You can perform impossible feats, be a wise and respected leader, even solve the riddle of the Sphinx – but if you end up shagging your mum, that’s the only thing people will remember.
This delirious reimagining of Sophocles’ tragedy of Oedipus, king of Thebes, is a freaky fever dream, told here from the point of view of the masses slowly dying of dehydration. It plays out like the dimly remembered fragments of a big night out: pounding bass, blinding lights, wild dancing. The ever-present chorus, religious zealots who refuse to abandon their sacred city despite the endless drought, twist and writhe even as the end approaches, dancing their way into the grave, their final neurons firing to a techno beat.
Against this backdrop, Oedipus seems like the only sane one. He’s played here by professional Creepy Lil’ Guy Rami Malek, a man constructed entirely from cheekbones and vowels. He suits this role to a tee, his calm, otherworldly presence a stark contrast to the anger and noise that surrounds him. His Oedipus is a consummate politician, desperate to lead his people out of Thebes to pastures new, his slick speeches to the thirsty masses like recordings of JFK played at half speed.
But the people won’t leave – they just keep dancing and dying and dancing, convinced the gods will save them. Perhaps they should sacrifice some babies? Worth a shot, right? Oedipus decides to consult an oracle, those mad mystics who keep the gods on speed dial. Their wisdom is always vague, he reasons, he’ll just interpret whatever they say as: LEAVE THEBES, IDIOTS. But one assumes one can outsmart the gods at one’s peril.
The voice of the oracle is played to the crowds on a portable cassette player – a lovely, surreal touch – the Stephen Hawking-esque electronic voice skipping and warping as it delivers its message, at first reassuringly cryptic, then disconcertingly specific: this is all Oedipus’ fault.
The set is a thing of minimalist beauty. Indoor scenes take place in almost complete darkness, actors and dancers swaying below spotlights, appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye. When things move outside, the stage is dominated by the vast, overbearing sun – you can feel the oppressive heat.
The tragedies of ancient Greece, with their proud demagogues and fanatical citizens, are having a moment on the London stage; tonight, for instance, we’ll see the opening of another Sophocles play, Elektra, starring Brie Larson. There are certainly shades of contemporary politics to be found within Ella Hickman’s decidedly modern adaptation. Lines such as “the oracle takes people’s worst fears and instead of challenging them, offers a solution” feel almost too on the nose. But the overall message is unclear: in the end – spoilers for a 2,500-year-old play – populism wins, pragmatism is wrong and religious zealotry is vindicated. Opeipus, in thinking himself above the will of the gods, sets in motion a journey that ends in his terrible demise (that the scene in which he blinds himself takes place off-stage feels like a missed opportunity). Perhaps that is the message: all is lost. Start praying.
• Oedipus at the Old Vic is at the old Vic now – book here