Rachel Corrie died for her sins!Bulldozed by Naiveté
Terror advocate dies in accident. Atrocious drama ensues. BY TERRY TEACHOUT
Saturday, October 21, 2006 12:01 a.m. EDT
NEW YORK--Politics makes artists stupid. Take "My Name Is Rachel Corrie," the one-woman play cobbled together from the diaries, emails and miscellaneous scribblings of the 23-year-old left-wing activist who was run over by an Israeli Army bulldozer in 2003 while protesting the demolition of a Palestinian house in the Gaza Strip. Co-written and directed by Alan Rickman, one of England's best actors, "Rachel Corrie" just opened off-Broadway after a successful London run. It's an ill-crafted piece of goopy give-peace-a-chance agitprop--yet it's being performed to cheers and tears before admiring crowds of theater-savvy New Yorkers who, like Mr. Rickman himself, ought to know better.
So why don't they? Because Palestine is the new Cuba, a political cause whose invocation has the effect of instantaneously anesthetizing the upper brain functions of those who believe in it. Take Mr. Rickman, who evidently intended "My Name Is Rachel Corrie" to be a pro-Palestinian equivalent of "The Diary of Anne Frank." Alas, wishful thinking is not the stuff of exciting theater. The script is disjointed to the point of incoherence, the staging crude and blatant, while Megan Dodds's performance as Rachel Corrie is frankly cartoonish.
Part of Ms. Dodds's problem, however, is that the real-life character she is portraying was unattractive in the extreme, albeit pathetically so. Whimsical, humorless and--above all--immature, Corrie burbles on about her feelings ("The salmon talked me into a lifestyle change") without ever troubling to test them against reality. When she finally does so by thrusting herself into the middle of the Israeli-Palestinian blood feud, she sees only what she passionately longs to see: "The vast majority of Palestinians right now, as far as I can tell, are engaging in Gandhian nonviolent resistance."
In an act of unintended self-revelation, "My Name Is Rachel Corrie" ends with a film clip of the 10-year-old Corrie prattling away like a baby robot at her elementary school's Fifth Grade Press Conference on World Hunger: "My dream is to give the poor a chance. . . . My dream can and will come true if we all look into the future and see the light that shines there." She grew older but no wiser, and in the end died a martyr to her own naiveté.
Needless to say, political drama has an impeccable theatrical pedigree. Only last week New York playgoers were treated to the Roundabout Theatre's revival of "Heartbreak House," the 1919 play in which George Bernard Shaw sought to show on stage how the European leisure class plunged that continent into a world war by heedlessly immersing itself in the pursuit of pleasure. But Shaw was a great (if erratic) writer who dramatized his ideas instead of merely asserting them. "My Name Is Rachel Corrie," by contrast, is a scrappy, one-sided monologue consisting of nothing but the fugitive observations of a young woman who, like so many idealists, treated her emotions as facts. "I am disappointed," she declares, "that this is the base reality of our world and that we, in fact, participate in it. This is not at all what I asked for when I came into this world." To mistake such jejune disillusion for profundity and turn it into the climax of a full-length play is an act of piety, not artistry.
The cancellation of last season's New York Theatre Workshop production of "My Name Is Rachel Corrie" triggered a noisy row in the New York theater community, many of whose members jumped to the not-unreasonable conclusion that the producers were cravenly bowing to backstage pressure from donors who found the play's politics obnoxious. As a result, the belated opening of "Rachel Corrie" at the Minetta Lane Theatre has had the predictable result of bringing it far more attention than it would otherwise have received.
That's the only lesson to be drawn from this exercise in theatrical ineptitude. It is by far the worst political play I've covered in this space, not excluding Tim Robbins's "Embedded," and no amount of earnest hand-wringing can make it anything but dull.
Mr. Teachout is The Wall Street Journal's theater critic.