The expression, “Behind every great man, there’s a great woman,” has always bothered me. While I’m sure it’s meant as a compliment—to express that a man’s success often depends on the work and support of his wife or significant other—it has always sounded to me like the woman’s plight is meant to take a back seat, never put in the spotlight. As if what she does is all about propping him up.
Maybe I’m just being sensitive. But I suspect Margaret Atwood felt the same when she wrote the 2005 novella The Penelopiad, her re-telling of The Odyssey from Penelope’s point of view—the stage version of which is currently being produced by Reno Little Theater.
When asked about her “feminist retelling,” Atwood commented that she didn’t think of it as feminist. Rather, she commented that people tend to call anything told from a woman’s point of view “feminist.” The facts that, throughout history, women had no rights, were subjected to an unfair double standard, and were frequently treated as sexual objects, need only to be reported, and not made part of a feminist agenda, to provoke some serious thought. And what the play highlighted for me was how truly f**d up Penelope’s story was in Homer’s oft-heralded classic tale. Now that the film The Odyssey has broken all kinds of box-office records, it seems only fair for Penelope to finally have her say.
In case you haven’t seen the film and don’t remember your eighth-grade mythology homework, a super-quick recap: The war hero Odysseus, gone for 20 years to help fight the Trojan War, is trying to get home to Ithaca, where his wife, Penelope, and their son, Telemachus, await his return. To get home, he must sail away on dangerous seas filled with one-eyed monsters and beautiful women who would lure him to his death; watch all his men be violently killed; and outwit the lovesick goddess Calypso, who has held him in captivity on her island for seven years. Meanwhile, back in Ithaca, Penelope’s home has been overrun by suitors eager to take Odysseus’ spot as king—eating all her food, making a mess, and playing grab-ass with her and her maids—while she steadily works to fend them off and remains staunchly loyal to her husband, despite what it costs her.
Atwood’s retelling focuses entirely on what that 20 years in Ithaca without Odysseus must have been like, implicitly arguing that her plight, having been without her own making, may have actually been worse.
The play opens with these haunting words from Penelope (played by Emilie Mardock): “Now that I’m dead, I know everything.” Dressed in nothing but a sports bra and shorts, she lugs a drawstring sack over her shoulder and drops it on the floor in front of her. This, she explains, is the bag of all her words—those she’s spoken, those she’s heard, those spoken about her. Now she can pull them out to retrace for us her own history as it relates to her husband.
Thus begins her story, told by an all-female cast, most of whom play multiple roles. She retraces her childhood, with a father who tried to drown her as an infant and a mother who was, essentially, clueless. She recounts being married off at just 15 to the heroic Odysseus (Alanna McNaughton), her experience of being brought to live at his parents’ home in Ithaca, and giving birth to Telemachus (played as an adult by Becca Cooley), who was almost instantly ripped from her arms by the family’s nurse, Eurycleia (Dylan Flynn). Then she tells of Odysseus’ somewhat mysterious disappearance to Troy and the misery that followed.
As her tale progresses, a Greek chorus of women, whose identities are as yet unclear, surround her, singing songs that convey themes such as the loss of innocence, the double standards inherent in genders and classes, and the notion of justice. With heartbreaking frankness, Penelope shares how even a queen can be powerless against societal expectations and willful, headstrong men.
Thanks to Martina Young—local dancer, artist, educator and scholar—as movement consultant, along with frequent performer Bryce Keil as physicality consultant, the barefooted actors utilize their bodies to convey story, taking full advantage of the multilevel set, cleverly simple costuming and movable set pieces. As directed by Libby Bakke, they physically express exultation, despair, fear, sadness, humiliation, pride and hope through movement and breath, all to achingly beautiful effect.
Mardock is a wonder. She’s delicate and graceful, capable of conveying a deep well of emotions with her entire body, from lighthearted glee to deadpan humor, red-hot anger and heartbreaking pain. She’s utterly relatable but also angelic, a ray of light onstage. She’s so utterly compelling that it’s hard to look away. Also noteworthy is McNaughton, a female who plays a dashing Odysseus, the stalwart, heroic and somehow also romantic male lead.
I love what this show makes me think about—the ways in which females throughout history and literature have been relegated to the corners and asides, their plights taken for granted; the big and small ways they are dismissed; and the prescribed roles for men and women that feel like shackles. It will also make you wonder who else’s oft-told tales we should re-examine.
The Penelopiad will be performed at 7:30 p.m., Thursday through Saturday; and 2 p.m., Sunday, through Friday, Oct. 16 (with additional shows at 2 p.m., Saturday, Oct. 3, and 7:30 p.m., Wednesday, Oct. 14), at Reno Little Theater, at 147 E. Pueblo St., in Reno. Tickets are $33, with discounts. Call 775-813-8900 or visit renolittletheater.org for tickets or more information.