Review: OEDIPUS, The Old Vic

It’s difficult to imagine anyone watching Oedipus without having prior knowledge of the story’s brutal twist - especially the case given that a rival production of the same play has just closed in the West End to critical acclaim. The mountain to overcome, now at an even steeper incline, is not just how to rejuvenate a 2000-year-old play for modern audiences, but how to clench it with enough tension to make Oedipus’s inevitable fate sting with as much poison as if we were watching it for the first time?

The Old Vic head honcho Mathew Warchus answers that question by summoning a frenetic whirlwind of theatre and dance alongside choreographer Hofesh Shechter that returns the power back to the people. The Greek chorus, once a vital ingredient of ancient tragedy, often sidelined in contemporary versions, takes on a new mercurial shape in a cabal of gyrating Thebans jittering in a frenzy of ritualistic fervour. Drought has struck Thebes, the chorus look to their beloved leader for answers hands with raised begging for a divine downpour.

But Oedipus is no muscular warrior. Rami Malek’s beguiling casting shades him as an awkward technocrat shrunk by a baggy grey suit, his skeletal frame barley strong enough to hold it up, body bobbling unevenly as if he is a marionette uncannily manipulated by invisible strings dangling from above. Oedipus may be in charge but he’s never in control.

It takes time to acclimatise to his slinky weirdness and syrupy southern drawl. But Oedipus is supposed to be an outsider welcomed in, the tendrils of his otherness bleeding deep into his paranoid psyche. Ella Hickson’s wily adaptation hints at scathing insecurity bubbling beneath his calm demeanour which Malek subtly preys upon in his angular mannerisms. Look closely and you’ll catch the twitchy glances he throws at Jocasta begging for her psychological anchorage.

This is not the most explosive performance from an Oscar winner you’ll ever see on a London stage. Malek’s eerie nuance is bitter to the taste, uneasy on the eye. But intelligently calibrated and diligently executed, especially in a production that relies on tight binds between the moving parts of its ensemble and text.

Hickson’s version is closely knitted to the intricacies of the original but subtly recalibrates emotions away from Oedipus’ orbit. Indira Varma’s Jocasta exudes a cool verve that shatters under potent desperation. Her tormented mourning as a mother almost takes centre stage but Shechter’s chorus channels emotional energy from her too. Their religious paranoia is a world of its own, each throb of limbs accusing, praying, celebrating in a gorgeous flurry of cascading movement and pulsating to a throbbing jungle soundtrack that sweatily clutches your heart. Shechter is a master of controlling chaos to mesmerise in a sweltering trance. Crepuscular light piercing swathes of darkness from above conjures an Old Testament flavour of anxiety; helpless humans are wriggling worms for an unseen deity above to meddle with, doomed to their fates, sentenced by prophecy.

I can understand why some wouldn’t see eye to eye with this Oedipus. The twist is too elongated to gut punch with the force it could deliver and its lack of specificity could frustrate. But invest in Warchus and Shechter’s gnomic bombasticism and you’ll glimpse beyond mere shock value.

Oedipus plays at the Old Vic until 29 March

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