A compelling twist on the myth, where Eurydice’s failed return to life is shaped by memory, love, and the power of words.
Eurydice at Jermyn Street Theatre reimagines the ancient myth from an entirely different perspective. While the original tale of Orpheus is centred on his heroic descent into the underworld to reclaim his lost love, Sarah Ruhl’s adaptation shifts the focus to Eurydice herself. Here, the narrative becomes less about Orpheus’ failed katabasis (descent) and more about Eurydice’s failed anabasis (ascent)—a story of a woman caught between life and death, memory and forgetfulness, surrounded by men who pull her in different directions. Rather than simply being a victim of external forces, Eurydice seems to unconsciously resist her return to the world of the living. In a way, she sabotages her own ascent, turning the story into an existential tragedy than a heroic one.
Orpheus is not the tragic hero. Instead, he comes off as somewhat geeky, his first word in the play simply “Music.” His phrases connected by “and then,” border on the infantile, almost as if he is caught in an endless stream of thought with no destination. This portrayal contrasts with the grand, poetic Orpheus we expect, and while it’s intriguing, it feels more confusing than convincing. Hades, too, is recast. He is a curious hybrid of a sketchy businessman and a whimsical Humpty Dumpty-like figure, perpetually stuck in a semantic loop, repeating the word “interesting” with unnerving frequency. He lacks the gravitas or danger of the mythic Lord of the Underworld. The real emotional weight of the play is carried by Eurydice’s father, brilliantly played by Dickon Tyrrell, a character who is given more depth than any other male figure. His love for his daughter is expressed through quiet, tender moments, as when he constructs a room for her with rope in the underworld—a safe space where she can begin to remember her past. It’s through his letters and his unspoken acts of care that we see a father who defies the rules of death to give his daughter comfort. When he realizes he must let her go once again, his journey into the River Lethe is a sad but beautiful moment.
As an audience, our relationship with this version of death, loss, and love is uncertain. When Eurydice first arrives in the underworld, she tries to speak, but the only sounds that come out are monstrous, incomprehensible. The chorus of stones informs us that she is now speaking the language of the dead, and we are instructed to pretend to understand, or she will be ashamed. This moment brings an unsettling question—are we, as the audience, pretending to understand everything from this point on? Or have we, like Eurydice, crossed into a liminal space where communication breaks down, and understanding becomes subjective?
In Ruhl’s adaptation, the letters perform the only successful journeys in and out of the Underworld. It’s an intriguing shift—while Orpheus’ music fails, it’s the written word that ultimately traverses the divide.
One of the most poignant visual metaphors in the play is the River Lethe, represented on stage by a simple bowl of water. The journey into the underworld, mimicked through slow-motion falls, feels more metaphorical than literal, emphasizing the play’s surreal exploration of memory and death.
Eve Ponsonby delivers a consistently engaging performance as Eurydice. The chemistry between her and Dickson Tyrell adds layers of emotional depth, grounding the more abstract elements of the play in genuine human connection. While the logic behind Eurydice may at times feel elusive, the emotional undercurrents are undeniable—this is a story about the lengths we go to hold onto those we love, even as they slip away.