My Name is Rachel Corrie (review)

Rachel Corrie, a college student from Washington State, traveled to Palestine with the International Solidarity Movement to make the world—in her own words—a place where "everyone must feel safe." In March 2003, she met a brutal death under an Israeli bulldozer while protecting a Palestinian home targeted by the Israeli Defense Force for professed security reasons. It is shamefully ironic that more UK citizens are familiar with Rachel's story than her fellow Americans as a result of the serialization of her letters and e-mails in The Guardian, writings that form the basis of My Name Is Rachel Corrie. The recent "indefinite postponement" of the US premiere at the New York Theatre Workshop sparked cries of censorship leveled at artistic director James Nicola. One would expect from this uproar a volatile piece of propagandistic political theatre. Instead, the play amounts to a rather innocuous ninety-minute monologue spoken by a fairly benign young woman who tells an unforgettable story. But having made Rachel Corrie's acquaintance through what amounts to a theatrical handshake, one comes away with mixed feelings about the choices she made leading to her tragic end as well as about the production's dramatic strengths.

The setting offers a glimpse of Corrie's two worlds: a harsh cement bunker amidst rubble surrounds a small bedroom area warmly lit by a lamp. The bedroom setting eventually moves to reveal a television monitor and a computer station set within the bunker. The set foregrounds the safety of Rachel's college apartment against the brutality of the Palestine / Israel warfront—yet this dialectical potential does not play out dramatically.

Initially Corrie (Megan Dodds) lies on her bed and speaks to no one in particular in a distinctly flat American accent. The charismatic Dodds fully inhabits the character of Rachel, and though her dialect can at times become monotonously grating, Rachel's words remain the show's centerpiece. The sardonically frank text is laden with surprising and striking images, ranging from horrific descriptions of a dead body that "had a big white hand poised in the air . . . as if . . . throwing a baseball," to descriptions of a boyfriend pronouncing "words like rubber bands stretched and snapping," to anarchic fantasies where presidents wear "metal collars with tight leashes." There are gut-wrenching passages in which Rachel describes her nightmares of being buried alive, eerily prescient of her own violent death. But even with such powerful language and an actress who can clearly command it, dramaturgical problems arise.

Diaries are private territories comprised of letters, thoughts, or scribbles composed to an anonymous audience. As theatre, Rachel's writings remain indecisive in terms of who is being addressed. What is the role of the audience in the world of this play? Why has Rachel chosen them to tell her story? The monologue's focus changes throughout the evening, from internal soliloquy to direct address to dialogue spoken between characters that are not physically present. The result is a performance with no rooted theatrical framework. It is difficult to express dissatisfaction with the writing, as Rachel's journal entries, e-mails, and speeches have been respectfully edited by Alan Rickman and Katherine Viner (who is the features editor of TheGuardian). Simply read before an audience with no theatrical adornment, Rachel's words are moving and effective. But when positioned as theatre, the play's lack of dramatic action becomes evident. Providing a larger backdrop to these words does not necessarily offer the audience any new information, nor is the text enhanced through dramatization.

The staging boils down to how many different places Dodds can sit or stand while speaking Rachel's words. The production thus cheats the audience of seeing this formidable young woman take action. The actions we do see her perform are not complex: "she packs a bag," "she puts on her shoes and socks," "she writes in her journal." Even her death becomes a simple action...