An intense and intelligent "Eurydice" at ACT Theatre

"Where is her death now? Ah, will you discover / This theme before your song consumes itself?" asked Rainer Maria Rilke in his poem cycle, "Sonnets to Orpheus."

Playwright Sarah Ruhl poses much the same questions to Orpheus and, by extension, the audience in her captivating play "Eurydice."

Many an artist and composer have been inspired by the ancient story of the musician Orpheus and his trip to the Underworld to rescue his beloved wife, Eurydice, from the snatches of death.

Ruhl's "Eurydice" explores this lingering myth in ways that are humorous as well as serious, revelatory and paradoxical, contemporary and timeless.

The play tells the story from the perspective of the young, doomed bride Eurydice, which is rare enough.

And, under Allison Narver's luminous direction at ACT Theatre, it can best be received as a kind of deeply stirring tone poem — an imagistic, compelling 90 minutes of metaphysical wandering through a perplexing yet profound dream.

If that sounds pompous or very abstract, it is to Ruhl's immense credit that "Eurydice" packs a visceral charge as well as a cerebral one.

Ultimately, like her less-affecting play "The Clean House" (which Narver staged at ACT last season), this newer work is less about dying than about the value of living — and the paradox of loving what is, inescapably, ephemeral.

Played by Trick Danneker and Renata Friedman, two gifted Seattle actors, Orpheus and Eurydice are first introduced as gangly, giddy kids goofing and romancing during a day at the beach.

Soon after, they are marrying. But a distracted Eurydice wanders away from the wedding reception, meets a strange messenger (Paul Morgan Stetler) and suddenly tumbles into an early death.

The play most departs from standard versions of the myth by Ovid and others by conjuring up Eurydice's late father (played with tender gravitas by Mark Chamberlin).

In the Underworld, he still longs for his daughter and her happiness. And his credo to always "love, accept, help" is tested when Eurydice descends (by what eye-popping means, we won't divulge) to join him in a post-death realm that's policed by a Greek chorus of comic stones (embodied, in clownish makeup and dress, by Anne Allgood, Tim Hyland and Tracy Hyland).

Their job is to nag all comers into accepting fate, and into making that final break with aliveness — not so easy, "Eurydice" underscores, if you loved well, and were well-loved.

There are twinges of psychological insight here, particularly in relation to the father-daughter bond and the complex nature of memory and forgetting. But the dialogue can be poetic, the happenings fantastical. And Ruhl seems far more interested in stirring you subliminally than theorizing about the beyond.

Narver and her excellent production team realize the theatrical potential of the play with an ever-shifting visual and sound scape.

Matthew Smucker's set evokes Eurydice's world (above and below) as an empty swimming pool with tiled floor, rusting metal drain and diving board (where some pivotal action occurs). Michael Wellborn's terrific lighting expands and multiplies the spatial possibilities.

And Chris Walker deserves much credit for a sound design that changes moods with the plucking of a long lyre string, some spare and lyrical piano music, a big-band version of "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree" and some very ominous synthesizer.

Danneker is an attractive and ardent Orpheus. But the main figure here is Eurydice. Friedman can be a bit showily intense and loud on occasion. But she's also wonderful to watch, given her expressive face and akimbo limbs. And she can pull us forcefully into Eurydice's dilemma.

One small misfire here is the overbearing tenor of the hectoring Stones. They're just a distraction at times, and their bombast gets monotonic.

Otherwise, "Eurydice" holds the spell it starts casting in its first scene. It is a brave play that asks us to gaze deep into the nature of death, and our own reluctance to accept it. And it is a loving one that leaves us so grateful for life.

Misha Berson: mberson@seattletimes.com