Twopenny Theatre

It’s tricky to adapt a famous work like Oedipus Rex. How closely do you hew to the established contours of the story? How much do you excise and revise? And how much do you add that’s totally new material?

In Oedipus, Robert Icke makes a series of strong choices to update Sophocles’ archetypal tragedy and make it more vivid, arresting, and agonising. Set in the vague present, this Oedipus finds the titular hero (Mark Strong) on election night at the end of a long electoral campaign, impatiently waiting for results in a campaign headquarters periodically being relieved of its furniture. His platform, exposited by a pre-tape press junket, is a mixture of Obama-isms (“change”), nods to the classical text (condemnation of a nebulous national illness), and intentional mixtures of the two (a pledge to combat rumours about his heritage by releasing his birth certificate).

On Hildegard Bechtler’s deceptively simple set, a number of lived-in details draw attention: a cable news feed silently playing election coverage; a timer on stage counting down the seconds until exit polls confirm Oedipus’ triumph. The latter doesn’t feel innocuous – rather, like a ticking time bomb. Oedipus’ mother Merope (a withering June Watson) enters with over an hour and a half left, saying she needs to talk to her son, but he can’t seem to find the time. As chances slip by, how much longer do they have to connect? Check the clock.

As a strategy to invoke tension, the timer does the trick, all the more so because Oedipus never hurries. Instead, Icke devotes large chunks of time into fleshing out the Oedipus clan as a modern, loving, family – which makes the impending tragedy all the more terrifying. In scenes around the dinner table, Antigone’s (Phia Saban) teenage angst, Merope’s disapproving remarks, and Oedipus’ perceptive parenting all feel current and familiar, in a “this could be my house” sort of way. When the children are gone, Oedipus and his wife Jocasta (a magnificent Lesley Manville) share an easygoing chemistry, with more than a hint of spice. They’re in love, and love the family they’ve made. So why, Jocasta asks, does Oedipus have a sudden interest in reexamining old mysteries, including the death of her first husband, Laius?

As in Sophocles’ original play, it’s ambiguous whether Oedipus’ dedication to pursuing the truth is a character flaw or a curse of destiny. Oedipus’ greatest strength, however, is in elevating and expanding the stories of those around Oedipus, particularly Jocasta, to give a clear view of their trauma in light of his idealism. To support her husband’s inquiries, Jocasta recollects – in vivid, excruciating detail – her relationship with the abusive, lecherous Laius, and the cruel fate he forced on her firstborn. The story keeps on going, it keeps getting worse, and in the moment it never feels less than completely real. It’s the worst thing you could imagine – until you find out where her son actually ended up. In a matter of hours, a lifetime’s worth of intimacy is void.

Suffice it to say, this isn’t an evening of light entertainment. It’s a two-hour exercise in the futility of hope – hope that Oedipus will settle for ignorance, or that true love in the present will outweigh the mistakes of the past. For all that, Oedipus succeeds in earning undivided attention like no other show I’ve seen, on the strength of its storytelling, direction, and penetrating performances. (That’s consolation for the fact it has no interval and no readmittance). See this show.

Rating: 5/5

The Best Deal: No current sales, available tickets from £42.50.