By
John Jeffay
1 min read
In a moment of madness, Agave tears her son's head from his body and parades it as a trophy.
Mere mortals are playthings of the gods in Greek tragedy, and Agave (Eve Polycarpou) is no exception. Standing centre-stage, her clothes smeared with the blood of her son Pentheus, the King of Thebes, she boasts: "See what a woman can do".
But she is deluded. She believes she has killed a lion as part of an ecstatic ritual with the Bacchae - cult followers of the new god on the block, Dionysus. Then, she realises what she has done and her celebration turns to sobbing.
Suspend your disbelief, push past the gore factor and engage with the characters in a tale that is over 2,400 years old - the play premiered in 405BCE - yet remains as compelling as ever.
The Royal Exchange is experienced when it comes to reviving classics, having successfully staged Marlowe's Dr Faustus earlier this year. This production, directed by Braham Murray, is billed as a cross between Hair and Titus Andronicus, and certainly fresh life has been breathed into Euiripides's tale of mortals versus deities, newly translated and adapted by Mike Poulton.
The god Dionysus - known in Roman literature as Bacchus - specialises in wine, women, fruitfulness and ritual madness. He was conceived illegitimately in a union between Zeus, the father of gods and men, and his mother Semele.
His cousin, King Pentheus, rejects his divinity, refuses to worship him and has him arrested instead. But chains cannot hold the vengeful Dionysus. He breaks free, drives the ladies of Thebes into an all-women orgy of hunting and dancing, then tempts the unbelieving Pentheus into watching the spectacle - as long as he agrees to wear a frock.
It is a complex and serious play. The opening soliloquy, a good 10 minutes long, sets the tone for what comes after - lengthy monologues interspersed with wild dancing.
But it is truly breathtaking. Jotham Annan is captivating as Dionysus, strutting the stage but strangely androgynous at the same time.
Pentheus (Sam Alexander) plays the doomed and doubting king with modern-day sarcasm. He ridicules the new god at first, but cannot ultimately resist his charms, and delivers his comic lines as though they were written in contemporary English, not ancient Greek.
There are many outstanding moments. But the Bacchae themselves, the adoring women who writhe, wail, and shriek in their sinister worship of the new god (choreographed by Mark Bruce and scored by Akintayo Akinbode) are not among them. And at 105 minutes with no break, there were moments that dragged.
Does it move us as it would an audience 2,400 years ago? Clearly not. Are we still mesmerised by Dionysus, and appalled by Agave? Without question.
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