The Human Rights Campaign National Dinner was held at the Washington Hilton on Saturday, Sept. 26. Gov. Gretchen Whitmer (D-Mich.) was the keynote speaker. Awards were presented to Marcia Gay Hardin, Junior LaBeija and André De Shields. Nina West of ‘RuPaul’s Drag Race’ performed.

(Washington Blade photos by Michael Key)

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‘Venus’
Through Oct. 4
Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company
641 D St., NW
$20– $105
Woollymommoth.net

Meet Beth. She’s an art-house film projectionist. Cocky yet awkward, and a bit of a player, she’s exceedingly fond of international cinema and women. Her current interest is Nicole, a pretty librarian with an obsession for order and safety. Romance seems unlikely. 

Written by Los Angeles-based playwright Steve Yockey, “Venus” pits odd against odder, and similar to some of his past works, what’s frightening is also funny. 

When Beth (Kimberly Gilbert) crashes a “not fun” book club (currently reading Faulkner’s “As I Lay Dying”), she succeeds in bagging a date with the group’s poised, and –according to Beth – “imminently fuckable” member Nicole (Regina Aquino). 

The pair climbs into Beth’s beloved vintage gold Mercedes (or “sort of rust colored,” says Nicole) and head into the night. They reach an isolated hilltop to star gaze and share a Thermos of spiced rum. Charmed by the surprise outing, Nicole warms up to her new friend, but that soon changes when Beth corrects Nicole on some planetary specifics, and lets it slip that she’s taken other women on this same exact date. 

Away from age (40 or so), the pair couldn’t be more ill matched. Whether it’s personal style, temperament, approach to dating, they’re chalk and cheese. Beth’s romantic M.O. is spontaneous, whereas Nicole’s dating app profile is “always clean, organized, and up to date with recent pictures and current information.” And she never makes the first move. 

“Venus” is perceptively staged by out director Reggie D. White who specifically selected Yockey’s newest play for his directorial debut as Woolly’s new artistic director, and it’s a spectacular launch. The out playwright and director, and the terrific two-person cast, successfully lean into the work’s dark comedy without denying past heartbreaks. 

The actors play off each other compellingly, capturing precisely what’s both disturbing and funny about Yockey’s creations. Nicole (Aquino) isn’t particularly concerned about the horrors she visits upon her date, and while Gilbert’s Beth might fall into the most dreadful situations, she handles them with detached wit. It’s hilarious. 

The dialogue is spoken to each other, to us, to themselves. Words might switch from conversational to rapidly delivered monologues about varied things like well-meant instructions that Nicole once received from her father on how to box and bury things that upset her. 

Costume designer Danielle Preston captures the women’s carefully chosen attire. Nicole is dressed boho prep with a conservative silhouette, flat shoes, and interesting artisanal jewelry. Beth is a bit hit or miss: wide-legged pants, black thick-soled, black boots, and on trend frames– all the sort of things that might look cool. 

After the date, Beth drops Nicole at her immaculate, meticulously mid-century curated house. Beth tells us that she’s not averse to a clean home, but other than Susanna, a goldfish in the kitchen, this house with its collection of precisely placed handstitched pillows, looks entirely unlived in; other than the alarming contents of a mysterious drawer, it might be a show home. 

And while Beth has made a few moves that her date didn’t entirely dodge, the evening has come to an end. Nicole has a Scholastic book fair in the morning, so she gives Beth the old heave-ho. Nicole likes a clean exit. 

What ensues is a one-sided obsession with grand floral gestures, incessant texts, and some stalking. Just when you think one couldn’t grow any madder and that the other is the voice of reason, the script flips. They take turns at being the most neurotic or easily triggered. 

Also, each in turn encounters an unseen woman wearing a red raincoat, a sort of physical manifestation of fear. How said interactions work differently for each of the daters, explains a lot. 

But to say more would be a spoiler. With its myriad twists and turns, there are so many possible spoilers, scores of them, that might ruin the experience of an absolutely glorious 90-minute uninterrupted traipse through the madly unexpected.

So ably written and acted, you’ll leave believing that you’ve seen the vintage car, been inside a pristine house, and visited a hilltop. But you didn’t.

Giselda Esstrada’s scenic design includes a raised black platform backed by a dark circle broken into segments, above hang lanterns, globes, pendant lights, and lamps raised and lowered to great effect by lighting designer Nic Vincent. One of the more significant orbs is singled out as a green-hued celestial body. The ground is a blanket of clunky gray gravel. 

Even with its two, or maybe three, particularly (and personally) dreaded scenarios, it’s unstoppably pleasing. There’s nothing not to like about “Venus.” 

“When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.”

That famously cynical quote from the 1962 Western movie “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” could easily have been the mission statement behind the latest season of Ryan Murphy’s controversial anthology series, “Monster,” which retells the story of America’s most famous axe murderer – Lizzie Borden, who, in 1892, “took an axe” to her father and stepmother at their family home in Fall River, Mass.

Except, officially, she didn’t. Borden was acquitted of the killings in a trial that was a national sensation; the crime remained unsolved, and despite rumors and theories that have proliferated over the last century, nobody really knows what actually happened nor who was responsible for it.

Yet in the popular imagination, Lizzie is still remembered as a killer who got away with one of the most notorious murders in American history. Though she walked free and lived a life of wealth and high social position for another three decades after her trial, she never truly escaped the scandal; she would be forever branded as guilty, her alleged crime even immortalized in a children’s schoolyard rhyme, and all but a few die-hard theorists assume, unequivocally, that she was the killer. In other words, the legend of Lizzie Borden, axe-murderer, has “become fact.”

“Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story,” like most other retellings of this gruesome crime saga, “prints” the legend – and indeed, goes even further to canonize her into something like a radical feminist saint.

With Ella Beatty (daughter of Hollywood royalty Warren Beatty and Annette Bening) in the title role, the show frames Lizzie as the repressed and disregarded adult child of wealthy businessman Andrew Borden (Charlie Hunnam) and stepmother Abigail (Rebecca Hall), who married her father after her mother’s death; both of them treat her – and indeed, almost everyone around them – with dismissive cruelty. Andrew is an alcoholic who openly disdains both wife and daughter, while Abigail takes out her own frustration with the marriage on Lizzie, whom she has branded as a “simple” child that she never wanted to have – and a difficult one at that.

The arrival of a new household maid — Bridget Sullivan (Vicki Krieps), who goes by the name “Maggie” — changes Lizzie’s outlook and her destiny. Well-traveled, worldly, and deeply independent, Maggie befriends her and becomes both her companion and mentor, introducing her to new ideas and cultivating her sense of self-worth; they become lovers, their bond deepened by a dissatisfaction with the cultural limits imposed upon them by their status as women. As conditions within the household grow increasingly unbearable, they formulate a gruesome plan which, if they can succeed, will liberate them from the patriarchal subjugation that relegates them to the level of chattel while puffing a pipe full of expensive tobacco.

From there, writer/creator Ian Brennan takes us through an effectively grisly re-enactment of the famous murders and onward through the trial in which Lizzie, ironically benefitting from stereotyped male assumptions about what women are or are not capable of doing, is ultimately acquitted of the gruesome crime she absolutely DID commit. It then follows her – and Bridget – into the aftermath of the scandal, where a kind of imprisonment awaits them both, anyway.

Boldly crafted with cinematic flourish (six episodes were directed by Max Winkler, the two others by Sarah Adina Smith) and continuing the series’ tradition of lavishly depicted violence, one can’t deny that it’s a wild ride. It flaunts its contemporary attitude through fiercely eclectic musical choices in the soundtrack, from the lushly romantic classical tones of its late 19th-century period to ferociously feminist ‘90s punk; it includes graphic sex both tender and aggressive, juxtaposed with scenes of pastoral beauty and genteel refinement; and, as always in Ryan Murphy’s “true story” productions, it plays fast-and-loose with the facts, choosing instead to lean into artistic license in order to expand on the “hotbed” themes woven into the narrative.

In this case, Brennan’s version of Lizzie’s tale mines the historical record to incorporate lesser-known factual details while veering into speculation to fill the blanks elsewhere; it creates incidents that didn’t happen, alters incidents that did, and embellishes what’s known of its characters’ private lives with details that no one could know; and, like other seasons of “Monster” have done, it finds a way to introduce extra real-life killers into the mix – blood-bathing 16th-century Countess Elizabeth Báthory (also played by Krieps) and hitchhiking 20th-century serial murderer Aileen Wournos (Sarah Paulson) – for good measure. The result, of course, is a work of complete fiction.

These are the things that have consistently made “Monster” one of Murphy’s most controversial television franchises. The excesses of gore and brutality, though they might seem gratuitous to some and are certainly hard to watch for many, are arguably justified by the show’s branding as a “horror” series; less easy to write off, however, is the criticism of many detractors that the series spreads false information and perpetuates myths, whether to “push” an agenda or in the name of “artistic interpretation.”

“The Lizzie Borden Story,” consequently, has already been met with such objections – though in today’s political climate, it’s hard to know if they are really about the blending of fact and fiction or the feminist social commentary that runs through the show like a vein of molten lava. Brennan’s vision of Lizzie’s presumed crime casts her as woman suffering from a life of psychological torment by her parents, and Bridget – who has experienced more than her own fair share of mistreatment at the hands of aggressively toxic men – as her savior; the crime they concoct and execute together is a radical act of defiant rebellion against an ingrained system of patriarchal domination, and we are set up from the start to be completely on their side.

That radical feminist thread pops up everywhere: through Lizzie’s stepmother (despite her own monstrosity), who is granted a share of empathy for the sake of her own stifled existence; through famous actress Nance O’Neil (Jessica Barden), who steps in to become an ally at a crucial juncture of Lizzie’s trial; even through her estranged sister (Billie Lourd), who sets aside her own doubts to support Lizzie in sisterly solidarity. Brennan even imagines Lizzie as an activist in the fight for women’s suffrage.

Of course, if one is inclined to view “Monster” as a documentary crime series, occupied with discerning facts and providing an objective overview of the case, that’s a perfectly good reason not to watch its latest installment. For those who realize that it is instead a vehicle for artistic expression, a series devoted to finding the kind of truth that transcends facts and challenges viewers to examine the cultural conditions that create these “monsters” in the first place, this might be its best season yet.

Exquisitely realized, shrewdly written, and featuring outstanding performances across the board, it’s not really a crime story, nor really even horror: it’s an exhilarating, satisfying, and thoroughly transgressive fantasia on an American legend that puts the blame for the Borden family murder squarely where it belongs – on the oppressive cruelty that drives otherwise good-hearted women to commit unspeakable acts.