How gobsmackingly audacious, to turn the Greek myth of a woman in love with her stepson into a satire on smug London elites, while retaining its transgressive, tragic power. That’s what Australian director Simon Stone has done in this high-spec, richly-textured chamber extravaganza at the National Theatre.
He’s also restored the magnificent Janet McTeer to the London stage after too many years away. Here she leads a fine ensemble that includes France’s Assaad Bouab and Canadian screen star Mackenzie Davis.
Baoub was an established theatre actor – he appeared in Racine’s Phèdre long before he won over British fans in Call My Agent – while Davis, who was in Station Eleven and Terminator: Dark Fate, makes an impressive debut on the London stage.
They, and just about everyone else in the cast, give thrilling performances as utterly awful, self-absorbed people. Occasionally the show teeters on the brink of absurdity. Still, I’d call it a must-see.
McTeer is Helen, a complacently wealthy shadow environment minister with properties in Holland Park, Suffolk, Biarritz and Corfu. She and her lugubrious Iranian diplomat husband Hugo (Paul Chahidi, superb) are an embarrassment to their needy adult daughter (Davis) and smart-aleck teenage son (Archie Barnes).
Their usual quickfire familial sniping is disrupted by the arrival of Sofiane (Bouab), a Moroccan political exile who was nine when Helen stole away his musician father Ashraf as her lover 32 years before. Since she was also with Ashraf when he died in a car crash, Helen is associated in Sofiane’s mind with sex and death. Uh-oh.
The setup could look heavy handed – Davis’s character is named for another doomed lover, Isolde – but the detail of the personalities and relationships is terrific. Also in the cast, strong performances come from John Macmillan as Isolde’s husband Eric and Akiya Henry as Helen’s fellow MP Omolara.
It’s clear Helen and Hugo tried to be part-time pals or managers to their children rather than parents. The family loves the painstakingly metrosexual Eric more than Isolde does: indeed, they prefer him to her. No one knows how to cook, but there’s always Comte cheese in the fridge and Deliveroo on speed dial.
McTeer’s mesmerisingly Amazonian, power-suited and blow-dried Helen makes you feel the joy of the character’s sexual reawakening as well as its wrongness. Her exchanges with Henry’s Omolara fairly crackle, and the latter is more than a mere foil. Bouab paints Sofiane with great sensitivity, even though he’s emotionally toxic. Stone’s witty dialogue has a savage edge.
It is slickly staged in a slowly rotating glass box from designer Chloe Lamford. This is almost as much of a cliché as onstage rain these days, but it works here to showcase characters who don’t realise or care how they appear to others.
Among the many meticulous environments the box houses, is an upscale restaurant set where everyone starts throwing metaphorical stones. Stone’s attention to the minutiae is notable here: one of the extras in the restaurant, a young boy, can be seen filming the family meltdown on his mobile.
Stone’s retooling of Euripides, Seneca, Racine et al depicts a modern world where selfishness rules everything, not just the sexual arena. The retributive ending – which goes full Greek – jars slightly. But the sheer brio of this adaptation, and the deep conviction of the cast, absolutely carry it off.
