
The week in theatre: Oedipus; Elektra review
These illuminations are not realised in this past week's productions. Still, there are glints. The most radical stroke in the new staging of Oedipus by Hofesh Shechter and Matthew Warchus is the most exhilarating. The wordless chorus is made up of dancers, choreographed by Shechter. They stamp and spring: advancing in a line as if performing a haka; huddled together, swaying, reaching upwards and outwards so that they look like an unclenching fist. They do not outline the plot, nor are they characters, but they are more than simply mood music. They act upon the drama – and where more needed than in Oedipus? – like a bubbling unconscious. They move to Shechter's score, which has at its centre an insistent drum like a heart taking revenge. A rhythm like a train gathering speed runs through the evening.
Seven years ago in The Writer, Ella Hickson proved herself a dramatist who can shrewdly and subtly unpick certainty. Her version of Oedipus has vivid flashes, sometimes with a Stoppardian turn: 'People are always dying. It is their defining feature.' She gives the plot a plausible climate crisis background – those dancers stamp first through dust and then rain – and grants Oedipus's wife-mother, Jocasta, a particular scepticism and strength. Indira Varma is both stately and intimate. She subdues Hickson's excessive casualness, giving idioms – 'not everything is up for grabs' – an ironic roll. She blends with the sculptural quality of Rae Smith's design: a translucent white platform, the steady eye of a setting sun, long depths glimpsed at the back of the stage; majesty made uncertain by Tom Visser's lighting, with its melting blues and violets.
Varma's is the performance of the evening. She is not matched by American actor Rami Malek – he of Bohemian Rhapsody and more ominously Mr Robot. It might be that his rigid face is an imitation of a Greek mask. Perhaps his awkward, angular movements are an attempt not only to suggest Oedipus's bad foot, but to externalise his anguish. It is hard, though, to find any reason for his weird phrasing, with words arbitrarily emphasised and long pauses in the middle of lines leaving verbs and their subjects vainly waving at each other. This is the latest bit of star casting not to work.
The Canadian poet Anne Carson, translator of Elektra at the Duke of York's, has described the play's heroine as a 'vessel of eccentric sound', a woman whose voice, 'a thesaurus of screams', is her sole weapon as she seeks revenge for the death of her father, Agamemnon, at the hands of her mother, Clytemnestra. Marvel superheroine Brie Larson is the main reason for seeing Daniel Fish's all-over-the-place production. Shaven-headed, in a Bikini Kill T-shirt, she snarls into a handheld mic, slides in and out of song, lashes the stage with her anger. She is a cross between Hamlet and the unlistened-to prophet Cassandra.
The other jewel is Carson's translation itself: caustic, forceful, filling the air with memorable images without losing the pulse of action. For Elektra, her mother is 'a punishment cage wrapped round my life'; the death of a character is 'just a crack where the light slipped through'.
Nevertheless, the words are glimmers in a murky evening. This is a sprint of 75 minutes but it trudges. Fish directed a revelatory Oklahoma!, stripping away traditional swagger to create one of the best shows of 2022, but here he does not so much strip back as flay the drama into separate pieces: some are striking, but none of them feed each other. Ted Hearne's impressive music is sung by a silvery-voiced chorus, but the staging is sluggish: seated on a revolve (yes, yes, revenge is a cycle), the women in backless satin gowns might be decorative models on a wedding cake. As Orestes, Patrick Vaill bursts in dressed as a rally driver, capably delivering a gabbled commentary. Stockard Channing (in furs) is a sceptical but stolid Clytemnestra. Jeremy Herbert's design is baffling: a white wall behind the revolve that rises and sinks unpredictably; mics, lighting equipment, and an uncommented-on barrage balloon dangling in one corner. At times, it looks like a rehearsal room. If only this were just a rehearsal.
Star ratings (out of five)
Oedipus ★★★Elektra ★★
Oedipus is at the Old Vic, London, until 29 March
Elektra is at the Duke of York's theatre, London, until 12 April

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Daily Mirror
10-07-2025
- Daily Mirror
The Repair Shop expert emotional as guest breaks down in tears over item
The Repair Shop expert was left speechless as a guest broke down in tears over a precious item Brenton West was left full of emotion on The Repair Shop after a guest brought in a headless SAS statue with an incredible backstory. On Wednesday's (July 9) episode, the show paid tribute to the "favourite fixes" completed by the experts, focusing on World War II items specifically. A man named Ian McPherson walked into The Repair Shop carrying a memento that spoke volumes about extraordinary courage. He handed the SAS statue missing its head - a keepsake his father had received to mark the 50th anniversary of the SAS - to Brenton and Dominic Chinea. Ian shared that he inherited the statue from his father who passed away in 2002, but sadly, the head got knocked off during some home decorating. Delving deeper into his father's history, Ian revealed: "He joined the Army as soon as he could in the second world war. Then he joined the SAS when it was formed. "The special forces, they do a lot of fighting behind enemy lines. In my dad's case, he was over in Greece quite a lot." Ian explained: "He tried to liberate the Greeks and while he was there, he got wounded." In an astonishing twist, Ian recounted how his father was found and rescued by the Greek resistance, reports the Express. "He had three bullets in his leg and they actually cut his leg off on a kitchen table," Ian said. A shocked Brenton replied: "They cut his leg off?" Ian then recounted the life-saving decision made when his father was losing blood at an alarming rate, a story met with Brenton's respectful silence. He further described his father as "very modest", never speaking of the incident. To which Brenton noted: "You find that with true heroes. They don't often talk about it." "Everybody said he was a great guy, which is why this means a lot," Ian shared, becoming emotional: "I'm getting upset." Upon returning to The Repair Shop, Ian was greeted with the restored statue courtesy of Brenton's craftsmanship. Astonished by the work, Ian exclaimed: "Woah." The sight of the statue, now "back to his old self", brought a smile to Ian's face and tears to his eyes, which he dabbed away with a handkerchief. "I don't think I could ask for better," Ian gratefully acknowledged. "You've fair done me proud and my dad too." The Repair Shop will air this evening on BBC One at 9pm and is available to stream over on iPlayer.


Times
25-06-2025
- Times
The historic Italian city packed with culture — and the hottest tickets in town
As dusk falls over Sicily, two siblings embrace. She is convulsed by emotion; she thought he was dead. He holds her as she falls to the floor. It's a moment of intense intimacy and fierce privacy — or was, until the air swells with applause. There are 5,000 people watching them, sitting where, nearly 2,500 years ago, their ancestors might have perched to watch this sibling drama play out in the ancient Greek Theatre of Syracuse, southeastern Sicily's cultural centre. And nearly all of them are clapping. This is a relationship that has transfixed people for two millennia. She is Electra, he is Orestes. Their dad was murdered; they will take revenge on their guilty mum and stepdad, but not before Electra has lamented her fate with Hamlet-style soliloquies. Sophocles wrote Electra in about 420BC. Back then drama was for the people — literally 'hoi polloi' — who piled into theatres across Greece and its growing diaspora to watch tragedies and comedies that tied them to their roots. Today, watching Greek drama is an elite cultural event, says Daniele Pitteri — except for here in Syracuse, where, each year, today's hoi polloi descend on the archaeological park behind the city centre to watch ancient Greek drama in an ancient Greek theatre; one where Plato once saw a show, and for which Aeschylus wrote a tragedy. Pitteri is the superintendent of the Istituto Nazionale del Dramma Antico (INDA), or the National Institute of Classical Drama. It was founded in 1913 by Mario Tommaso Gargallo, a local aristocrat who wanted to stage ancient Greek works in this, the world's oldest theatre outside Greece. At the time it was a bizarre proposition. The theatre hadn't been used in centuries; its former Spanish rulers had used it as a quarry and a milling area. The only tragedies involved the workers and donkeys who laboured here. But Gargallo liked the idea of performing ancient plays in their original location. A century on, INDA's annual summer of Greek drama draws theatre lovers from across the globe. The quality is top-notch — the actors are Italian stage stars, the directors from top national and international theatres — but what makes it special is that link with hoi polloi: theatre for everyone, as it was in Sophocles' day. For my two nights of tragedy, the audience was as Sicilian as an Etna rosso wine. 'Here she is!' my neighbour hissed when Electra first emerged. A café owner reportedly refused to charge the season's other star for coffee with the immortal words: 'In my bar Oedipus drinks for free.' Running from May to July, INDA produces both tragedies and comedies — this year Electra and Oedipus at Colonus (both Sophocles) have been joined by Aristophanes' Lysistrata. It's all in Italian but English scripts are available (swerve the simultaneous translation — it's a discombobulating AI voice), and you should try to sit in the lower tiers. Of course Syracuse is one big cultural performance in itself, but not yet as touristy as Taormina, 75 miles up the coast. By day the theatre is part of the Neapolis Archaeological Park (£12; Time compresses here; the theatre itself is a gumbo of Greek and Roman repairs; Caravaggio visited the classical prisons in 1608. In situ until October, monumental sculptures — think a fallen Icarus — by the 20th-century Polish artist Igor Mitoraj remind us of the fragility of man, exactly as Sophocles did 2,400 years ago. • 17 of the best hotels in Sicily for 2025 You can thank the ancient Corinthians for Syracuse's Greek heritage. In 734BC they colonised the island of Ortigia, hovering just off Sicily's mainland, 60 miles south of Mount Etna. The subsequent influx of cultures — Romans, Arabs, Byzantines, Normans, Spanish, Italians — layered Ortigia as neatly as a Sicilian parmigiana. Syracuse's cathedral was originally a Greek temple, its chapels wedged between Doric columns, its open colonnades filled in by the Byzantines and its façade all frothy baroque. It's a place so heavily holy that not even sitting next to Whoopi Goldberg at Mass once could distract me (£2; Outside in the piazza, stairs lead down to subterranean Greek aqueducts that were rejigged by the fascists into Second World War air-raid shelters (donation requested). There are more Greek tunnels turned shelters (including graffiti showing British and German bombers) below the church of San Filippo Apostolo, which probably replaced Ortigia's synagogue after Sicily's Spanish rulers expelled the Jews in 1492 (£5; @giudeccasotteranea). Down an alley, wallowing 18m underground, is the 6th-century mikveh, or ritual Jewish baths, sculpted from a Greek cistern by a community that had arrived in Syracuse 300 years earlier. There's early Christian history too. St Paul is said to have preached by the frescoed San Giovanni catacombs (£12; while St Lucy is said to have been martyred in AD304 where the church of Santa Lucia al Sepolcro now stands. There are catacombs below (£9; but here it's best to whirl forward 1,300 years to 1608, when an on-the-run Caravaggio sheltered in Syracuse. His bleak, catacomb-set painting The Burial of St Lucy still hangs behind the altar (free; Again, time concertinas as people in jeans and T-shirts stop to pray in front of it, as they have for 417 years. The modern era calls — and not just the shopping mall by the Greek necropolis. Erected between 1966 and 1994, the Santuario della Madonna delle Lacrime is a church that looks like a spaceship. Syracuse's fanciest hotel, the Ortea Palace, is a telegram from 1920, built as the city's behemoth post office in proto-fascist style; today it offers guests calligraphy lessons and dresses its bar with leaves of locally grown papyrus. As for the coastal path around Ortigia, which offers views of Etna on clear days, that's timeless. Ciauru Anticu is my favourite restaurant. Here, the chef Daniele Genovese brings out the best of Sicilian ingredients with his simple dishes, not least a world-class garlic-roasted bream (mains from £16; @ciauruanticuortigiarestaurant). It was Teresa Grande, his maître d', who persuaded me back in March that I could no longer postpone a trip to the theatre; she's gone every year since she was 16. When I returned last month, she brought intel as well as bream. 'People are crying,' she whispered about Oedipus at Colonus. The next night, tears rolled down 5,000 cheeks — including mine — as, offstage, Oedipus died. Later I saw the actor striding into a restaurant for dinner. I would have offered him a coffee, but I knew hoi polloi had that covered. This article contains affiliate links that can earn us revenue Julia Buckley was a guest of the Ortea Palace Hotel, Sicily, Autograph Collection, which has B&B doubles from £256 ( Fly to Catania. The theatre season ends on July 6; one-off music and dance performance on July 17; tickets for 2026 (featuring Sophocles's Antigone, Aeschylus's The Persians and Euripides's Alcestis) go on sale in October (from £21; The north slopes of Etna are fast becoming one of Italy's most exciting wine regions and one of the loveliest vineyards is the family-owned Cottanera. In 2023 the Cambria family turned their own vineyard villa into a 13-room retreat — four rooms in the main villa and nine in the farm buildings next door. Surrounded by vines — bedrooms overlook lines of nerello mascalese grapes — it's a place of heavy peace. Aperitivo hour means glasses of home-brewed flaming Etna rosso and home-cooked food by the chef Paola, while daytimes are for the infinity pool melting into the vines, and tastings at Cottanera HQ, further up the B&B doubles from £179 ( Clifftop Taormina has been blighted by its own beauty in recent years — the town is frighteningly full. That's where Mazzarò comes in. The beach resort town at the foot of Taormina is full of seafront hotels, including this offbeat five-star, sculpted from the cliff itself, which debuted in the 1960s as an Atlantis-themed resort. Rooms have been modernised but some things stay the same: the cave-like corridors, balconies hoisted over the blue and direct access to the twinkling sea. Three minutes' walk away is a cable car whisking you up to B&B doubles from £343 ( Who knew life on a volcano was so delightful? Up here, on Etna's eastern flank, you're between the sea, sparkling in the distance, and the mountain, which rumbles overhead. But you're in your own, 25-hectare Eden here — a biodynamic farm and vineyard with Relais & Châteaux bungalows set discreetly along terraces, sunloungers under olive and fruit trees, and bees buzzing overhead as you slop into your private plunge pool or swim in the main garden pool. Talk about la dolce B&B doubles from £516 ( to Catania


The Guardian
14-05-2025
- The Guardian
Oedipus at Colonus/Electra review – a double shot of Sophocles in Sicily
Concurrent London productions recently presented Oedipus as a modern politician pledging a new start (Mark Strong in the West End) and as a distant detective investigating a climate catastrophe that jeopardises Thebans' future (Rami Malek at the Old Vic). Sophocles' late play Oedipus at Colonus, less commonly known, looks not ahead but backwards. This elegiac tragedy finds the exile reaching the end of his life. The 5,000-strong audience at Syracuse's ancient outdoor theatre hear Giuseppe Sartori's barefoot Oedipus before they see him. His wooden staff strikes the steps as he descends among us, down to the front row and on to a stage populated by trees that thicken the woodland around the theatre. 'It seems this place is sacred,' announces Antigone (Fotinì Peluso) at the wanderer's side. That goes for this Sicilian playing space as well as the drama's setting of Colonus, near Athens. Physically frail, Oedipus is approaching his resting place, yet Sartori strikingly shows us a man who steadily grows stronger not weaker in the face of death. Aside from the dependable Theseus (Massimo Nicolini), the inhabitants of Colonus recoil at his arrival, not just because he traipses across the forbidden ground of the Eumenides. Without even introducing himself, his stain is apparent. One local desperately cleans the dirty footprints this ragged stranger leaves behind him. In the play, Oedipus makes sense of, or rather comes to terms with, a past that is unspeakable – literally so, when he begs not to retread the horrific revelations about his parents. Sartori clutches his cloak around himself, as if covering his modesty, only to reveal a bare chest as the events of the earlier tragedy are unpicked. He discovers that he wields a power in choosing the place of his death and can control the outcome of the battle between his sons. But the play's most affecting conflict is internal, as Oedipus finds peace with himself and the staff is tossed to one side: 'I did what I did unknowingly.' Healing and a sense of purification are at the heart of Canadian Robert Carsen's taut production using Francesco Morosi's emotionally direct translation for this season, where plays are performed in Italian with other languages available to audiences via earpieces. Jugs of water are ritually emptied in the orchestra, the space between stage and audience, by the chorus. Or rather, by one of the choruses. As well as the turbulent pack of white-suited men, a sisterhood in verdant gowns arrive to deliver a speech signalling the radiant beauty of Colonus, their words spoken as if intoxicated by its beauty and their bodies posed to evoke green shoots of renewal. The women, too, are given Sophocles' painful yet moving assessment of the inescapability of suffering and death. Only the decision to lend Oedipus some of their choreography strikes an odd note that weakens the mysterious, secretive quality of his transformative death. Carsen balances the contrasting paces of a play which, with the scheme hatched by Creon (a suavely malevolent Paolo Mazzarelli), momentarily grips like a thriller amid the heavily reflective pronouncements. 'Time sees everything,' runs one. As if to remind us, designer Radu Boruzescu's tall trees, planted on a stage of tiered rows akin to the hillside audience's, observe it all throughout. The resilient forest of Colonus is a stark contrast to Gianni Carluccio's set design for Electra, the second tragedy in the season at Syracuse. Carluccio's stage is sloped rather than stepped; much of the drama plays out on a tilted floor that resembles a building's collapsed exterior. The fall of the house of Atreus. The dust-covered piano and busted bedstead give a sense that Electra still resides in a world before the brutal replacement of Agamemnon with Aegisthus at Clytemnestra's side. The windows, at this angle, become open graves; a plaintive string composition reverberates from within alongside the looped sound of broken glass. The scorched slabs at the back of the set begin to resemble fragments, too, of papyri. Under Roberto Andò's direction, this piercing new translation by Giorgio Ieranò sharpens Electra's affinity with the natural world. Her opening speech ('O pure sunlight') is given at the piano. In the title role, Sonia Bergamasco is as indelible as Sartori's Oedipus – her pain similarly twisting through her gestures (one knee is bandaged and she moves like a wounded animal) while her mind logically processes her father's actions. Dressed in ragged grey, she seems to merge with the floor when she lies still but is otherwise a frenzy of rebellion. A similar heat rises from a hair-flicking, often hissing female chorus in shift dresses. The sight of the urn supposedly containing Orestes' ashes is felt in the gut: she crumples from within, tenderly caressing the object as if it was his body. It's frequently asked why Orestes extends Electra's pain, fussily stage-managing his return, but Roberto Latini gives us a brother who after coolly planning the events is stunned by their reunion, almost unable to fathom it himself, fearful of her reaction. The moment is richly complex. Unlike Brie Larson in the recent London production, Bergamasco succeeds throughout in entwining the anger with grief. She is a sardonic match, too, for Clytemnestra (Anna Bonaiuto) who detonates the lines: 'Being a mother is a frightful thing. For as much as they hate you, there is no way to hate your own children.' This Electra is as physically disgusted as Hamlet is by the mother's 'enseamèd bed'. A sense of contest is inseparable from Sophocles' work, which was regularly entered in Athenian competitions, and one of the play's toughest scenes to conquer is Paedagogus's action-packed fabrication detailing Orestes's death in a chariot race. Danilo Nigrelli steers the speech superbly, only the wind to be heard during each pause, its transfixing effect heightened by a chorus who inch closer towards the teller. You almost believe the lie yourself and reach the edge of your seat as Electra's stasis is succeeded by a swift and ruthless revenge. The Greek theatre's summer programme runs until 6 July in Syracuse, Italy. Chris Wiegand's trip was provided by the National Institute of Ancient Drama.