Sarah Ruhl

My copy of 100 Essays is bristling with little pink post-it slips, always a sign of engagement. All the essays concern aspects of being a playwright (including being a playwright with children). From having children and dogs on stage to wondering what Chekhov meant, exactly, by 'lightness' on stage, not a lack of seriousness 'but to temper reality with strangeness, to temper the intellect with emotion'. Bring on the humble. Every essay, all of them short, takes on something Ruhl has noticed show more happening, or not happening. So she ponders if the new theatrical notion of having ceilings on stage is in imitation of the 'interiority' of a film. Stages first were outside, under the sky -- and anyway, a play is not cinema, so why? She is leery of formulaic work, of plays as a form of business (like movies). She writes about community theater which, in some ways, preserves the innocence of 'real' theater, even while sometimes being awful, of staging storms on stage reminding everyone that nothing is, actually, under control. Even on a stage. Some essays take on profound matters, others are more observations and quite funny. These are musings and opinions, which she knows very well are just her own opinions not necessarily truth. A wonderful read. ***** show less

Not a simple memoir--this happened and this and this and this-- Ruhl involves us in her process of making sense of the Bell's palsy she developed and what it means to not be able to fully express joy or to feel you must withdraw your real self from the gaze of others. In her journey to identifying what has happened to her body, she discovers she had celiac disease and more importantly, that it can be genetic and affect other aspects of physical wellbeing (one of her children tested positive, show more after this discovery, and her father's early death was likely related also). She quotes from a wide variety of sources, a reflection of the reading she did while trying to find how to live with an imperfect body. She is honest and open about her thoughts, fears, and journey via Buddhism, acupuncture,dreams and therapy. She reflects on the larger social relevance of how we see ourselves. She shares stories about her family: her husband and 3 children, her mother, and her (deceased) father. She is intelligent and is able to share some of the medical resources she used in terms that the average reader can understand. It is obvious that Ruhl is a professional writer, crafting the arc of her narrative to draw relationships between events. She shares insights that any reader can relate to.
e.g. She mentions Tatyana Fazlalizadeh's mural "Stop Telling Women to Smile" and extends that to a realization that men who say that to women feel entitled to tell them what to feel, that they have authority over her inner experiences. Then goes on to mention Joe Scarborough telling Hillary Clinton to smile after winning a primary, gymnast Simone Biles being told by a white judge to smile more during competitions, and ends by quoting Daaimah Mubashshir's play 'The Immeasurable Want of Light'.
Includes a list of resources for 1)cholestasis during pregnancy, 2)celiac disease, 3)postpartum depression, and 4)Lyme's Disease; followed by a lengthy list of sources for all her quotes. show less

Sarah Ruhl is a fascinating author...fascinating in that she superficially looks like a cross between Pinter and Beckett. Fascinating in that her work appears quite profound and important. Fascinating in that close inspection actually reveals that her work has only a superficial appearance of meaning and importance, and that in fact, it is quite pretentious. And she appears to hate professional women (which is supported by some of the things she has said in interviews). And then, just when show more you think all is hopeless, she gives you a marvelous work, tucked in at the end of the book to ensure leaving a good feeling, in the form of Eurydice. Talking stones, rooms of string, and raining elevators are just a few of the things you will find in the final play, the one gem in a book of plays that want to be able to live up to that work. In short, skip the book, get an acting edition of Eurydice, and devote an hour to reading that. Leave the rest on the shelf - especially Clean House, in which she stereotypes every character and leaves you feeling like your own house needs to be cleaned, so you can throw out all your Sarah Ruhl books. show less

Originally posted on my blog


Let me tell you something about the Midwest. The Midwest is hardcore. You grow up there, like I did, you end up either hardcore normal or hardcore weird.


So when I read the recent New Yorker piece about Sarah Ruhl, who falls into the latter category, I actually put down the magazine halfway through the piece to run to the bookstore to buy a collection of her plays -- the last copy on the shelf. I was drawn to the gentle absurdism described in the article -- show more wackiness to amuse, instruct, make a point. Absurdism you can relate to.


The collection did not disappoint. In The Clean House, others clean house while the maid tries to think of the perfect joke. In Late: A Cowboy song, a man, a woman and a manly woman move at a horse's pace to a few important realizations. In Melancholy Play, which I think is my favorite so far, melancholy is sexy and tears are meant to be saved. I haven't read Eurydice yet -- I may wait until after seeing it produced by ACT Theatre in Seattle later this year.


Ruhl's first intent was to be a poet, and this comes through in her plays as well. There is a musicality about the dialogue, a lilt. The stage directions are like little presents stashed throughout the play, sweet, suggestive: "It would be nice if the actress playing Red could play the guitar." "Virginia has a deep impulse to order the universe." "An intermission, or not. Preferably not."


In the New Yorker piece, Ruhl talks about the importance of lightness, yeah. Her plays are often described as comedies, and there is a comedic element to each one, but they are too earnest to be dismissed as whimsical jokes. When someone turns into an almond, there is a reason. show less