We here in the hinterlands have recently received two lovely theatrical gifts, proving that one need not live in Huachuca City, after all, to be culturally nourished. First came “The Vagina Monologues,” presented, traditionally, on V. (Valentine’s) Day, and, more recently, the stoner classic movie, “Tombstone,” with illuminating voice-over by local movie guru, Doc Misiorowski, one of the film’s producers.

My wife had seen “The … Monologues” 20 years ago, when they first appeared. I had not. The material is fabulous, bravely poking its nose into every aspect of female sexuality from embarrassment, shame, and prudery to desire, empowerment, and ecstasy. The entire cast performed splendidly, with several standout performances, the best of all, by Erin Blanding—as a female dominatrix (of women) dedicated to evoking every possible type of boudoir moan—was nothing less than stellar. Blanding demonstrated all 27 varieties — from whimper to bellow — in blood-warming vibrato, complete with appropriate writhings. In every way excellent, the production reflected upon this key female organ the long-overdue honor it deserves.

Psychologists like to say, “You’re only as sick as your secrets!” That’s true not only for individuals, but for whole societies, too. Eve Ensler’s inspiration for creating

“The Monologues” was her astonishment that the organ is, in general, taboo. (“We just don’t talk about ‘Down There’!”) And yet, vaginas are not rare. More than half of the people on earth have one. The performance begins with discussion of the word itself — how weird a word it is, and how uncomfortable even saying it makes many women (let alone using any of its 401 impolite nicknames). In Latin, the word vagina means sheath. Oddly, the paternalist, gender-political implications of the word were not overtly addressed in the play. A sheath presumes — and is somehow, therefore, subordinate to — the sword it’s meant to house. But for the sword, you’d need no sheathe. The female organ has been named, and thus, in a sense, “appropriated,” by the colonialist invader. It reflects his — the occupier’s — viewpoint, much as “non-white” is the Caucasian sociologist’s designation for persons of color. (Africans do not walk around thinking of themselves as “nonwhite.”) Perhaps the male organ’s name could be changed from “penis” (neutrally indicating that which penetrates) to something more suggestive of the female experience; “intruder,” for example or “welcome guest.”

“Tombstone” was another whole kettle of fish. I’d seen it once before, but was glad to have another shot. (Several shots, actually, having brought a flask of tequila to the “chuck wagon dinner” preceding the show.) “Tombstone” is a quirky piece of work, shamelessly and gratifyingly over-the-top, taking us from the heart-thumping adrenaline of macho violence — as when some sweaty low-life thrusts his shotgun right into the camera or when the eyes of the handsome, idealized hero, Wyatt Earp (Kurt Russell) meet the transfixing gaze of his idealized love-object, (Dana Delany,) and the soundtrack unfailingly erupts into obtrusive, schmaltzy music. Not subtle! For me, in my agave-altered state, the film was a resonant hybrid of pure, right-in-your-face archetype, both of macho brutality and the searing, scary, emotion of love at first, fifth, and seventh sight. Not subtle! (Although falling-in-love is the best drug of all, as you know.) What intrigues me is that the movie furnishes both extremes: intense, mouth-drying moral confrontations alternating with moments of comical self-caricature, achieved precisely by prolonging those same tensions until the scene turns inside-out, becoming ridiculous.

One of my all-time-favorite movies was Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction, a manipulative masterpiece, which repeatedly yanks us from heart-cramping tension to outrageous humor, again and again and again. If a movie is entertaining enough, we’re willing to ride that emotional rollercoaster, willing to suspend our disbelief repeatedly, even when it’s been repeatedly derailed. This is also true of “Tombstone.” All Wagnerian melodrama is histrionic in nature. It starts intensely and escalates from there. (Can you say “bathos,” boys and girls?) Nevertheless, most melodramas, including “Tombstone,” should be shortened by half an hour. Even your most eager synapse burns out when a climax goes on for too long.