Elektra, and subsequently going completely off the rails

            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.

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.)