“Bacchae” National Theatre Olivier

Running at 110 minutes, this adaptation doesn’t have the original’s inexorable ratcheting-up of tensions leading to a horrific apotheosis; which is tricky to bring off at the best of times. Those elements are there, but Taleghani is more intent on exploring individuals within the Bacchic group, tensions between them; and uniquely, a split.

There’s much stripped away, as in most adaptations. Which tend to exclude grandfather Cadmus, here morphed into the younger Bubull. Tiresius’ role is pared back, but survives. The comedic diffuses the brutal, both characters and language. Lucy Kirkwood’s admonition about male playwrights appropriating women characters made believable by women extends to language too. The lariat repetition of “bitches” might be Bacchae-bonding; but even in this sweary retelling, more questionable than exuberantly queer.

There’s brilliantly strained puns too. For instance on ”this Artful Dodger” coming to “this Oliver”. But again, it’s striking how much of the original spirit and story-telling is smuggled in, in vivid, demotic verse. It’s exactly the right vehicle.

The opening’s deliciously guyed as the striking image of a white blooded horse and rushing guards is replaced by Clare Perkins’ Vida, with those opening words. Vida’s more or less your MC for the night. Perkins is both den-mother (Ann Jellicoe’s 1958 The Sport of My Mad Mother comes to mind, surely ripe for revival) and moderator. Despite Perkins’ clarion volubility, Vida isn’t the extremist here, as Perkins whips and slashes her rhymes, reasons and rationality at the now unstable group. That tension is realised by Small’s just-abducted Agave, who’s channelled all the force of a convert, way over Pattie Hearst’s Stockholm Syndrome. Agave morphs from aristocratic into the most bloody-minded of all Bacchae, pressured by Anna Russell-Martin’s Kera: unrelenting agent of vengeance. Though there’s nuance: even Kera regrets it’s so easy: “I didn’t think you’d be so impressionable.”

Taleghani’s good at identifying each member, and their stories. Ellie McKay’s sensual hippy Nava, all peace and reconciliation drops to the honorary male Bacchae ex-soldier Bubull, to whom she’s attracted (Reuben Johnson) that since she escaped her brother’s organising her stoning to death, she “learned to appreciate the fuck outa life.” And Bubull proves the joy when men are liberated by women.

Here the Bacchae take centre-stage, Pentheus thrust into counterpoint at best. McArdle’s active and subverted Pentheus is subtly undermined by Dionysos (Ukweli Roach). Only Simon Startin’s stentorian Tireseus, just as ignored as he was by Oedipus (“that weird play” Vida remarks) as he is by the Bacchae. And has the last laugh warning of falling pines.  Taleghani marks the transition from the opening where a couple of guards (Sam Jenkins Shaw, Roman Asde) can rush about without losing their heads; and the fate of messenger Leon (Tyreke Leslie).

The original’s god draws out Pentheus to condemn himself. This god emphasises his kinship, though doesn’t reveal himself as the coz he keeps calling Pentheus. The tensions as he tries persuading Pentheus to accept things is skilfully drawn out. Pentheus dons a diaphanous dress and Robert Jones’s set drops surprises in the guise of a large branch to haul up Pentheus; and later a bright lighted pole for Dionysos.  

Indeed Robert Jones’ set conjures the swept Greek without cluttering with any modernity. There’s appropriately stark use of the revolve with a lasagne of rectangular triple layers in charcoals flecked with bottle-green, and timeless robes and transparent drapes, bar the occasional dictator uniform. Kate Price’s choreography swirls the ensemble about and keeps them individuated to DJ Walde’s pulsing music. Lit with some haunting set-pieces (like the suspended horse opening) by Oliver Fenwick, it’s good not to be overwhelmed by sheer sonics, as Ben and Max Ringham keep the sound envelope relatively crisp. Kate Waters has set up some interesting shadow-fighting, with minimal body-contact, invoking a sacramental bout. It synchs with the exuberant dance-elements and swirling light-on-its-feet production.