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Robber Bridegroom's Feminist Heroine Reinvent Fairytale Marriages

In her review of Eudora Welty’s “The Robber Bridegroom,” New York Times critic Marianne Hauser calls the short story an “American fairy tale”’ as if Welty decided to say “Just watch and see what happens to those fairy tales if I let them run wild in the big woods of the old Natchez country, with Indians lurking behind the bushes.”

And it’s true: Welty borrows elements of popular romantic myths and fairy tales (Snow White, Cupid and Psyche, and Robin Hood are readily recognizable) and plants them in early twentieth century Mississippi. If I had to choose between Grimm’s European tales or Welty’s American one, I’d happily go American. The characters are sexier, the stepmothers are uglier, the plot is livelier, and the wildlife perkier. Add on Alfred Uhry’s book and lyrics, Robert Waldman’s bluegrass score, and Alex Timbers’ inventive and entertaining direction, and you’ve got yourself something positively magical.

a man holding a woman
Ahna O’Reilly and Steven Pasquale in The Robber Bridegroom. Photo by Joan Marcus.

But it’s not just the modernized take on the lusty Mississippi legend that is noteworthy about this production. The show is also a reversal of the gender roles found in traditional fairy tales. Normally, a young woman’s family seeks marriage for her as a means of financial stability and class mobility. Marriage to a wealthy man would ensure that she’d be cared for after her parents pass away, since women would not have been allowed to inherit family property. More modern, feminist versions of fairytales might make the woman’s lack of choice explicit, showing how society forces women to be dependent on male income, instead of providing her with her own opportunities for success and allowing her to marry for love, not money.

In The Robber Bridegroom, marriage is again explicitly tied to money. But this time, it’s the male caught in the binds between passion and marriage. The title character goes by his alter-ego Jamie Lockhart, a role played by theatre greats including Kevin Kline, Raul Julia, and, in this revival, Steven Pasquale. Gentleman by day, thief by night—Jamie has managed to get the best of both worlds of American life. On the one hand, he has the wealth and status of a successful capitalist. Yet he suffers no restraints because of it—he is free to roam the woods, fight bandits, and charm pretty girls. His self-proclaimed motto is “I steal with style.” Prestige? Money? Independence? Prowess? He’s got it all. It’s a truly masculine fantasy.

Which is why Jamie is not pleased when a marriage is set up between him and a wealthy plantation owner’s daughter, Rosamund Musgrove (Ahna O’Reilly). He locks himself into the marriage because of her fortune, but later sings that he could never mix “love with bizness.” This loveless marriage would be another means of economic mobility for him, but it would encumber his earned manly independence, particularly his covert sexual exploits as the Bandit of the Woods. 

We don’t pity him —his decision to marry is just that, a decision, and not an obligation—but this decision is influenced by factors that would typically influence the female heroine of the traditional fairy tale.

If we were to assign traditional fairytale roles here, Jamie is the damsel in distress in the scenario. He chooses a marriage for class mobility, caught between the contradictions of economic versus personal freedom. His arc as a character is largely based on how to resolve his dilemma and how to reconcile independence with marriage. He also seems to choose to marry Musgrove’s daughter out of respect for Musgrove himself, a kind-hearted, self-made man who might serve as an ideal capitalist of sorts (his only flaw being that he spoils his daughter and marries the conniving Salome—the stepmother character). It’s important to note that Jamie is a man of good standing, which means he has the ability to choose his own marriage and has more socioeconomic security to buy, cheat, marry, or work his way into the world. We don’t pity him —his decision to marry is just that, a decision, and not an obligation—but this decision is influenced by factors that would typically influence the female heroine of the traditional fairy tale.

Rosamund, on the other hand, is far more decisive about her romantic relationships. Her songs are full of sometimes latent, though often explicit, sexual energy. “Nothin’ Up” is about her searching for the man of her dreams, but there’s (literally) nothing up. Likewise when we first meet her, she sings about finding the right man, though she very easily leaves him for the next one in the next verse. When she meets the Bandit for the first time, she plays coyly with him, sarcastically demanding he take her dress and nothing else... he takes her undergarments too on her insinuation. At this point in the production, we see Rosamund as almost nude onstage, save for some strategically-placed locks of hair and forest props. As played by O’Reilly, Rosamund seems unperturbed in this scenario. Unbeknownst to the Bandit, she is in complete control during the robbery scene, and frankly, naked is exactly how she wanted to end up. This is no ordinary fairytale maiden.

a man on stage
Steven Pasquale as Jamie in The Robber Bridegroom. Photo by Joan Marcus.

Her father’s mandate that Rosamund marry Jamie leads her to feign ugliness in her suitor’s presence. She does not know Jamie is the Bandit, but she hides her true identity from Jamie because she wants to keep her independence. Both Jamie and Rosamund, therefore, adopt alter egos to stay single. Rosamund’s happy nature and carefree sexuality are never hindered. She isn’t conflicted about her dignity, or her obligations to her father at all. In fact, she goes straight to the woods and has sex for the first time with the Bandit. Later she finds his den and makes herself right at home.

Despite the efforts of those around her, Rosamund is in incredible possession of herself and her actions. Part of the show’s narrative success is that it does not judge Rosamund for her actions. This isn’t a musical about the right or wrong way to conduct a relationship. We’re not here to decide what she could have done better, or to hear what she has learned. Right until the end, when Rosamund and Jamie do decide to marry, their union is not founded on some overwrought moral lesson about the true nature of love. They act on their whims, literally changing from “no” to “yes” in one line. When Rosamund embraces her desires, whether they be sex-driven or marriage-driven, she brings resolution to the musical’s conflicts. 

When Rosamund embraces her desires, whether they be sex-driven or marriage-driven, she brings resolution to the musical’s conflicts.

This nuanced shift in fairytale expectation stems partially from Alex Timbers’ new approach to the material. Timbers collaborated with Uhry and Waldman to update the show for modern sensibilities. One significant addition is a fight scene in which Rosamund successfully protects herself from a jealous enemy, employing a high-flying, slow-motion Matrix kick while she’s at it. Timbers is also attentive to some of the racial insensitivities of the text: Jamie uses berry juice to darken his skin and make him unrecognizable as the Bandit of the Woods, implying a connection between the dark skin of the Native Indians and Jamie’s lustful, dangerous alter ego. In this production, Jamie only puts two lines of juice on his face, making the disguise seem more like a silly see-through device (like Clark Kent’s glasses) than a racist nod.

It’s exciting to see revivals take artistic freedoms with old works mired in the status quo of their times. Eudora Welty did it with her first adaptation of the fairytale legend, and Timbers once more challenges the work passed to him. 

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