On any given evening, as the lights illuminate Act 2 of Bess Wohl’s intergenerational Broadway play, Liberation, a distinctive sound fills the theatre: supportive cheers and applause erupt from the audience, often before a single word has been spoken.
This spontaneous burst of appreciation, or perhaps solidarity, is a direct response to one of Broadway’s bolder scenes this season. On stage, six characters, members of a makeshift 1970s consciousness-raising group, strip naked for a 15-minute dialogue.
Playwright Bess Wohl admits she initially worried Liberation might become known solely as "that play with the naked scene," overshadowing its deeper message. However, she has been "very gratified" by the broader conversation it has sparked.
"It doesn’t feel titillating or gratuitous or gimmicky," Wohl explains. "It feels like a really important piece of the work that the women in the consciousness-raising group are doing."
The concept emerged from Wohl’s research into such groups, where she discovered that exploring their own bodies was a significant need for women of diverse ages, races, and economic backgrounds.
Set primarily in the 1970s, with occasional shifts to the present, the play draws context from a pivotal era. In 1970, "Our Bodies, Ourselves," the groundbreaking work on women’s health and sexuality, was first self-published, with its commercial edition following in 1973.
Actor Susannah Flood, who performs in the scene nightly, highlights the historical backdrop: "They were growing up in a time where their doctors were male, gynecologists were male, obstetricians were male. There was no conversation about female anatomy that was considered polite. And they needed, as a way of taking agency… to get to know their bodies. So, they got naked."
The scene, inspired by an exercise from Ms Magazine, begins with palpable discomfort. One character remarks on the unsanitary nature of sitting in gym chairs. The "assignment" requires each woman to describe one thing they like and one thing they dislike about their body.
The responses range from uproariously raunchy to deeply poignant. Margie, a character in her sixties played by Betsy Aidem, expresses her disdain for an unsightly C-section scar. "It feels unfair somehow," she laments. "Her children got life, her husband got the family he wanted, and I ended up this sad husk with this hideous scar."
Flood, whose character Lizzie serves as both protagonist and host, observes a fortunate convergence between the play’s theme of people talking to each other and the palpable buzz within the audience each night – also, people talking to each other.
A key reason for this heightened engagement is the theatre’s strict no-phone policy. Upon arrival, theatregoers must surrender their mobile phones, which are secured in special pouches that remain with them but can only be opened by staff. Without the distraction of emails or texts, genuine conversation flourishes.
"The real power of conversation – it’s a theme of the play," says Flood, whose character Lizzie travels through time to understand her mother’s choices. "And because we have this scene where we all get naked, people have to surrender their cellphones. Honestly, I think that’s a huge reason the show has garnered the organic response it has."
The no-phone rule, clearly flagged on the show’s website, is rigorously enforced. One evening, a guard spotted a theatregoer scrolling during intermission, having neglected to secure her device. She was politely but firmly escorted to staff in the lobby to pouch the offending phone.
Producer Daryl Roth notes that most attendees seem grateful for the reprieve from their devices. "Over and above the nude scene, it’s a sense of freedom for the audience," Roth states. "They can only think about this play right now. And isn’t that what we want? Come in for two and a half hours and give yourself over to what’s on the stage. It’s liberating."
Tracy Bonbrest, a 62-year-old New York theatregoer who attended with her book club, found herself "much more attentive, immersed in the experience than if I’d had my phone with me." She engaged in conversation with a stranger next to her, something she believes wouldn’t have happened if phones were present. Wohl even addresses the phone issue in her script, with Lizzie asking the audience before the action begins, "They took your phones. Are we OK?", which invariably earns a laugh.
Beyond the phone ban, other precautions are taken; backstage monitors go black every night to prevent recordings or photos. Wohl believes this contributes to a deeper aspect of live theatre. "It’s never going to happen again," she says of each night’s performance. "You have to be in the room. And it’s very alive, for that reason."
The delicate process of staging the scene began during the very first rehearsals. Kelsey Rainwater, the production’s intimacy coordinator, describes it as "its own miniplay." She met with actors individually and led intensive rehearsals to choreograph movement. "It was a really involved process," says Rainwater, who also teaches at Yale’s drama school.
She praises the exceptional sensitivity training provided to the security team. Rainwater calls the scene "a huge ask" for the actors, noting, "It’s not just being nude onstage. They also have to talk about and draw attention to their bodies." Rehearsals were conducted step-by-step, accommodating actors who needed a gradual approach and those who preferred to "rip off the Band-Aid."
Wohl observes that each character, much like the actors, approaches the nudity exercise differently. "That’s part of the complicated contradictions of feminism that I was trying to unpack in the play," she explains. One particularly interesting reaction came from her own father, who asked: "Do women really talk to each other about their bodies like this?" Audiences have been respectful, Rainwater confirms, though sometimes startled. "On TV and film, there’s a bigger separation," she says. "But when you’re breathing the same air, there’s definitely a reaction. Sometimes you feel a little bit like a voyeur. That’s part of the experience."
For the actors, repetition has brought comfort and confidence in the scene’s effectiveness. Flood now feels the scene is harder for the audience than for the performers. The show, which opened in late October, is scheduled to run until 1 February.
Flood has come to realise that the truly daunting aspect is not the nudity itself, but the emotional vulnerability inherent in the acting. "My parents were acting teachers, and they always said acting is controlled humiliation," she quips. "So, is it any more humiliating than doing a scene you think is the most important thing on Earth, and having someone fall asleep in the front row?"
An added benefit, she notes, is that for two hours, no one is distracted by a phone. "People are really having a live experience, with other people, in the moment," Flood concludes. "I think people are dying for that. They’re desperate for that, whether they’re aware of it or not."
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