Bakkhai

by Euripides in a new version by Anne Carson

seen at the Almeida Theatre on 10 August 2015

This is the second production in the Almeida Greeks season (following 'Oresteia', reviewed in June 2015). It is directed by James Macdonald and designed by Antony McDonald, and features Ben Whishaw, Bertie Carvel and Kevin Harvey with a chorus of ten women (the Bakkhai of the title). Music for the chorus is composed by Orlando Gough.

Unlike 'Oresteia', which was more of an interpretation than a translation, Anne Carson's version of this play follows the original more closely (apart from a few sly anachronisms to emphasise the disorienting effect of Euripides' black humour). The production too reflects a good deal of what is known about the original style of performance. The three actors play all the speaking roles, while the choric odes are sung, and even when the chorus speaks it is usually in unison and the voices often become songlike. The obvious points of departure from 'original practice' (so far as it is known) are that the chorus is performed by women rather than adolescent boys, and that there are no masks. The visual presentation of the speaking characters is, however, prominently stylised.

The speaking parts are allocated as follows:

Ben Whishaw - Dionysos (the god, and his earthly manifestations), Teiresias (a blind prophet) and the second messenger

Bertie Carvel - Pentheus (the new king of Thebes) and Agave (his mother)

Kevin Harvey - Kadmos (the abdicated king of Thebes and father of Agave) and the first messenger

The overall effect is both distancing and compelling. We are witnessing the enactment of a myth, the story of the establishment of the Dionysiac cult in mainland Greece. It is, of course, a myth in which we do not now believe, and yet at the same time it reveals aspects of human character and interaction which are entirely recognisable and important. At the same time, as a piece of theatre, it cunningly investigates and plays with the whole paraphernalia of theatrical performance - disguise, trickery, entertainment, storytelling, education.

The eerie stillness of Dionysos - superbly evoked by Ben Whishaw as an androgynous charmer concealing a terrifying ruthlessness - balanced by the movements and the rhythmic chanting of the Bakkhai have the wonderful effect of forcing us to concentrate very closely on what is being said and what is implied. Whishaw can turn from disarming smiles to authoritative determination in half a breath, and does so whenever it suits, thus constantly wrong-footing our tendency to laugh along with his jokiness.

The danger for Thebes seems slight at first when Kadmos and Tieresias appear, two doddering old men prepared to honour the god by their own lights. Kevin Harvey and Ben Whishaw present two arthritic gents who seem to be ding the right thing, but it is plain that they are only going through the motions and are speaking platitudes. In fact they are hedging their bets, not seeking to be true devotees, and so their gestures will be quite ineffectual. We can hardly be surprised that King Pentheus (the grandson of Kadmos) dismisses them as pathetic.

However, the self-assured Pentheus, prowling the stage and issuing orders to control and incarcerate, is only superficially menacing. His callowness is no match for the subtle threat posed by Dionysos, whome he cannot even recognise. The scenes between them have an electrifying tension, ratcheted as much by the silences as by the dialogue, and when Pentheus falls in with the suggestion that he should disguise himself as a woman to spy on the Theban women in the hills, we sense at once the dangerous fascination the idea has for him. We soon also see the complete failure of judgement this involves when he emerges in a power suit that is the antithesis of an inconspicuous disguise. Bertie Carvel shows both the masculine swagger of the untried youth, and the sexual insecurity beneath it, with complete conviction. It is the more remarkable that in his portrayal of Agave, the only woman to speak independently, he shows us the madness, the grief, and the listless aftermath of a broken woman, just as convincingly.

Dionysos has found the whole of Thebes wanting - the maenad women in the hills as much as the repressed young king; the old grandfather as much as the demented mother - and the punishment is a dark obverse to the ecstasy and joy the god might bring. This production has been criticised elsewhere for being too cool about the bacchic frenzy, as if the intricate choral settings drain away the intense emotional fury being evoked. The director pointed out in a pre-performance talk that the chorus on stage were not the same group as the maddened Theban women in the hills - on the contrary they were true Bakkhai, accepted members of the cult. And though the music is sophisticated, this is as it should be when celebrating the god in whose honour the Greek idea of theatre was invented. The final ode is loud, rhythmic and fierce, and the devastation wrought by the god is complete and utterly grim.