If you chose, you could view Lesbians Who Kill as a contemplation on the social issues raised by the murder trial of Aileen Wuornos—indeed, surrounded by a crowd of gender-sensitive feminists, you would likely find it difficult to ignore the authors’ diatribes targeting the rigid self-definitions imposed on women, the tolerance of abusive behavior practiced by their alleged advocates, and the horrified astonishment of the media at the prospect of a girly-worm turning. On a rainy weekday evening, however, when the house-count numbered fewer than a dozen stalwarts, each spectator had the option of deciding for him or herself the most valuable aspect of this performance piece to take home.
Playwright: Deb Margolin, Peggy Shaw and Lois Weaver. At: Bailiwick Repertory Theatre at the Bailiwick Arts Center, 1229 W. Belmont. Phone: 773-833-1090; $20-$25. Runs through: July 27
Our narrative’s framing device is that of a pair of lovers—May, a femme in fluffy blonde Marilyn Monroe/Dolly Parton wig, and June, a lanky butch in tank-shirt and boxers—amusing themselves during a thunderstorm with word-association games connected to fantasies of the mysterious serial killer roaming the highways of Southern Florida bumping off middle-aged white men by the roadsides. Their imaginative speculations encompass re-enactments of femme-fatale vs. unfaithful cad scenes in film and literature, soliloquies detailing homicidal premeditations, vocalized and lip-synced renditions of Sinatra-esque pop songs, tensile-ribbon adagio dances with the partners tethered together by a long scarf, and stichomythic low-comedy crosstalks.
Despite the prodigious contributions of the many artists associated with this Second Sex series production for Bailiwick Repertory—Scott Lamberty’s original music, Debra Giunta’s choreography, Darcy Elora Hofer’s quick-change costumes, James Ogden’s protean motor-vehicle—this brand of multi-disciplinary vaudeville could easily come off like an Uptown Poetry Slam on karaoke night. The abrupt switches in tone and consciousness make for vertigo as we struggle like riders on a non-stop elevator to locate ourselves from moment to moment. (Are May and June speaking now as themselves, or are they impersonating another duo of hypothetical hitters, and did I mention that they mingle with the audience?)
Co-directors Lauren Love and L.M. Attea’s managerial skills do much to reduce the intellectual whiplash. Ultimately, though, what renders the evening a unilaterally enjoyable 70 minutes are Tiffany Albers-Lopez and Lisa Cordileone as our gun-toting hosts, who hold us, well, captive, with ingenuous charm and poised alacrity. So wholly does their infectious intimacy convince us that they are having fun that we cannot help but do likewise.