. Radiant.
The sparse set by Mark A. Lewis speaks dingy with minimal telling details, and the sound design by Trevor B. Cone is effectively atmospheric, while Beckham’s costumes tell all with little effort. Ah, those leather thigh-highs. Fit for a fetish.
The second time Vanda’s dress is fastened by Thomas there is silence. The sound of the zipper closing is electric in its implications. That’s the power of theater.
Venus in Fur continues through March 14 at 7:30 p.m. Thursdays, 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, 2 p.m. Sundays and 2 p.m. Monday, March 9 at Dirt Dogs Theatre Co., at MATCH, 3500 Main. For more information, call 713-521-4533 or visit dirtdogstheatre.org. $35.