Adapted from the writings of Rachel Corrie
by Alan Rickman and Katharine Viner
A Theatre Panik Presentation
at the Tarragon Extra Space
May 29-June 22, 2008

    The crux of the matter comes roughly twenty minutes from the end of this 90-minute monologue. It is the real controversy—one that turned the play into a cause celebre, at least among extremists in the Jewish community who cannot countenance any criticism of Israel, especially when it comes to the question of Palestine. However, though the voice in the play is that of an earnest young American girl committed to the idea of justice in an unjust world—which amounts, in her case, to voicing some over-simplifications of politics (such as her view that most Palestinians are rather like Gandhian pacifists)—the facts of this part of the play would seem indisputable. Rachel was killed at the age of 23 in March 2003. She was mowed down ruthlessly by an Israeli bulldozer while she was protesting the tyrannous destruction of Palestinian homes in the Gaza Strip. This sequence is narrated dispassionately on tape by an anonymous British official, and the play ends with a brief film of Rachel Corrie at 10, as she argued for the eradication of poverty and hunger. The final twenty minutes are powerful and touching, but they don’t make a truly satisfying play of what precedes them.

   This is a documentary play—one assembled mainly from Rachel Corrie’s diary, emails, and some of her drawings—and though it has a tragic cast because of the sense it imparts of a young life on the verge of being snuffed out by events outside her control, it fails to show how its young protagonist from Olympia, Washington becomes a blazing humanitarian. The humanitarian side is present in the liberal milieu in which Rachel grows up, but what is missing in large measure is the sort of blaze that a young Vanessa Redgrave would have created with her fervent idealism, passion, and wholehearted commitment. Instead, Rachel is simply a shining-faced innocent, who in Grade 5 wrote “a five-page manifesto on the million things” she wanted to be, “from wandering poet to first woman president.” Bethany Jillard gets Rachel’s loquacity down to the last vibration of excited pubescence, knocking off satiric points with youthful ease, as Rachel makes lists or catalogues of realities from her world, takes stock of figures in her life, travels to Russia, immerses herself in pop culture (Dairy Queen, Pat Benatar, Mountain Dew commercials), or delivers a self-mocking account of an encounter with a boyfriend. She is the very picture of a restless teenager, ambitious but loud. She explains how her moralistic mother gave her the potential to grow and fight her monsters, but the play doesn’t really show this growth or the fire in her belly. It is only when Rachel actually gets to Jerusalem and Palestine that the more radical elements get exercised. Ms. Jillard does well enough with the impassioned passages—but, then, who would not be moved by suffering children, wronged families, and desperate oppression? But the young actress doesn’t have the maturity to make the most of vocal textures or modulations and to lift the piece so that it soars above its generic material.

   Kate Lushington’s production keeps everything gleamingly simple in the décor and staging. Astrid Janson’s design is effectively minimalist: there’s really nothing much more than a mattress, a wall that serves as video screen for Cameron Davis’ excellent images, and metal bars that impart the sense of constriction and oppression, doubling as a concentration camp for Palestinians as well as a metaphorical barrier for Rachel. Bonnie Beecher’s lighting is superb, creating mood, suggesting changes in setting, and mixing dream states with harsh reality. Yet, there is an unmistakable sense of something missing, of the details not adding up enough. The play is moving simply because Rachel dies young, with her heart in the right place, and because of Bethany Jillard’s unvarnished performance. However, there should be a feeling of trauma when Rachel comes face to face with the dark side of human nature, when she falls into disbelief and horror. This production doesn’t quite convey that trauma, but the principal blame should probably be attached to the script that overemphasizes the generically personal at the expense of the political to the extent that the latter seems more like a wedge driven into a story whose very essence is supposed to be idealistic passion for truth, justice, and humanity.

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