Theatre in Review: Meat Suit or The Shitshow of Motherhood (Second Stage)Given the declining birth rate in this country, I'm not sure we need Meat Suit or The Shitshow of Motherhood (currently playing at Second Stage/Pershing Square Signature Center), but anyway, here it is, to make of what you will. This plotless, revue-like, not-quite-an-entertainment offers satire without humor, expressed in a series of premises pushed to self-defeating extremes: One is so grimly fascinated by the grotesquerie on display that playwright Aya Ogawa's points get obscured. Also, the piece rambles badly, making its ninety-minute running time feel much longer. Simply put, Meat Suit suffers from stretch marks. In the first scene, a gaggle of empty-headed real housewife types (outfitted with enormous breasts and outrageously baggy costumes) gather for a boozy brunch. The event is in honor of Momo, who has recently given birth. But her blessed event has rendered her a basket case: She makes a staggering entrance, struggling to manage the long, tubular breasts hanging from her chest like extension cords, with a batch of oversized eggs tied around her waist, attached to what appears to be a bloated stomach and several intestines. (Jian Jung's costume design is, arguably, the product of a too-fertile imagination; note the penises and breasts on the cast members' heads, looking like mad little Schiaparelli hats.) The devastated Momo -- she is exhausted, barred from having a cocktail, and incapable of sitting down -- suffers from explosions of extra breast milk, here represented by streamers flung into the audience. Several more savagely caricatured episodes follow. In one of the funnier bits, a pair of women one-up each other with their displays of conscious maternal care. One of them, noting that her child is named Tomorrow, adds, "We're going to let them choose their gender when they're ready." An exhausted mom's sleep is ravaged by a randy husband rubbing his enormous penis against her back and a pair of toddlers who, clawing at her, unravel her breasts (another special effect courtesy of the costume designer). A gang of PTA moms snipes at each other while feigning concern. ("I saw your husband having dinner in a restaurant with a hot blonde last night! Is everything okay at home? Can you call my vaginal reconstruction doctor?") The PTA president, identifying the biggest slacker in the group, produces a "giant cock," asking, "Where do you want to be spanked?" "In my vagina," the victim begs. If Ogawa wants to portray motherhood as a living hell, that's her business, although she could be funnier about it. Here, the intentionally hideous costumes, cartoonish voices, and crudely anatomical humor become increasingly hard to take. Still, even at its most grating, Meat Suit is also interesting. Based on the evidence of recent plays and films, our culture is sending distress signals on this topic. Just last week, we reviewed The Waterfall, about a thirtysomething lawyer who risks breaking with her boyfriend and her mother because she cannot imagine having children; films like Die My Love and If I Had Legs I'd Kick You depict mothers sliding into reckless neglect and madness. I can't say I enjoyed Meat Suit, but clearly Ogawa is expressing something many women feel. In her case, the revulsion is focused on exhaustion, physical discomfort, and loss of bodily control. The piece feels as much like the result of post-partum depression as a consideration of it. Which is why one is surprised to see the script turn squishy halfway through, with each cast member addressing us directly in heartfelt fashion. One admits to saving items her young daughter has outgrown, adding, "I just feel like if I can keep her in these baby clothes, she'll still be my baby." Another, having endured seven rounds of IFV, feels oddly let down by success, noting, fearfully, "I feel like some ugly parts of me are coming out." A third recalls that, during every childhood illness, "I would catastrophize every cough, every sneeze, every ouchie, every fever. Something would happen, and I would immediately imagine the worst and paint the devil on the walls." The writing -- detailed, plaintive, and pointed -- calls to mind Ogawa's much better 2021 piece, The Nosebleed. It doesn't last, however: Meat Suit continues to shuttle between the naturalistic and the bizarre, with no clear destination. It aims for complexity and succeeds in feeling all mixed up. Clearly, playwright Aya Ogawa has not been well-served by director Aya Ogawa, especially in the decision to include the dirge-like songs by Leyna Marika Papach. Jung's scenery, featuring several hanging, pendulously fabric pieces, isn't easy on the eyes, and the lighting, by Jeanette Oi-Suk Yew and Christina F. Tang, relies heavily on bursts of pink from a side bank of units. (Pink is a recurring theme in the scenery, lighting, and costumes.) Megumi Katayama's sound design includes a giant fart noise that morphs into EDM, marking her as someone willing to take on any challenge. The best thing I can say about the talented cast -- Marina Celander, Cindy Cheung, Robyn Kerr, Maureen Sebastian, and Liz Wisan -- is that they are deeply committed, unafraid to follow Ogawa down any dark alley. A show that probably gives voice to the hidden anguish of some in the audience, Meat Suit is just as likely to be an ordeal for others. At least, with the play's title, Ogawa has put her cards on the table; if you find it off-putting, follow your instincts. --David Barbour 
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