The myth of Orpheus and Eurydice has long been a source of inspiration and re-interpretation by artists. You might know it – it’s the story of a man who journeys to the underworld to retrieve his dead bride and makes a deal with Hades to save her, provided he never looks back to see if she is following him to the land of the living. It’s been turned into art by Titian and Rodin; immortalised in song by Arcade Fire; and brought to the stage by George Balanchine, Tennessee Williams, and in new musicals by Ryan Scott Oliver and Anais Mitchell.
But this take is by Sarah Ruhl, an American playwright who places women at the centre of her worlds. Eurydice – a gentle comedy with a hint of pathos – spends most of its time in the Underworld, where Eurydice reckons with life (or, rather, death) in this new landscape, set apart from the journeying and despair of her husband. In Hades, Orpheus is not her concern.
Eurydice, played here by the charming Ebony Vagulans, has lost her memories and her language, as all dead people do. But her father (Jamie Oxenbould) remembers all, and as he teaches Ebony about family (“your tree”) and reminds her of love (like sitting naked in the shade), she finds herself again.
Three stones (Alex Malone, Ariadne Sgouros and Megan Wilding) are our guide to the Underworld, a chorus of rules and performed with tongue planted firmly in cheek. They mock human ways with little puppets, re-enacting scenes just gone with a mix of mime and something akin to simlish. The stones are played by three talented women – Sgouros’ disdain, Wilding’s comic timing and Malone’s singing voice are highlights – but the tone of their scenes and their presence is so disconnected from the heartfelt, buzzy scenes with Eurydice, her father and Orpheus (Lincoln Vickery) that it all feels like a jumble. Not even a gay-villain-esque Hades (Nicholas Papademtriou) can help bridge the two worlds.
Claudia Barrie, a director whose work in Sydney’s independent theatre scene is much respected, operates here first and foremost for her actors: she’s taken great care in crafting space and room for them to explore their characters. However, it does feel like a case of not killing your darlings – there’s a post-curtain dance megamix that feels misjudged and poorly-integrated, and the many stylistic choices onstage often seem at odds with each other. Isabel Hudson’s all-timber set suggests an earthiness that’s unexpected for a play set mostly in the Underworld, but Ben Brockman’s lights bring necessary nuance to the action. Ruhl’s play is light, and Barrie’s production seems torn between giving it more dramatic weight and letting it float away, out of their grasp. It’s not harmonious.
Eurydice enters the Underworld through an elevator; inside the elevator, it is raining. This image is arresting and bigger than the sum of its parts: it’s a moment of transcendence that suggests the off-kilter, unknowable land of the dead. It’s the play’s strongest and most successful image. If only that strange dreamy mist could have settled over the whole of the production and given it much-needed consistency.