FYI: This post discusses staged and written sexual assault scenes in theatre.
Did I miss the content advisory?
So I thought, bewildered, as I watched a graphic staged sexual assault in the opening night performance of Mary Stuart at Chesapeake Shakespeare Company in Baltimore. The assault scene, which (spoiler alert) comes as a narrative “twist” in the second act, is truly shocking—in its brutality, and also in its inclusion in a play that truly does not need such explicit physical violence to show the oppression and harms of patriarchy.
Mary Stuart, Peter Oswald’s 2006 adaptation of the 1800 play by Friedrich Schiller, depicts the rivalry between Queen Elizabeth I and her cousin, Mary Stuart (aka Mary Queen of Scots). The intrigue and the larger-than-life personae of the two queens are the stuff of myth and legend. The play, and Chesapeake Shakespeare’s production (directed by Artistic Director Ian Gallanar), revel in historical fiction, and the Oswald/Schiller tale is a riveting rollercoaster of juicy (if much embellished/invented) drama—both personal and political.
Of course, the patriarchy rules throughout the play; a queen (or even two queens) on the throne is not, and never has been, an indicator of systemic equity, justice, or liberation for women. As the play vividly illustrates, men can respond to women in power positions by becoming more conniving, desperate, and violent in pursuit of what they feel is their own entitlement to that power.
All of this is clear in the play before the aforementioned sexual assault, which is presented as a betrayal by Queen Mary’s trusted co-conspirator, Mortimer. A man whom she thought would help liberate her from imprisonment confesses his obsession with her and, when she rebuffs him, he assaults her. This is a tale as old as time: refuse a man’s advances and risk violation.
But why is it necessary to show the physical representation of this violence, in this moment? The staged assault serves no narrative or thematic purpose that is not already made abundantly clear elsewhere in the play. The personal betrayal in this moment, as well as danger, suspense, and violence, are communicated vividly in the dialogue, and extraneous physical violence actually detracts from the power of the language itself.
A reading of the written play text as adapted by Oswald1 finds starkly minimal stage direction in this scene. Mortimer “Approaches her fiercely with open arms” and three lines later, it’s clear he has grabbed some part of Mary’s body because she demands, “let me go!” But there’s no textual indication that this instance of physical contact continues beyond that point.
More fraught dialogue follows, and Mortimer’s violent intentions are clear in his words. For example: “So give to life what otherwise you must surrender to death. Your body is already lost. Give it to me. Death has already got his hands in your silken hair, use it to tie me to you forever–”
Whew. Mary replies, as I think many of us would: “These are insane ravings!” The words throughout this exchange are more than sufficient to establish fear, tension, and peril.
The final stage direction in the encounter reads: “He presses her against him.” This is a sexual assault, but the length and intensity of this action are textually unspecified. This could be staged as a brief action, minimizing physical contact while maintaining and even ratcheting up the tension of the moment through the dialogue and other blocking.
After a few more contentious lines of speech, Mortimer declares,“I will make you fear me!”– but then Oswald’s text immediately cuts off this threat as other characters enter and Mary escapes. Oswald effectively spares Mary from further physical assault.
Gallanar’s production adds a prolonged extratextual sequence of explicit, harrowing physical sexual assault after Mortimer’s line. This feels disjointed, gratuitous, and unnecessary in the context of the show—not least of all because this is not part of the play as written by the playwright. There has been a deliberate decision, in Gallanar’s staging, to add some extra sexual violence to a show that was actually going pretty great without it.
Maybe the intention, with this graphic scene, is to “shock and disturb” audiences. But why? Some might say that this could produce a Brechtian “alienation effect”– forcing spectators into a mode of “critical inquiry” and perhaps motivating them to…do what, exactly? And, crucially, which audiences need to be shocked and unsettled in this way?
The trouble is that witnessing staged physical violence in live theatre can feel too real, collapsing the critical distance necessary for thoughtful, engaged spectatorship, and resulting in distress—or even a trauma response– for those who can personally identify with the violence represented.
Theatre scholar Josette Féral explains that the shock of witnessing a graphic theatrical representation of violence can produce a “sense of extreme presence identical to that experienced when faced with a real event.”2 Even though we know, rationally, that it’s “just a play,” our animal brains can’t parse the difference between this and real violence—and this can cause an involuntary physical and/or emotional response.
This is what happened to me when I sat in the theatre the other night, confronted by a choreographed assault that yanked me out of the world of the play and into very real distress and bewilderment—at seeing the violent action itself, and at the bizarre and incongruous choice to stage it so graphically.
I was no longer swept up in the beautiful production nor inspired to critical thought and connection, as I had been throughout the first act. I was alienated, but due to my involuntary, unexpected distress in the moment, I was not capable of real critical or intellectual engagement, like Brecht would want. I was shut down. I wanted to go home.
I’m sure this was not the intention of the director or of anyone involved in the production. Perhaps the intended purpose of staging the assault was to evoke empathy and concern for the character of Mary Stuart? But this purpose is already achieved, solidly, from her very first scene, through the thoughtful, heartfelt, and complex performance of actor Lise Bruneau in the role.
And moreover, what kind of audience needs to see graphic violence in order to feel empathy for a character? Maybe an audience who hasn’t experienced anything like the sort of trauma that’s being represented. Is that who this play was produced for? People with no personal knowledge of gender-based violence or sexual assault? That eliminates… a lot of folks.
There is no such thing as “general audience,” so we’ve got to be specific about whom we want our work to connect with. Mary Stuart connected with me, truly…until it really didn’t.
And in those sudden but interminable moments when I felt so completely disconnected in the theatre experience, I found myself asking, Did I miss the content advisory? Not wanting to believe that I’d been betrayed by a play that had, until that point, seemed like it was for me.
As I gathered myself, flipping frantically through the program, I found that no, I had not missed the content advisory there. Because there was none in the program, nor on the company’s website,** nor in the email I received before the show telling me what to “know before I go.”
Content advisories/disclosures have been commonplace in TV and movies for years now, but there still seems to be some lack of consideration for, and even resistance to, them in many live theatre productions. I was puzzled at the lack of disclosure for what is the most intense portrayal of sexual assault I have personally witnessed on CSC’s stage (yes, even more so than in Titus Andronicus).
When I reached out to Chesapeake Shakespeare Company via their “Talkback” email address, a staff member (who mysteriously signed off only as “CSC”) informed me that there were “actually” two “signs” advising of the scene (which another source has informed me is referred to as “forced intimacy”) posted in the theatre. However, these signs are placed in easily missed locations for patrons entering the theatre, particularly on busy nights—which is why I had no idea they were there. Others who attended the performance also told me they completely missed the signage; all the more reason for clearer and more abundant communication about sensitive content.
Content disclosures, if offered for a show, belong on the website (so people can review them before purchasing tickets), in the program, and in pre-show announcements, in addition to any physical signage—which should be posted in multiple obvious locations.
As a company/producer/manager/team, you either make a content advisory loud and clear, or you do not make it. The idea is to put it out in all channels possible because you think the information is important and you want people to know it. You can’t “sort of” do a content advisory with the bare minimum effort as a CYA. The advisory isn’t there for you to CYA—it’s there for the audience, so that they can be aware of what they’re about to see.
Also, if for some reason you don’t feel able or willing to refer to sexual assault as what it is in clear, plain terms (and not some fuzzy euphemistic phrasing like “forced intimacy”) in the year 2025, then what business do you have staging it? You call a strobe light a strobe light. You call a sexual assault a sexual assault. You advise your audiences of both of these, and of any other things they may need to know about, loud and clear, across multiple channels.
If anyone has questions or asks you to clarify (which, if it’s an area of sensitivity for them, they may), be ready and equipped to do so. If you stand behind your creative choices and clearly understand their reasoning, intention, and potential impacts, none of this should be a problem.
But to be clear:
A content advisory is not an absolution or compensation for poor or careless creative choices. A scene can be gratuitous and ill-considered and still have a detrimental impact, even with a content advisory.
A content advisory shouldn’t be treated as a disclaimer or a preemptive apology.
A content advisory is an offering of care. Not everyone may need it or take it, but we offer a heads up about potentially sensitive material in the spirit of care.
You may sense some heat coming through my writing here, in my frustration at a bad theatre experience and also in my drive and passion to create better theatre experiences for everyone. I bring this heat because I care.
Our creative work matters. Our art impacts people.
Theatrical experiences—whether awful or wonderful–affect me deeply, and I have dedicated years of my life to better understanding why that is.
Of course I don’t know everything, and I never will. But I do know some things, and I know better than I ever have how to articulate my own responses to art.
And I know that l am not the only one who has responses like this.
So I will keep talking about it. And I will keep the heat on.
Thank you for listening.
**At the time of this writing, there is a “content warning” on the Chesapeake Shakespeare website; it appears that this has been updated since the time I saw the show on opening night and since I reached out to them on Monday, April 28. The language in this warning is still euphemistic and unclear.
- Oswald, Peter, and Friedrich Schiller. 2006. Mary Stuart. London: Oberon Books.
- Féral, Josette. “From Event to Extreme Reality: The Aesthetic of Shock.” TDR/The Drama Review 55, no. 4 (2011): 52.
