Writer and Performer: Rosy Carrick
Director and Dramaturg: Katie Bonna
“So come with me, and together we can be: Master(baters) of the Universe!”
Rosy Carrick has many strings to her bow: writer, poet, actor, public speaker, expert on Vladimir Mayakovsky, cowriter of a yet-to-be-released video game with ZA/UM (creators of Disco Elysium). Foremost in Musclebound though is one of her most important and highly relatable strings – slightly fetishistic sexual liberator.
Have you ever found yourself oddly aroused by something that shouldn’t be sexual but clearly is? Have you ever found yourself settling for less in your romantic life? Have you ever found yourself performing in the bedroom, rather than, well, performing in the bedroom? Musclebound is the show for you!
On the edge of 40 and faced with her own daughter’s impending leap into the sex pool, Carrick decided to dump her perfectly ok boyfriend and go in search of what she had secretly always wanted – an oiled up mass of muscles a la Arnold Schwarzenegger or Dolph Lundgren in their 80s fantasy movie heyday. Remembering the intensity of her feelings seeing these beef cakes stripped, whipped and tortured in films pitched as ‘for children’, Carrick asks a question many of us have probably asked at some point – does anybody else really get it? Through direct to audience monologues, question time with the two aforementioned actors, a lot of comedy gold and many, many clips of shirtless 80s leading men, Carrick explores her own hypersexuality via the intersection of female pleasure and where the power lays in heterosexual sex, resulting in a revelatory discussion of what and who may be found wanting.
Be warned, the show is obviously full of sexual language and is definitely not suitable for the young or faint of heart, but it never strays into being crass as would be so easy to do in what is essentially 65 minutes of a woman talking about how Mr Universe worthy bodies get her off. While it does skirt the issue of if women objectifying men is as problematic as men objectifying women, it also makes the very important point that for one gender skimpy clothes and pain is a power fantasy, and for another it is a sign of weakness. Reading Masters of the Universe as a metaphor for sexual liberation is surely not something the writers expected during its conceptualisation, but it is amazingly accurate for Carrick’s performance. Underneath all the perving over glistening biceps is a heartfelt exploration of desire and pleasure, and after keeping her audience rolling in nostalgic laughter for three quarters of the show, the last fifteen minutes are a gut punch of raw honesty and reclaiming shame which sends you home in an introspective mood (and will certainly – hopefully – trigger some hard discussions between some couples).
In a world where women are still taught that their sexuality is something to hide, are expected to be instantly gratified by the bare minimum in the bedroom, and that sexual transparency is a taboo, Carrick has put together a show that challenges all these assumptions and asks a very important question: what are the sexual lessons we want to pass on to the next generation of women – and what do we still need to learn for ourselves?
Reviewed on 14 March 2024
