25/5/99

Flirting with danger

    Esti Barad asks for it. Every time she shows up for work in her skimpy little miniskirt and revealing blouse, the guys at work can't keep their eyes, and hands, off of her.
    She asks for it, alright.
    Esti, y'see, is an actress with a traveling troupe that performs an unusual form of theater: they're hired by large institutions to dramatize to their employees the issue of sexual harassment in the workplace.
    So when Esti is being pawed by one co-worker or humiliated by another ... well, that
is her job.
    Several hundred workers of the Central Bureau of Statistics showed up for a recent performance at the Ramat Rahel auditorium, but frankly, they had to be forced by management to attend. (It would be a good guess that the women were interested, the men, not.) Within moments, they were captivated.
    Compere Itsik Seidoff, known from his role in the TV series ג€œRamat Aviv Gimel,ג€ schmoozed with the audience, won a few chuckles with his smooth pitter-patter, then launched the show. Seidoff wrote the basic script, but not the four skits: they were strictly improvisational, instigated by members of the audience.
    The four actors hatched impromptu, humor-infused plots, then invited CBS workers to come on stage and get in on the act. Following each of the skits, a lively debate ensued, and then a lawyer from Na'amat, Maya Tzachor, took the mike and explained how the new sexual harassment law regarded the staged situation.

   ESTI, A charged redhead dressed to kill -- more correctly, to arouse -- is up for promotion at a travel agency. Her boss, played by Nahman Ashkenazi, butters her up and invites -- no, compels -- her to stop by his place at 9 p.m. to discuss the promotion, promising that the wife and kids won't be there. He has the sex appeal of a toad. The audience, of course, eats it up.
    Esti, the svelte little freicheh, can't say yes, can't say no.
    Will she? Won't she? Itsik nudges the audience. Yes, no, it depends.
Then he lures Etti, a modestly-dressed CBS worker, to assume the role; Etti is clearly no Esti. Nahman looks her up and down, says, "nice sandals," and Etti never lets him get any further. Her confreres give her a round of applause.
    Maya, the lawyer, explains that Esti's body language, behavior and attire are inconsequential; even if she consents to hanky-panky, at any time she says stop, the affair must end.
    "It's a complicated law," says my date, "and it's important, it can affect a person's wages and career." She happens to be Elisheva Engelhart, whose brainchild this instructive theater is. She inspired Ron Zamir, a Tel Aviv producer, who has staged the production more than a dozen times since January.
    MK Yael Dayan approves of the concept, Elisheva mentions proudly. "She said it's the first time a law has been made into theater."
    This being an Israeli crowd, you can be sure of a couple of things: one, Itsik didn't have to try very hard to provoke interaction; and two, nobody was shy.

"WHY DOESN'T harassment ever happen when the guy wears short pants?" Itsik gets a roar of laughter for that one. Actress Anat Barzilai gets one too with her laconic retort: "Esthetics."
    For the second skit, the nation's statisticians suggest a topic apparently close to their heart, the Y2K millennium bug.
    Anat and Nahman act out this one. She plays it straight  while he gets the laughs.
    Nahman, a lanky, bald, middle-aged man with an almost wobbly build, is an improv genius. You can tell he's good: after a while, the audience merely anticipates his reaction, and he has them guffawing without having to say anything.
    Anat takes a seat among the audience and poses questions about Y2K. Nahman, the supposed expert on the subject, never really provides any answers, but makes up for it with smirking sexual innuendos, leering jibes and embarrassing macho gestures, verbally patting himself on the back after every leud wisecrack. Outwardly, the spectators respond garrulously to the fine comedy; inwardly, you can imagine what the guys and gals are thinking.
    Anat then complains about the disrespect to a male colleague, played by Haim Zehavi, but he pooh-poohs her, saying she's oversensitive. Sounds familiar, right, guys?
    Bela comes up on stage from the audience to play Anat's friend, and she is, of course, sympathetic. She earns hoots, hollers and hallelujahs from her office friends when she suggests Anat take her complaint straight to the Histadrut. Maya the lawyer promises stiff punishment for poor Nahman -- but only if Anat can furnish proof.
     By now, the men of CBS are howling for equal rights: they bombard Itsik and Maya, asking how the law protects them against femmes fatale. They too can be victimized, they say.
    The law is rather hazy, but it does recognize such a situation.
    The third skit responds to the howls, in a way, and a male quandary is acted out: harassment by a female boss of a homosexual. Nahman finks on Haim to their supervisor, who prods Haim for the truth about his sexual proclivity. Haim, who looks like Schwarzeneggar without the muscles, becomes agitated when Anat finally comes straight out and asks if he's gay.
    Maya throws the book at Anat.
    Isn't this the same as asking an employee about his sex life with his wife?
    "It's the same thing!" some shout.
    "It's not the same thing!" others shout back.
    For a crowd that was initially uninterested in attending the performance, by now they're definitely into it.
    The last skit takes place at the Knesset cafeteria. Addled Nahman (a political hack?) is promised a trip to Sweden and Argentina. But he gets involved in a romantic intrigue, and he's stabbed in the back; Haim gets to go instead. Nahman accosts Esti for costing him the trip, wailing, "Now I'll never get to, uh, Copenhagen and Indonesia."
     Maya won't take this case: "You can't prove a connection, so there's no suspicion of harassment."
    On the way out of the auditorium, one gent grumbled to another. "I still don't know what's allowed, and what's harassment."
    "That's the beauty of it," his friend shot back. "It's exciting. You never know until they gotcha."