Brie Larson excels in Daniel Fish’s strikingly ritualistic Elektra at the Duke of York’s Theatre
“Let me go mad in my own way”
Now we’re talking! One of the plus points of there being so much Greek tragedy around at the moment is that there’s a plethora of ways in which it is being presented, its essential mutability a key factor in why it continues to endure. Rob Icke took his Oedipus into contemporary politics, Matthew Warchus and Hofesh Shechter are wafting around in contemporary dance mode with theirs and Daniel Fish is embracing an entirely different energy with this radical and ritualistic take on Elektra.
Anne Carson’s new translation of Sophokles’ play becomes even more confrontational here under Fish’s treatment – even before the show starts, as Jeremy Herbert’s spare set design circles on its revolve, a floodlight periodically blinds the audience. And when Brie Larson’s Elektra takes the stage – all cropped hair and Bikini Kill tank top – it is clear that everyone is amping up the revenge as she seizes a microphone and starts to pour out her rage at the death of her father Agamemnon.

It is vivid and raw and complex too as we start to see the layers being built up. The sonic tapestry that is woven here is something else. Every utterance of the word ‘no’ is sung with religious solemnity, every mention of her father is accompanied by the rap of a gavel, every mention of Aegisthus who she blames for his death is accompanied by a spit, something echoed by the figures of the Chorus, whose lines are sung in phenomenal close harmony, adding to the ceremonial atmospherics.
“I cannot not grieve” Elektra cries, but she also can’t quite cede the spotlight, few other characters get to speak and rarely into the microphone she continually clutches. Stockard Channing’s magisterial Clytemnestra talks of what drove her to (allegedly) plot murder, the sacrifice of another daughter Iphigenia and subsequent abandonment by her husband, but Elektra won’t be swayed such a sister is she. Greg Hicks also radiates power as the unrepentant Aegisthus, even if he too is barely entertained.

Patrick Vaill’s Orestes is the exception, as the belated sibling reunion occurs and plotted vengeance takes shape, although something about the ending doesn’t quite hit as hard as one might have imagined. It is quite marvellous that such a belligerent production has made it into the West End, Fish clearly cashing in his credits from Oklahoma!, but you do wonder if the Barbican or the Southbank Centre might have been a more natural home for its artistic flair. In any case,