At just 60 minutes, an hour is a long time for death to be imminent. From the provocative shirt worn by still grieving Elektra (tantruming with deadly venom atop a blasted sound system, a brilliant fanfare for the contemporary setting) to the bleak oneirics that shortly follow, it’s evident that death looms nearby.
For whom, and, more importantly, why (a why that can actually be tangibly felt, not simply retold, explained) we can know only through a centuries-long engagement with the myths of this family.
While a stunning and enjoyable, though dark, production, Jada Alberts’ and Anne-Louise Sarks’ reimagining seems to rest too heavily on its origins, and all the weight and assumed knowledge they bring.
And such it is that we know death is coming, but we don’t really feel it. Nothing changes. We know it is coming and it does; no number of ‘fucks’ seemed capable of causing deviation in this, albeit caustic, plateaued emotional landscape. Despite this, the drip-fed reveal of Linda Cropper’s Klytemnestra is haunting, while Hunter Page-Lochard (Orestes) and Ben Winspear (Aegisthus) feel dangerous in their own ways, and are compelling to watch.
While the production frames this moment in the epic with some impressive technical and dramaturgical ideas that offer originality it feels as if some meat is missing in amongst the blood.
