the lulu plays

lulu is as lulu does
with her eyes of every colour
and her chameleon silhouette
and why not lick this cherry cunt ice cream? who do lulu?
you do lulu?

the question isn’t ‘who is lulu,’ but ‘who would would you like her to be?’

she changes her identity like her costumes, no one’s sure of her real name, or at least no one cares. men rename her after their own desires, and she dresses the part.

frank wedekind’s lulu plays (the earth spirit & pandora’s box) follow the story of a young femme fatale who fucks her way across fin-de-siècle europe, through a series of lovers and husbands who have an uncanny knack for ending up dead. she moves from the alleys and gutters to high society, and back again, until she finds herself working the streets of london—where she meets a mysterious man named jack who’s also got death on his heels.

wedekind’s plays about lulu explore the rich and uncomfortable nexus of sex and pleasure and shame and consequence: is lulu a modern-day pandora, bringer of evil and destruction, or just a little girl trying to survive in a man’s world, while monstrous men hurl themselves into the abysses that open beneath her dainty feet? lulu doesn’t do anything but what feels good—so why is she so terrifying to us still?