Elektra

Director Daniel Fish, best known for his radical deconstruction of Oklahoma! In 2022, has applied a similarly experimental approach to Elektra at the Duke of York’s Theatre. Prioritising detachment and sonic exploration over theatrical immersion, the result is a highly stylised production that challenges expectations and leaves you with a certain chill.

Making her West End debut, Academy Award winner Brie Larson (Room, Lessons in Chemistry, Captain Marvel) takes on the role of Elektra with a sulking adolescent presence. Sporting a buzz cut, loose jeans, and a Bikini Kill t-shirt, she slouches against the side of the stage, murmuring her grief into a handheld microphone before shouting, punk band style. The murder of her father at the hands of her mother has left her in emotional freefall, and Larson captures this instability through a performance that is tightly controlled, alternating between listless recitation and explosive outbursts.

The production is stripped back in brightly lit monochrome, with a rotating platform that turns for the 75 minutes (no interval) like the cycles of time and the inevitability of fate. The set consists of little more than rehearsal chairs and microphones, evoking the atmosphere of a band practice or an experimental recording session. Costumes by Doey Luthey, suggest both contemporary cool and aristocratic decay; Queen Clytemnestra played by Stockhard Channing is draped in fur, while the chorus of women wear muted gold satin drapes over trainers, fusing opulence with modern-day grit.

Translated by Canadian poet Anne Carson, the language is both fluid and arresting, a superb new translation that withstands the many sound experiments of Fish’s production. The use of microphones, distortions, and volume shifts plays a crucial role in how the text is delivered and received. At times, Elektra’s lines are elongated into screams; at others, they collapse into whispers. The chorus, rather than engaging in traditional choral speaking, sing in close harmonic recitative to original compositions by Ted Hearne, lending an eerie, almost liturgical quality to their presence. The overall effect is a soundscape that heightens the distance between performer and audience, as if the characters are trapped within their own sonic world, unable to break free.

However, this deliberate abstraction comes at a cost. The emotional weight of Elektra’s story—her grief, her desire for justice, her torment—feels muted by the production’s intellectual detachment. Occasionally the actors break free and connect with the audience, Marieme Diouf as Elektra’s sister, Chruysothermis in particular. But for the most part, the actors seem disconnected from their bodies, their voices like separate instruments rather than extensions of their characters. While this aligns with Fish’s conceptual vision, it raises the question of whether Carson’s text, so rich in emotional intensity, might resonate more powerfully in a production that allows for a deeper, more visceral connection to the tragedy. For those seeking a classic Greek tragedy raw in its intensity, this is not the Elektra to see. But there’s no doubt, Fish’s vision offers a stark and unsettling reimagining of one of Sophocles’ great works.

Photo credit: Helen Murray