Yael Rasooly: Edith and Me

Yael Rasooly’s Edith and Me: Piercing Through the Silence of Sexual Violence with Puppets and Songs

An Essay by Yiwen Wu

A red curtain, one that is not much taller than a rolling clothing rack, stands center stage. On the left side of the stage are six cardboard boxes, sealed with yellow and black caution tape, waiting to be unpacked. Drawing from her own experiences, Yael Rasooly’s Edith and Me transforms a true story of sexual violence into a virtuositic performance. Through her magical manipulation of puppets and masterful singing, Rasooly redefines performance as the power that sustains us in face of difficult times, piercing through the silence of sexual violence. 

In Edith and Me, Rasooly creatively weaves her personal stories into the legendary life of Edith Pilaf, forging a powerful connection between the famous singer/icon and her own autobiographical self through music. At the top of the show, when Rasooly is haunted by the horrifying memories of the past, Edith—in the form of a life-size puppet—shows up to ensure that she is ready for the performance. Edith is seen pulling her puppeteer, Rasooly, out of bed, getting her dressed, and even painting lipstick on her. Later in the performance, Edith continues to be the very force that drives the performance forward, acting as a source of inspiration, both musically and spiritually, that guides Rasooly in her artistic journey through trauma. 

The intimate bonding between Edith and “me” is beautifully demonstrated by the bodily attachment between the puppeteer (Rasooly) and the puppet (Edith). The puppet of Edith is cleverly designed as a lifelike human-arm puppet¹ whose limbs can be directly manipulated by the puppeteer. In order for the puppeteering to work, Edith and Rasooly have to be closely attached to one another, as if they are extensions of each other’s body. The manipulation of the puppet, too, doubles as an act of physical intimacy between the two women. Standing side by side, their hands are often held together. Whenever one speaks, the other one is always looking closely. The two women even share a voice––as Rasooly smoothly transitions between the two characters, quickly adopting different accents and singing styles. Through Rasooly’s flawless execution, Edith comes to life as a wonderfully witty and compassionate companion, empowering a difficult story with humor and solidarity. 

Claudia Orenstein (2024), in her recent monograph on dramaturgy and puppetry, calls our attention to how dramaturgy, the dramatic structure through which the spectators experience the performance, can be built into performing objects. Edith and Me provides a unique example where the same style of puppet accumulates new meanings as the story unfolds. When she learns that her case of sexual assault will not be brought to trial, Rasooly unboxes the cardboard containers onstage, and uses puppets to “tell [her] story here and now.” The puppet of the sexual perpetrator, like that of Edith’s, is manufactured to be manipulated at close distance. However, in this case, the closeness between the puppet and the puppeteer is presented as an unbreakable obstacle, as the perpetrator invades her personal space. In moments of absolute despair and helplessness, Rasooly sings, using her voice—one of the essential forces that gives life to puppets—to regain strength. Later, Rasooly performs an even more compelling staging of the violence. Sitting behind the red curtain, she uses her whole body to puppeteer the encroaching hands of the perpetrator, subverting the power dynamic between the oppressor and the oppressed. It is through her control of the puppets and use of her voice that Rasooly reclaims her story, turning an oppressive experience into a powerful artistic expression. At the end of the performance, with Edith close in her arms, Rasooly invites the audience members to join her in singing Piaf’s iconic “Non, je ne regrette rien,” fully embracing the power of performance in the “here and now.”  

Combining cabaret, immersive theater, and a variety of techniques that conflate the divide between the audience and the performer, Edith and Me provides an open space for collective witnessing, healing, and dialogue. Before the show even begins, as audience members walk into the theater, Rasooly is seen on the stage rehearsing, in front of rather than behind her red curtain. Then, in the very beginning of the performance after being introduced, Rasooly runs to the spotlight, speaks directly to the house, and immediately builds a rapport with the audience members. Quite earnestly Rasooly tells the audience that she “hasn’t chosen the ending,” and asks the audience members to vote between one that will hurt or one that has hope in the end. After hearing the votes, Rasooly wittily tells the audience that they will get a little bit of both. With a cheeky grin on her face, she says “Good luck” to the audience members and then goes behind the red curtain to start the show. Seen in this light, Edith and Me can be also considered as a performance that openly acknowledges its own fictionality, calling our attention to the complexity of real lives that cannot be fully captured. 

At the festival, every performance of Edith and Me ends with a talkback with the artist. At the performance I attended, Rasooly courageously and openly shared the true stories behind the making of this theater piece. In its encounter with the audience, the performance of Edith and Me possesses an expansive power that goes beyond the boundaries of a theatrical stage, building a community of support and solidarity.