Eurydice @ The Young Vic

On the back of the playtext for Sarah Ruhl’s Eurydice, published by Methuen Drama and available for purchase at the Young Vic, an extract from a New York Times review reads: “the most moving exploration of the theme of loss that the American theater has produced”. As Andrew Haydon notes, unless the quote has been opportunistically truncated in order to omit a phrase which qualifies that statement, or the NYT is wildly overstating its case, something doesn’t quite add up. The problem is with “moving”: the performance I saw was pretty much the opposite – more of a “detached meditation on loss”.

The full quote is in fact: “Oh, yeah, and it may just be the most moving exploration of the theme of loss that the American theater has produced since the events of Sept. 11, 2001, although Ms. Ruhl began work on the play before that terrible day.” Given that the review appeared on 3 October 2006, the reviewer, Charles Isherwood, is essentially saying that this is “the most moving etc.” of the past few years (as opposed to ever, which the line from the playtext seems to imply). It is easy to see why the 9/11 reference has been cut (even though the sense of the sentence is altered without it); I’m a little at a loss as to why it was there in the first place (even within the context of the article). Maybe Isherwood is simply using an American equivalent of “in Britain since WWII” or “in Germany since the fall of the Berlin Wall”, but the implication seems to be that the events of that day have had some influence on American theatre, in particular the way it approaches the theme of loss. Perhaps I am reading too much into it.

Even though the NYT’s endorsement has been somewhat exaggerated, whoever cut and pasted the extract should probably be let off the hook: overall, the review from which the quote is taken sings the play’s praises, with particular emphasis on how deeply affecting it is. This is in stark contrast to Sheibani’s production, which is zen-like in its refusal to engage the audience emotionally. Being held at arm’s length in this manner is at times deeply frustrating: what with all Eurydice goes through, I felt like my heart should really go out to her, while remaining largely indifferent to her fate. At other moments though, it is pleasing to be given the space to contemplate the puckish poetry in Ruhl’s writing, but always at a remove: we are never allowed to forget ourselves in the fluid imagery which pervades the text.

With the play staged in the round on a square black metallic grille, large, square neon frames suspended above it and fountains which spout up in a square formation at the centre of the stage, the set achieves a striking formal elegance. So much so, in fact, that it doesn’t need the play – it could practically be taken on its own terms as an exhibition piece. More problematically, although the play finds some functional use for the design (one of the suspended square frames is lowered to evoke an elevator descending into the underworld and the running water conjures the Lethe), there is little in the way the stage is set to support the “moving exploration of the theme of loss” which Isherwood witnessed.

The actors too, appear to be working against inciting anything more than an intellectual involvement on the spectator’s part. The delivery is so even throughout that any peaks and troughs in the script are glossed over; there is nothing at stake, nothing to lose. Nevertheless, Geff Francis gives a strong performance as and archetypal kindly father, and Rhys Rusbatch plays the infantile Lord of the Underworld with eccentric panache (“EURYDICE: You’re little CHILD: I grow downward. Like a turnip”). Ony Uhiara and Osi Okerafor capture all the naïve optimism of young love but, disappointingly, display none of its passion. In themselves, the charactarisations are believable enough, but they never strive to build to anything or dare to fall from any great height. There is also a chorus of stones: when its members succeed it is as individuals rather than as part of a coherent whole – again, ensemble work in English productions proves underwhelming.

There is so much about the production which conspires to keep the audience at a distance that it is hard not to conclude that this is just what Sheibani intended. However, leaving us to ponder the meaning of Ruhl’s original yet sometimes coquettish use of language rather than submerging us in it significantly reduces its impact - it is a play which demands that audiences see it feelingly.

If that's all there is @ the BAC

If that’s all there is, like Cheek by Jowl’s Macbeth, examines marriage through the prism of a couple's fractured psyches: their fantasies, insecurities and neuroses. But where the Declan Donellan’s Scottish tragedy is dark, regimented and threatening, the latest piece by in vogue company, Inspector Sands, is colourful, anarchic and liable to leave you with a very pleasant warm fuzzy feeling. Not to say that ITATI is saccharine or insubstantial, quite the opposite: from the alternative wedding cake made entirely of cheese, which Daniel, the groom (Ben Lewis), describes at length during his gloriously vapid wedding speech, to the onions which Frances, the bride (Lucinka Eisler), smears over her face while watching tele-novellas, the piece is flavoured with an array of tragi-comic images.

Scenes are held together more by association than narrative, but the play is loosely structured around the weeks leading up to Daniel and Frances’ wedding day. Disconcerted by his future spouse’s erratic behaviour, Daniel consults a psychologist (Giulia Innocenti) to find out what is wrong with her. Instead, he ends up revealing his own compulsive nature, as he hands over reams of pie charts and statistics describing her behaviour and past. Simultaneously, we follow Frances’ day to day at work as she tells the hapless intern (also Giulia Innocenti) to photocopy the same document individually 200 times, or steals another woman’s wedding gift on her lunch break.

Ben Lewis pushes Daniel’s dullard persona to the point of pathology; like the graphs by which he seems to live his life, his personality might have been formatted using Windows 95. At the same time, there is something inescapably familiar about the character: “nice but dull” is, by all accounts, the middle-class English male’s refuge of choice from emotional openness and availability. Straight as a poplar and almost quivering under the strain of her own anxieties, Lucinka Eisler’s is an equally fascinating creation: her yearning for melodrama stretches so far as dreaming her husband has been shot at the wedding reception. The third performance is as studied as the other two, but complements them perfectly: Giulia Innocenti knits the scenes together, switching between wise-fool psychologist and shuffling intern as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Together, the three company members present an abundance of invention in perfectly-timed comic sequences, yet their style retains a helter-skelter, homemade aesthetic.

I’ve heard Inspector Sands’ work described as “physical theatre”, but the term, apart from always sounding vacuous to me (is there such a thing as “unphysical theatre”?), sells the company short when it comes to the script. The dialogue lacks for neither pace nor wit, and a couple of the speeches build rivetingly high definition pictures (eat your heart out, Sky); and while the piece delights in non-literal escapades, the “movement-based” mantel is lightly worn.

The company are currently working on a new commission for the 2010 Edinburgh International Festival, which will be one to look out for this summer, but in the mean time we’ll have to make do with mental snapshots of a marriage made in heaven between three very talented performers.