The Marquis de Sade is hardly an appropriate figure for a play about the irrepressibility of art. A rapist, a pedophile, and a celebrator of sexual violence, Sade is an endlessly fascinating case study for psychologists, but not very interesting as a literary practitioner. Try to read one of his novels — say, Justine or The 120 Days of Sodom — and you'll find that its erotic content is quickly eclipsed by Sade's obsession with torture, pain, and the abuse, particularly, of the innocent. The long pages of "philosophy" that interrupt his characters' outrages are stultifyingly boring and dreadfully lacking in artistic proportion. One can still get attention by defending Sade as a genius — certain French postmodernists have a monopoly on this gambit — but in a world where rape and torture aren't just notions on a page, Sade's works are, to be blunt, repugnant. I've got no problem with pornography, but art and hate just aren't compatible, and Sade's work is full of hate.
Well, now we're offered Doug Wright's Quills, in which the Marquis is the hero and his keepers — he's in an insane asylum — are the anti-artistic villains. To say that this is unconvincing is to be delicately understated. Wright even invents a character, a seamstress in the asylum named Madeleine, who consumes Sade's work voraciously, and who explains that his evil frees her to be good. This is just so much hogwash, along the same line as insisting that Nazism was necessary in Germany in order that democracy flourish in France.
The fact is that Sade as presented here — and Wright does present him with some accuracy — is every bit as mad as his caretakers think him, and no more a martyr of free speech than your neighborhood Klansman or skinhead. What Sade believes in is atrocity; to see him stand up for this value is not exactly rousing. And to see him defeated is not exactly displeasing.
The plot: the administrators at the Charenton asylum have a problem. Even in confinement, the infamous Marquis de Sade keeps writing his offensive stories. When his paper and quills are confiscated, he scribbles on towels, curtains and sheets. When these are removed, he writes on his own clothes. His clothes are taken from him — and naked he finds yet other ways to keep publishing his obsessions. His main contact in the asylum is Coulmier, a sensitive clergyman who with some reluctance adopts harsh measures toward his busy prisoner. And over Coulmier is Dr. Royer-Collard, chief physician of the asylum and a vain, opinionated man who, with the help of Sade's wife, sees the Marquis as simply a problem to solve. When an inmate tortures and murders a woman after hearing a Sadean tale, Royer-Collard insists that Coulmier become a sadist himself. At the end, it's not clear which of the antagonists is the more perverse.
The Jobsite Theater production of this cracked parable features several fine performances, but the most notable, not surprisingly, is Giles Davies' as the Marquis de Sade. In the last couple of years, Davies has made himself known as one of the most resourceful actors in the Bay area, and his performance in Quills only ratifies that reputation. Davies' Sade is arrogant, patronizing, ironic, in love with himself and not about to be defeated. Davies is nude for much of the evening, but he doesn't let this detail stop him from finding himself infinitely entertaining, the cleverest clown at whatever party he's crashing.
As Coulmier, the excellent Matt Lunsford is concerned, compassionate, visibly pained to have to show cruelty to Sade, and genuinely contrite that more merciful measures can't be continued. Owen Robertson is appropriately pompous as chief physician Royer-Collard, and Nicole Jeannine Smith is charming as the seamstress who exchanges kisses for dirty stories, and whose error is to think that Sade's misogyny puts her in no danger. Katrina Stevenson, who designed the impressive period costumes, is not so impressive as Sade's wife Renee Pelagie — her petulance needs further dimensions — and Jon Gennari as the celebrated architect Prioux is only adequate in a role that never quite seems to justify itself. David M. Jenkins' direction is confident and skillful, but Brian Smallheer's set, representing Dr. Royer-Collard's office and the quarters of the Marquis, is somber and not very distinctive.
Still, the main problem with Quills is its conviction that the repulsive Sade can represent an artist-hero. Maybe in some other play; but in this one he just seems a monomaniac with logorrhea. By all means, let him write; just don't require that anyone read him.
There is, after all, a solution for writers like Sade.
It's called neglect.
This article appears in Nov 3-9, 2011.
