And the rudeness of their rudeness when they’re rude;
But the shrewdness of their shrewdness and the rudeness of their rudeness,
Are nothing to their goodness when they’re good."
These lines penned by an anonymous versifier – no doubt a male – sums up the range of the female of the species from axe mass-murderess Lizzy Borden to Mother Theresa. From the sinful to the saintly, there is no limit to the infinite variety of their kind. Bards hymn their praises even as baser men malign and abuse them.
The romantic poets worship woman like a divinity from Olympus as "She walks in beauty like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies" and being a "Phantom of delight when first she gleamed upon my sight."
On the other hand, anti-feminist writers condemn her, like August Strindberg who perceives her as the embodiment of raw instinct and passion, "a Dionysian power of nature which seeks to stifle the freedom-loving intellectualism and spirituality of the Apollonian male."
Personally, I’d like to share the vision of Byron and Wordsworth. But the woman who haunts my daydream is no "solitary highland lass" who fills the glen with her song. She must come from very far away and she must have lived very long ago, and most important of all, there must be sorcery in her name. What exotic visions are conjured by names like Penthesilea, the Queen of the Amazons, Messalina of Rome, Thais, the courtesan of Alexandria, Theodora, empress of the Byzantines and Melisande! As Francois Villon laments, "But where are the snows of yesteryear?"
What romance can one find in a name like Molly, Topsie or Pot-Pot?
A woman’s worst nightmare, however, is not insults of male chauvinist pigs. It’s ageing – the simple, very natural process of ageing with its attendant wrinkles and flab. After she reaches her prime, she launches her personal battle with the bulge. She employs a whole arsenal of lotions, potions, poultices and alembics to man the battlements against ageing.
"Vanity", cries out another wag, "thy name is Woman!"
The cult of youth is twin sister to the cult of beauty and up on this pair rests the survival of the economy of the civilized world. In the quest for Ponce de Leon’s fountain of youth and beauty in the cosmetics department of every mall, zillions of dollars are spent by women the world over for beauty products from face powder to false eyelashes to slimming pills. For the gullible, there are the natural messes and goo that Cory Quirino applies to her face. And for extreme cases, there’s the surgeon’s scalpel for a facelift or liposuction.
And the wonder and witchery of it all is that all of these do work such that at age 40 a woman can still look like she is in her prime.
All of the above may well serve as a preface to Repertory Philippines’ last play on its 66th season – 40 Carats adapted by Jay Allen from a play by Barillet and Gredy now on stage weekends at the William J. Shaw Theatre, Shangri-La Plaza Mall until Oct. 20 after which it will move to the Carlos P. Romulo Theatre, RCBC Plaza where it will run until Nov. 3.
The opening scene takes place on a Grecian island in the Aegean Sea. American tourist Ann Stanley (Joy Virata) gets stranded on the beach when her car breaks down. A good-looking young biker, Peter Latham (Arnel Carrion) comes to her rescue. She is 40, a divorcee with a 17 year-old daughter. He is 22. They meet in the land of the love-goddess, Aphrodite. He fills her imagination with the ancient world of myth. She is Penelope. Is he her young Odysseus?
The wine-dark Aegean is Romance.
Reality in Scene 2 is the business district of New York City.
Ann is a successful real state broker. She has an efficient secretary, bespectacled mousy, Mrs. Margolin (Liesl Batucan) who also takes an interest in her boss’ personal life. Ann does have problems in her private life – the teenaged daughter Trina (Charlie Barredo; alternate: Jenny Jamora) who has growing-up problems without a father; Ann’s matchmaking mother, Maud (Jay Valencia) who meddles in everyone’s love affair and her ex-husband Billy Boylan (Miguel Faustmann) whose own career as a stage actor is going downhill.
Lately, Billy has been hanging around Ann’s apartment or at her office where he catches the roving eye of a sexy client, Ms. Divine Adams (Michael Williams) who tries to vamp him. One wonders if he is not still in love with his former wife who finds comfort in his presence. He is, in fact, jealous when he is introduced to two of her apparent admirers – Eddy Edwards (Rem Zamora) a wealthy 45 year-old client and young Peter who is dating Trina. Maud is instantly alerted at the prospect of these matches: Eddy for Ann and Peter for Trina.
Billy and Maud, realize, however, that appearances are deceiving. Eddy really wants Trina who needs a surrogate-father for a husband to put some sense into her life. And Peter wants to wed Ann, his Penelope from his Aegean dream.
A May-December pair is always open season to wagging tongues who will whisper about cradle–snatchers and grave robbers on the prowl.
Ann has misgivings about Peter’s proposal. The boy turns out to be the scion of a wealthy family from Pittsburgh. They are the sort that people refer to as the old rich whose forebears might have come to America on the Mayflower. The Lathams (Dulce Aristorenas and Oliver Usison) descend unexpectedly on Ann to find out if their son is not being ensnared by a fortune-hunting predatory female.
And what do they find? You guessed it – a rare diamond – all of 40 Carats no less.
A great cast of talents has been assembled for this production led by Joy Virata whose mere presence endows it with more than just a touch of class.
In her Director’s Notes, Baby Barredo states: "What we sometimes fail to see is that souls are matched because they are kindred spirits, or their degrees of taste, sophistication, experience, whatever, seek the same level. And it has nothing to do with age."
I wish that the playwright had concluded his comedy with the lovers honeymooning in their Aegean island. Mexico, Las Vegas, or wherever, just won’t do. But I can in this review send them back to the land of Aphrodite with a quote from Byron:
"The isles of Greece! The isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung;
Where grew the arts of war and peace;
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!"