There will surely not be a more powerful production in the UK this year. Robert Icke, who in 2015 created a searing 21st-century Oresteia, now brings to London his version of Oedipus, first seen in Amsterdam and Edinburgh in 2018. It is electric.
Tension speeds the evening: in one of many extraordinary phrases, secrecy is said to be in the air, “like bleach”. I knew full well that our hero will have slept with his mother and killed his father, but found myself not only wishing but almost believing that things might turn out differently. Unforgettable images are sparely planted on Hildegard Bechtler’s cleverly institutional design: a massive stain of blood on a glass panel; teenage children being hurled through swing doors; a stiletto heel advancing towards an eyeball. Yet each twist of the action is subtly disclosed and tethered to a 21st-century reality. Oedipus’s father is killed in a car crash; Oedipus swears to seek out the truth that will destroy him as part of an election campaign; his snippy daughter Antigone wears an Oedipus T-shirt (in the style of Shepard Fairey’s Obama). On display throughout the evening, a digital clock counts down the minutes to the result of the ballot – or a different revelation.
