The
tricky thing about staging Greek drama is that so little of it fits easily into
our modern dramatic conventions, so a production of one of these lionized
classics usually does one of two things: it hammers at the square peg of Greek
tragedy until it fits the round hole of modern staging, or it attempts to
embrace the traditions that the play would have used in its original setting.
Either of these options tends to alienate the audience, and in this translation
across languages, centuries and cultures the play loses much of the emotional
resonances that made the work worth keeping around for some two and a half
millennia.
The
staging of Elektra this summer at the
Stratford Shakespeare Festival falls into neither of these traps, but is
instead a perfectly harmonized blend of classical and modern traditions through
which the production can express its wholly original voice. Although I’ve never
seen anything quite like it, I found it to be one of the most chilling and
moving experiences I’ve ever had with theatre.
It
was obvious even before the lights went down that we were throwing some
dramatic conventions out the window, as the members of the chorus circulated
through the audience, chatting and bringing us all up to speed on the
background points of the play that Sophocles assumed his audience would know.
It was a small but clever element to help us feel invested in the action. From
that point on, the play relied heavily on the women of its chorus, as they
speak both to and for the audience and brilliantly intensify the play’s emotion
through song, movement and body percussion. It was the first time I’ve seen a
chorus that was a true chorus, rather than simply a speaking ensemble. In a
very clever design touch, the women’s costumes were painted with excerpts from
the original Greek text of the play, which delighted my inner classics nerd to
no end.
Yanna
Mackintosh has truly jaw-dropping endurance, as she never flags through this
emotional marathon of a performance but instead seamlessly carries us along
through Elektra’s rollercoaster of despair and exuberance. Ian Lake managed to
be at once heroic and sympathetic as Orestes, which is doubly impressive as my
attention kept getting pulled back to his utterly incomprehensible costume of
tweed shorts, knee socks and a white puffer vest. Laura Condlln made a
memorable character out of what could have been a throw-away role in
Chrysothemis. Graham Abbey also made a strong impression with a short amount of
stage time as Aegisthus, and in one scene takes his character from a slick and
sleazy opportunist to a frightened and beaten doomed man.
I’ve
personally always found Elektra a
difficult play to watch because, frankly, I’m Team Clytemnestra. It seems to me
that if a man cuts your daughter’s throat, hitting that man with an axe is an
entirely proportionate response. I appreciated that the play resisted the
temptation to be a goodies-versus-baddies melodrama, and all the players were
painted in a fairly impartial light. It didn’t make Clytemnestra’s death any easier
for me, but I was pleased that we saw everyone – Clytemnestra, Orestes and
Elektra alike – as all living in moral grey areas.
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| For a given value of "proportionate response." |
After
the play was over, as the audience was filing out, I heard the woman behind me
say to her companion, “Wait, I don’t understand. Why did the boy want to kill
that guy?” and I suddenly but silently went into a rage.
 |
| For a given value of "silently." |
I’m sorry,
what? Were you wearing a blindfold and
earplugs for the entire show? The backstory was explained to you before the
start of the play
and also at multiple
points throughout the play itself, and you still didn’t piece together that
“the boy” wanted to kill “that guy” because “that guy” conspired to murder the
boy’s father? And furthermore, out of what crackerjack box did you get your
fucking high school diploma that you never once heard the story of the House of
Atreus? That last point is harsh, I know – I certainly don’t remember
everything I learned in high school – but after a weekend of eavesdropping on
intermission and post-show conversations (I was with TLC but she ignores me a
lot) I am sick to death of people shelling out the money for these productions
and then not bothering to pay attention. These actors are speaking English –
and look, there isn’t a huge number of places in North America outside of
Stratford where you’re going to hear the texts spoken with such clarity and
specificity. This
isn’t hard, people,
and if you think it is, it’s a wonder you’re sufficiently
compos mentis to get your shoes on in the morning.
 |
| Pictured: The average audience member, APPARENTLY |
Look,
I recognize I’ve got rage issues about the whole thing. I go basically
apoplectic when someone tells me that they “can’t understand” Shakespeare and
it’s “boring.” I once had such strong feelings while defending Hamlet to someone that I actually burst
into tears. I’m not saying I come from a place of calm rationality about this.
And I really don’t want to sound elitist, because I don’t think it’s an elitist
point. Christ, I’ve loved Shakespeare since I was just a kid, and if
seven-year-old Liz could follow this stuff, so can any adult with three brain
cells to rub together. I don’t think you need to be really well-versed in the
material for it to move you. I was listening to an older couple at Much Ado chat before the performance.
The wife said, “What is this play about?” and the husband replied, “Well,
there’s this king and he has a daughter and he wants her to marry his stepson,”
and from there went off into a complex mash-up of Much Ado and Cymbeline
(and the play he described doesn’t exist, but if it did I’d shell out good
money to see it because it sounds rad). Clearly neither of them knew the play
ahead of time, but it was obvious from my continued eavesdropping that they
found the show engaging and delightful.
If
I had any sense of proportion or optimism, I’d find vicarious delight in the
fact that people, even older people, are discovering and falling in love with
these productions and these texts. But I don’t have those things. So I’m left
standing in the queue for the ladies’ room listening to the middle-aged woman behind
me whine “But wait, why doesn’t that guy like the other guy again?” and
fantasizing about going out to the parking lot and closing my fingers in my car
door because that would be less painful than listening to her friend try to
explain it to her a second time. Rage issues: I have ‘em. (Also, go see Elektra if you get the chance because it’s
fucking amazing; the end.)
