Theater Review by Samuel L. Leiter . . . .
You might call it the Peter Principle. (No, not that one!) Teeth, the grisly new musical by Anna K. Jacobs and Michael R. Jackson at Playwrights Horizons, calls it “vagina dentata.” (Not to be confused with Hakuna Matata!) That’s the one referring to women born with nasty incisors in their nether cavity, which go into action whenever a penis attempts an unwanted implant there.
This sexually brazen show is based on Mitchell Lichtenstein’s gory 2007 feminist horror film—a cult favorite—albeit the adaptation is as loose as that canine tooth you’ve been meaning to ask your dentist about. Talking about canines, the hungry dog featured in the movie never enters to chow down a juicy male sausage, leaving only the part with a metal piercing untouched. Plenty of unpierced phalli, though, eventually litter the stage.
The movie is sleazily cheesy, C-level material, the kind whose cult status makes you appreciate how stupid cults can be. But, in 2009, only two years after the movie came out, composer and lyricist Jacobs (Pop!) and future Pulitzer winner Jackson (A Strange Loop)—both then at NYU (which might account for its occasional sophomorishness)—fell sufficiently under its spell to adapt it as a campy Off-Broadway musical.
The result, after this lengthy gestation, is a cheesily sleazy and thematically unclear, overtly cartoonish, two-hour show (a half-hour longer than the movie). Nevertheless, it’s a decided improvement over the lackluster original. I do wish, though, it had been given a stronger dose of fluoride.
I admit biting at several funny lines and lyrics, but the youthful-looking audience chomped loudly throughout. Here a chewed-off dick, there a laugh, there a chewed-off dick, there another laugh. (Actually, “cock” is the preferred nomenclature, by 9 to 3 over “dick” when “penis” isn’t used; “cunt” and “pussy” each get only a few mentions in comparison with “vagina.”)
There are enough victims of vagina dentata, each mouthful accompanied by an audible crunch, to create a Dismembers Only club. Bloody hands abound throughout but, thankfully, none of the affected groins spurts blood the way they do in onscreen close-ups. Notice: no live penises were harmed in the making of this musical.
The film’s plot concerns a high school girl named Dawn O’Keefe who belongs to a premarital sex abstinence group—of no particular religious affiliation—called the Promise, but who eventually succumbs to her hormonal urges. However, when her boyfriend goes too far, her vagina snaps involuntarily into action and makes a meal of his meat. Eventually, Dawn uses her condition to similarly amputate other unwanted penises, including that of her vicious stepbrother, Brad. At the end, aware of her secret vengeance-taking power, she’s about to do the same to a creepy old pervert.
The premise is retained by the musical, vibrantly directed by Sarah Benson (Blasted) with bright, if not especially memorable, choreography by Raja Feather Kelly. The abstinence group—here called the Promise Keepers—is now a religious congregation in the town of Eden dominated by a fire-breathing evangelical Pastor (a ferociously commanding Steven Pasquale, outstanding in several roles). Religious fundamentalism thus becomes one of the show’s prime targets. The Pastor also happens to be the strap-wielding father of the screwed-up Brad (well-played by Will Connolly), who is viciously beaten for masturbating, and the stepfather of the purity-at-any-cost Dawn (Alyse Alan Louis, a talent to watch).
Brad has it in for Dawn because, as little kids comparing their privates, hers nipped off his probing fingertip. “She bit me/It bit me/Between her pussy lips,” he sings. He seeks support from a group of guys, the Truthseekers, whose gatherings require virtual reality headsets. Brad’s confession makes his group suspect all women are like Dawn: “Why treat these girls like happy meals?/Packed with some special prize?/When there’s probably danger in between their thighs.” Leading the group is an Australian called Godfather (Pasquale) whose pro-masculinity spiel rejects the “feminocracy.” “We can’t even sit on a bloody train without being ‘manspreaders,’ for Christ’s sake!”
Following Dawn’s first bloody sexual encounter, when boyfriend Tobey (a fine Jason Gotay) suffers the consequences of turning from shy lover into rapist, Dawn, thinking she can trust him, has bloodless sex with a gay friend, Ryan (an outstanding Jared Loftin). However, when he reveals he’s recorded the encounter, Dawn’s pubes take over. Even roaming hands can be dentally mauled, as a horny gynecologist (Pasquale) soon discovers.
The singing and dancing ensemble of Dawn’s fellow virgins, representing the feminocracy in combat with the untrustworthy patriarchy, not only overcome their celibate preoccupations, but grow their own vaginal choppers as the pile of amputated penises accumulates. But in place of the conclusion in which a pervert is about to have his manhood maimed, we’re shown a bizarre, apocalyptic vision in which Dawn and Brad ascend to godlike status as fires leap from the stage—you can actually feel the heat in the auditorium—and strobe lights threaten to give you a stroke as the battle of the sexes rages.
Almost every number has an upbeat tempo, and Jacobs’s profane lyrics can be devilishly clever. But beyond their energetic rhythms, the songs are not melodically distinguished, and sound like those in too many other shows. For a superior score, I’d choose another recent Off-Broadway show on a similarly grotesque subject, Dead Outlaw, about the show-biz career of an American bandit’s mummified corpse.
Adam Rigg’s set is more functional than attractive, being basically dull-looking, beige paneled walls that can serve, with added pieces, for multiple locales; a huge, neon-outlined cross remains up center throughout, its changing colors, height, and positions offering commentary on the action. The costumes by Enver Chakartash have fun in scarlet when the situation turns satanically chaotic, and everything gets a visual boost from Jane Cox and Stacey Derosier’s lighting.
With all its sex and violence, Teeth, as you might expect, makes good use of an intimacy director, Crista Marie Jackson, whose work is the subject of an informative article in the Times. It reminds us that “Modesty garments . . . make contact without direct contact possible,” among other useful tidbits.
And if modesty isn’t titillating enough, you can enjoy a display of artsy pornography in the upstairs lobby, or take advantage of the ad cards in the program for “a sexy shop” called Shag, offering specialized talks called “Deepthroating,” and “Buckle Up & Strap-On,” among other naughty subjects. There’s even an invite to “A Night of Drinks, Drag, and Dentata!” for those so inclined. Certainly sounds more enticing than a visit to the dentist.
Teeth. Through April 28 at Playwrights Horizons (416 West 42nd Street, between Ninth and Tenth Avenues). www.playwrightshorizons.org
Photos: Chelcie Parry
