Euripides' Trojan Women
directed by Debbie Challis and Mark Powell
presented by Dionysoc
in association with GTG

5 December, 1996

The Hexagon
Midlands Arts Centre
Cannon Hill Park
Birmingham B12 9QH
England

Reviewed by Sallie Goetsch
School of Theatre Studies
University of Warwick
Coventry CV4 7AL
England
E-mail: tssac@csv.warwick.ac.uk

There was no set to speak of, only a jumble of trash, detritus of war:
crumpled foil, torn photographs, bits of newspaper, empty half-crushed cans.
Hecuba sat slumped in a corner, asleep, nearly under the feet of those in the
front row. And there among the clutter came Poseidon, slumming, in a dinner
jacket, hair slicked back, smoking a cigarette from a holder, as if he had
strayed from a party in The Great Gatsby. When Athene walked down the stairs
from the top level of the auditorium to join him she looked as if she had come
from the same party, out for a breath of air, immaculate and slick in pleated
white. Costume and characterization worked perfectly to provide these gods
with the cruel callousness of those who hold others in contempt for suffering
things from which they are immune. 'It is a shame,' the programme notes, 'that
Women of Troy has so much relevance today.'

In dedicating their production to the women of Somalia, Kurdistan, Vietnam,
Bosnia, and Zaire, the company was obviously interested in highlighting that
relevance, but it was not done heavy-handedly. The clothing of the mortal
characters seemed to come from a more recent age than that of the gods, but
was not anchored to a specific situation. The language of the translation
apparently Vellacott's) did not seem to have been modified or updated. The
Greeks wore vaguely British military fatigues without insignia; the Trojan
women they had enslaved, apart from Hecuba herself, wore pyjama-like POW
suits.

The chorus solved the problem of space by spending much of its time huddling
or cowering, in pairs, as far back into the stage space as they could get.
Like Hecuba, they were smudged with dirt and their clothes were torn, but even
in slavery the distinction between the queen and her people was clear. Claire
Warden's Hecuba was tall, stately, solidly built, and deep- voiced; the six
women who represented all her fellow slaves might have been her children
literally as well as figuratively, for they were all smaller and slimmer, and
moved with jerky hysteria rather than ponderous grief. All had clearly studied
the physiology of acute suffering, and sustained an unbearable level of fear
and pain throughout the entire production.

This proved exhausting for the audience as well as the cast. It is an
unfortunate fact that the highest tones of a female voice grate even on the
ears of women, that we instinctively repsect a deep voice when it is loud and
cringe at a high one. Trojan Women is a relentless play; the audience should
not be able to escape the suffering it presents, or to ignore it. But neither
should the audience find itself sympathizing with the Magistrate in Lysistrata
who blames the wails of women at the Adoneia for the decision to send what
turned out to be a suicide mission to Sicily. There is a kind of cringing and
fluttering and blubbering which really does encourage the most compassionate
of us to kick the complainer, however just the complaints.

Ally Kennan's Cassandra provided a welcome break and presented the wide range
and rapid fluctuation of emotion her character requires quite masterfully. Her
'marriage torch' was a single fizzing sparkler, and not a very lively one. She
wore bridal white and wilting flowers and expressed her madness with a
quizzical, happy enthusiasm very like that of Helena Bonham Carter's Ophelia
in Zefferelli's film of Hamlet. She was convincing without going over the top,
angry and then grieving in her few moments of lucidity. The chorus shied away
from her, horrified. Talthybius was downright violent in his disgust, his
shouting a means to disguise either pity, or, more likely, the fear that
Cassandra's prophecies were true.

I would myself have expected more numbness and shock from the chorus, even a
deadness of tone in some of their speeches, but this was not to be. They never
collapsed into the kind of despair which enabled Hecuba to keep both our
respect and their own. Their height of agony forced Andromache (Gina Durbin)
to an extreme of shrillness in demonstrating that her grief, her loss, was
worse than theirs. Matthew Cooke's Astyanax was far calmer than his mother.
The lumpy body bag with which he was replaced seemed far too small to hold
even shattered remains of a boy that age, a small inconsistency which
nevertheless proved a
distraction.

Helen wore deep green satin, shoulders bare, hair smooth. Jennie Hutchinson
played her as both seductive and predatory. Peter Clark's Menelaus was,
surprisingly, not a weak buffoon, and sounded sincere in his promise to kill
her, especially as he came near strangling her on stage. Her wiles seemed not
to work on him, which is perhaps a problem of interpretation, because we must
be able to see, as Hecuba does, that Menelaus will weaken and Helen will
indeed queen it in Sparta once more. As it is, he drags Helen away in a
fashion little different from the way Talthybius and the soldiers half-carry
the struggling chorus members, one by one, up the stairs and away to their
fates.

This production has, quite rightly, been entered in the 42nd National Student
Drama Festival (2-9 April, 1997). It represents a considerable achievement by
student actors who allow the play to speak for itself without feeling that
Euripides needs assistance in getting his point across.
 

Despite our troubled times, one insists on one's right to go one's own way. So
be it. Iphigeneia at Aulis by Euripides is not light fare and offers few
laughs, so it would not be accurate to describe its unique charms as
entertaining. Enriching, yes. Inspiring, perhaps. Moving, undoubtedly.
Disturbing, perhaps. To my mind, it is timely not because it diverts but
precisely because it does not. This play implicates the audience and asks:
where does one's right of privacy end and one's civic duty begin? How much
sacrifice has the State the right to ask of its citizens? Who gets to decide?

Set in Aulis, the story of Iphigeneia's blood sacrifice, made by her father to
the Gods on his promise to give up his most beautiful possession in exchange
for safe passage to and military victory in Troy. The Gods choose Iphigeneia.

This production has a lot going for it, beginning with the translation by W.S.
Merwin and George E. Dimock, Jr. It is neither filled with contemporary slang
nor elevated by purple prose. It is a simple, clear, non-idiomatic translation
that captures well the original's intent. One is immediately struck by Craig
Siebels' elegant but, again, simple set, which looks like a Japanese Zen
garden. Set at a military camp on the coast, the design consists of a stark
pebble-filled beach, racks of stored oars and the tents of the King and his
entourage.

The set, like the translation, is unpretentious. In fact, this is the key to
the success of this production. There is no high concept intruding on the
tale, no heavy-handed directorial vision, no imposed post-modern take on the
ancient world to muddle and distort the original. There are no TV monitors, no
20th century army fatigues, no jarring juxtapositions. Robert Perry's lighting
design goes a long way toward showing what subtlety means. This is an elegant,
respectful production of a classic Greek tragedy. The text is left to speak
for itself.

A fine cast represents the Pearl Theatre Company. Beginning with Agamemnon
(Dan Daily) and his brother Menelaos (Michael Nichols), there seems to be an
effort to domesticate these royals, which is in keeping with Euripides. Both
are played as troubled, wounded men, not entirely in control of their own
destinies, not entirely too sure of themselves.

The Old Man (Robert Hock) is very effective in his role of royal intermediary.
Mr. Hock must stand with and against his royal betters and pulls it off.
Actually, the entire supporting is unusually strong, including the
two-character Chorus (Celeste Ciulla and Melissa Maxwell). They are
occasionally too light-hearted for the proceedings, but it is possible to
attribute this to youthful zeal. Scott Whitehurst is impressive as the
Messenger, while Albert Jones' Achilles gives a nuanced performance, creating
an air of purposeful yet hesitant resolve.

Clytemnestra (Carol Schultz) must defend her daughter and does so, revealing
with ever-increasing rage her willingness to make her husband sorry for his
misguided ways. Ms Schultz reveals hidden powers. And then there is sweet,
innocent Iphigeneia, played here by Sue Jin Song, an actress of surprising
strengths and assurance. If she were to take her performance one step further,
she would incapacitate her audience.

This play, written over two thousand years ago, might seem a museum piece to
some. For me, however, the robes and sandals and goblets do not speak of the
past but echo the present. How much can a city ask of its citizens?

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