War and poetry: James McArdle (left) as James II
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Three kings, one country: very timely plays for Scotland

Superbly acted, aggressively and imaginatively directed and providing great variety, these dramas will make thousands of Scots think again about their country.

The James Plays
Edinburgh Festival Theatre, Edinburgh

You know the problem with you lot? You’ve got fuck all except attitude. You scream and shout about how you want things done and how things ought to be done and, when the chance comes, look at you! What are you frightened of? Making things worse? According to you, things couldn’t get worse!

Thus Queen Margaret of Denmark, beautifully played by Sofie Gråbøl, harangues the Scots near the culmination of The James Plays trilogy by Rona Munro – the centrepiece of this year’s Edinburgh International Festival and coming to the National Theatre in London in September.

Ever since the 1980s (and probably before), it has been a persistent complaint that the festival embraces the cultures of everywhere from China to India, Germany and even England but manages to elbow out the host country. It’s an Edinburgh festival, not a Scotland festival. But now, weeks ahead of the independence referendum, the 2014 festival has packed seats, night after night, with dramas about three of the least-known and less successful of Scotland’s medieval kings – James I, James II and James III.

The ambition here is jaw-dropping. The notion that one can get audiences excited about the bloody, murderous and generally futile feuds of the Stewart monarchies while satisfying the hunger for serious art that addresses today’s politics – as well as making a popular success of it – may seem implausible. It is important to note that these are not perfect plays. There are cartoonish moments, which can be grating, and occasional structural weaknesses. But Munro and the National Theatre of Scotland have achieved something close to that impossible dream.

Superbly acted, aggressively and imaginatively directed and providing great variety, these dramas will make thousands of Scots think again about their country. They are also exciting, often funny and easy to watch. (Full disclosure: though I have read all three plays, it was so hard to get tickets that I was able to see only James II: Day of the Innocents and James III: the True Mirror. I couldn’t get into James I: the Key Will Keep the Lock. If the realisation of the script is much better or worse than for the other two, I apologise – though it seems unlikely.)

After the glory years of the independence wars, the story of medieval Scotland is a pretty grim one. A succession of monarchs who weren’t up to it, for different reasons, struggled to hold the authority of the centre against rich, uppity and violent magnates. England, too, suffered from second-rate monarchs but because of the far greater wealth of the English south, the country recovered from its civil wars more quickly, and once its dynasties were established they were infinitely more secure than Scotland’s. The Plantagenets and Tudors sailed south to defeat their enemies. The Scots had only one enemy – on the other side of an open land border – and that enemy was always far more powerful.

James I, played here by James McArdle, was captured by English pirates and spent his adolescence as a captive at the courts of Henry IV and Henry V. His son James II (Andrew Rothney) was blown up by one of his own cannon while besieging the English at Roxburgh Castle in 1460. James III (Jamie Sives), despite constantly trying to form alliances with the English, was drawn into disastrous wars against them and died in a battle with his own rebellious barons.

It would have been, I imagine, relatively easy for Munro to construct from this a straightforwardly nationalistic, anti-English narrative. Instead, she has done something more historically accurate and interesting. These were the years, from 1406 to the end of the 1480s, when, throughout Europe, Renaissance rulers were turning old medieval kingdoms into the beginnings of modern states. The centres got stronger. Urban life grew more sophisticated. Learning became more widely spread. Slowly, haltingly, things got better.

In Scotland, however, the bad luck of having an exiled, captive king, followed by a boy king, aborted the arrival of the early modern world. Aggressive, power-hungry noblemen often had more influence than the crown. Spectacular murders, cycles of betrayal and treachery and a crown unable to raise enough taxes to support itself kept Scotland in the mire.

Out of it all, just as this trilogy ends, we get the greatest of the Scottish Stewarts, James IV, a true Renaissance prince presiding over a cultural and political revival. He created the first proper Scottish fleet, forged new alliances with England and France, put down rebellions, tamed the lord of the isles, introduced the printing press and modern foundries to his country and commissioned spectacular buildings.

It’s a remarkable, self-denying ordinance that Munro didn’t make a play about him. But he came too late: the English problem arose again and virtually the entire ruling class of Scotland was slaughtered at the Battle of Flodden in 1513. In Scottish history, the timing is almost always tragic.

Munro contests none of this but instead of a litany of disasters and bloodshed – Game of Thrones without the laughs – she shows a succession of flawed, fallible men of their time trying to make a fist of it against awful odds. They are not alien creatures – what they want is good wine, music, roses, decent food, sex and security. The first James was a poet who finally defeated his enemies. The second, scarred by a terrible birthmark and hideous early years, overcomes his demons and murders his dangerous best friend, William Douglas (Mark Rowley). Poor behaviour – but necessary if the monarchy is to survive. His is a tragic coming-of-age story. His son James III is wilful, pleasure-fixated and capricious but has the good luck of marrying one of the few heroines in Scottish history, Margaret of Denmark, who rules for much of the time more effectively than her petulant husband can ever do.

In the interlinked human stories of these kings, Munro persistently shows us admirable, feisty, dangerous and inspired women. Joan Beaufort (Stephanie Hyam), who marries James I, is a whirlwind of practical and common-sense activity. Her Scottish serving woman Meg (Sarah Higgins) gets some of the best lines.

Meg: We eat stones in Scotland.

Joan: You do not!

Meg: It’s the truth. Our earth is so poor, we have to suck the stones out of the fields instead of growing corn. We make a sauce of mud. We’ve nothing sweet to eat at all.

In the same play, the Stewarts’ most terrifying enemy isn’t a man but the matriarch of the rebel family, Isabella (Blythe Duff). In the second play, Meg, now the nursemaid of the young James II, is a rare centre of compassion and sanity; later on, his French queen, Mary (also played by Hyam), is braver and funnier than him. Finally there is the extraordinary Margaret of Denmark in the third play. She, not James III, is its real hero.

And so we come back to the question of what these plays are politically. Nationalistic plays would have portrayed Scotland, represented by its kings, as in some way better or more authentic than those elsewhere. These kings seem, on balance, worse in almost every way. A nationalistic drama would have given all the best lines to Scottish heroes. These plays give the best lines to French and English women and a Dane and good lines to Scotland’s enemies. (Jamie Sives as Henry V groans: “Bloody Scots. Every time you turn around, there’s another one in your beard.”) Nationalistic plays are full of grievance and windy promises of a better tomorrow. These aren’t.

What they are, however, is intensely patriotic. You don’t love a country because it’s rich or powerful. You love it because it’s particular and it’s yours. James I explains to his wife why he loves Scotland, with its wind and icy rain and poverty:

. . . [Scotland] will be poorer but all its people will know their worth and know how to fight for it. It will be a tiny part of the world but it will know all the world knows. It will be assaulted but it will never be broken. It will make no quarrel

where it isn’t provoked . . . But it will bend to no other nation on this earth.

That’s not: “We’re better.” Yet it is patriotic enough to please anyone in the Yes campaign. At the end of the trilogy, Margaret berates Scotland’s three estates:

Have you blown your nose and lost your brain? Who would want the job of ruling Scotland? I’m Danish, you ignorant, abusive lump of manure! I come from a rational nation with reasonable people . . . You drive me mad.

But she goes on to explain why she loves Scotland nevertheless:

You showed me that the more frightened you are, the better joke you can tell about it. You taught me you can find friends anywhere you share food and drink if you just wait and see how to join in the conversation . . . The comfort of community is warmer and softer than cold gold could ever be . . .

When I heard that, I felt intensely moved in a patriotic, not nationalistic, way. Waves of emotion pulsed through the overheated Edinburgh Festival Theatre.

I have no idea how this is going to play in London. There should be no overwhelming language problem – this is modern demotic Scots but easy to understand. Audiences that have enjoyed the Hilary Mantel plays will recognise much here, from the use of puppets and dancing to the speed of action, and for anyone who wants to see the world through Scottish eyes, this is an almost perfect place to start. 

Andrew Marr is a broadcaster and journalist. Formerly the BBC’s Political Editor, he presents the Andrew Marr Show on BBC1 on Sundays and Start the Week on Monday mornings on Radio 4.

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Mother of all bloodlusts: Sexual politics and Greek tragedy

New interpreteations of ancient stories show the deep roots of our thinking about sex and gender

During the 1960s Pier Paolo Pasolini made two films based on ancient Greek tragedy, Oedipus Rex and Medea. In the latter, Maria Callas played the heroine with predictably operatic bravura – dark eyes flashing out dark emotions, thrilling voice conveying ferocity and pain. Pasolini’s Oedipus, by contrast, was almost silent (there was dialogue, but very little of it) and unmitigated by consoling theatricality. Distant figures crept across a scrubby desert. Thebes’s mud walls rose, like an organic growth, from the bare ground. The leading actor’s face was thuggish and inexpressive. The soundtrack was dominated by the soughing of the wind. Pasolini used barely a line of Sophocles’s verse, but I remember the film as having a desolate grandeur unmatched by any of the theatrical productions I have seen since. It was nothing like the tragedies acted out by masked performers in 5th-century Athens, but its harsh beauty felt appropriate to the Bronze Age legends on which those tragedies were based.

Those legends are still attracting new interpreters. “The finest tragedies are always on the story of some few families,” wrote Aristotle. He was thinking of the House of Atreus, whose terrible sequence of internecine killings provides the material for Colm Tóibín’s latest novel; of Oedipus’s incest-entangled web of relationships, now unravelled by Natalie Haynes; of Medea, the heroine of David Vann’s Bright Air Black, a sorceress whose royal status, adventurous spirit and unearthly powers have all been eclipsed in the collective memory by her shocking transgression against family values – the slaying of her own children.

Sexual politics has been intrinsic to these tales since the Greek tragedians first explored them: 21st-century gender politics isn’t going beyond, merely keeping pace with, the thinking of the ancients here. ­Aeschylus framed the Oresteia as a conflict between mother-right and father-right and concluded with a judgement from Athena. The motherless goddess, born from her father’s head – woman but also all-man – ordains that humanity must find a way to reconcile the male and female principles. When Robert Icke, in his recent adaptation of the Oresteia, located the origin of the family’s trouble in Agamemnon’s sacrifice of his daughter – the killing of a girl child for the sake of her father’s manly honour – he wasn’t making an anachronistically feminist point: he was faithfully following Euripides.

So there is nothing new about the way modern reinterpretations zoom in on the women. Colm Tóibín gives the husband-killing Clytemnestra a voice; Natalie Haynes does the same for Jocasta, the mother of her son’s children, and for one of her daughters. As for David Vann, he allows Medea to devour him and his readers: to read his book is to be swallowed down into her mad mind.

In House of Names Clytemnestra is the initial narrator. Tóibín has written about many mothers, including, in The Testament of Mary, the mother of Christ. None of them conforms to any sentimental ideal of the maternal. This one is particularly problematic. Clytemnestra was duped into delivering her daughter Iphigenia to a horrible death. She was an adulteress who took a lover while her husband, Agamemnon, was away at war, and subsequently murdered that husband. She killed the enslaved Trojan princess Cassandra out of jealousy. She so signally failed to win the love of her surviving children, Electra and Orestes, that they killed her.

Tóibín, writing in grandly simple, declaratory prose, gives her a raging energy and a bitter intelligence. The unfolding of the story she tells – that he tells through her – will surprise few readers, but he structures it subtly enough to maintain its tension. Clytemnestra speaks at first in flashback, recounting the ghastly tale of Iphigenia’s sacrifice from a much later point in time, while Agamemnon’s and Cassandra’s bodies lie exposed outside the palace walls. The violence is gruesome and Tóibín doesn’t spare us any horror, but the folding of chronology creates a kind of decorous formality.

Clytemnestra’s story is one we know. When Tóibín shifts his attention to her son Orestes the book becomes stranger, its narrative more original and its tone more hallucinatory. None of the canonical texts tells us much of what Orestes was up to in the interim between his father’s murder and his own return, years later, to avenge it. The ancient sources speak of him growing up in a foreign court. Tóibín ignores that tradition and has him marched off instead, along with a column of other boy hostages, and imprisoned in an infernal complex of caves. He escapes with a charismatic older boy, a teenaged guerrilla named Leander. They wander through a landscape of poisoned wells and killer-infested groves as inhospitable as Pasolini’s imagined desert.

The journey makes for a haunting story, largely because Tóibín tells it in spare, resonant prose, from Orestes’s point of view. He is a child and then a bewildered, emotionally stunted adolescent. Filtered through his consciousness, his dangerous exile and even more dangerous return to his mother’s court are at once materially vivid and bafflingly vague. He just doesn’t understand the political and sexual currents eddying around him, and his incomprehension makes them all the more potently alarming.

Tóibín’s other addition to the story is a reimagining of the usually opaque Aegisthus, Clytemnestra’s lover and accomplice. Here he is not just Agamemnon’s rival in love and power: he is his shadow and counter-image, a king of darkness. Confined in a dungeon beneath the palace, he commands a hidden, irregular army. Once released he becomes a sexual predator, roaming the palace corridors by night in search of men or women to suit his appetites. After Electra’s coup d’état Aegisthus’s legs are broken to prevent him from leaving to establish a rival power base. Immobile in his chair, he still dominates the council meetings.

It is probably too simple-minded to ­suppose, just because Tóibín is Irish, that we should read into this a reworking of Ireland’s history of clandestine armies and generation-spanning revenges. Yet the tentative hopefulness of his book’s ending, involving the fading of a grim ghost, a benign forgetting and a baby’s birth, does seem to speak (albeit quietly) of better times.

“Can you name another man who has ever done what you have done?” Thus Tóibín’s Leander to Orestes. A son’s killing of his mother is an unheard-of transgression. Orestes realises that he is being kept at hand by the ruthless new regime as a
potentially useful tool, because he “had proved to them that he was someone who would do anything”. Medea’s crime – a mother’s killing of her sons – is the mirror image of his own, and breaches an equally powerful taboo.

In Tóibín’s Mycenae, a culture defined by its gods is giving way to a secular society. Clytemnestra has stopped praying: “The gods have their own unearthly concerns, unimagined by us. They barely know we are alive.” By the end, her consciousness fading, the only deity she can remember is the inhuman rapist who defiled her mother – Zeus, in the form of a swan. Her daughter Electra laments that as obfuscating superstition dwindles, the world is increasingly exposed to the light of day. That enlightenment, Electra thinks, is a blight. “Soon it will be a world barely worth inhabiting.” The world David Vann’s Medea inhabits is subject to no such diminishing daylight. We are in a dark age.

Rachel Cusk recently updated Euripides to present Medea as a modern wronged wife. Vann does the reverse. He is not interested in drawing parallels with banal, latter-day domestic upsets: he is conjuring up a pre-classical sorceress cloaked in darkness, fornicating on the deck of the Argo amidst the decomposing remains of her dead brother’s body and opening her mouth to show the vile worm that lies where her tongue should be.

His Medea has doubts about the myths that supposedly explain her world. If the sun is her grandfather, how come the human race, which should be only two generations old, is so numerous? But she has no understanding to put in its place. Her eye is innocent, not in the judgemental moral sense but literally. She knows what the golden fleece is – one of the sheepskins used to pan for gold in the rivers of Thrace and left glittering with gold dust – yet she knows almost nothing else. Her wonder at the sea, and the way its water buoys her up, prompts a beautiful passage. Her freedom from guilt verges on the absurd. She is a kind of Martian, travelling to us not from outer space but from the deep past.

Vann’s novel shares with Tóibín’s book an interest in power: how to get and keep it, how legitimacy is trumped by assertiveness. Just as Orestes, returning to Mycenae, is baffled to find that, king’s son though he is, no one sees him as a potential ruler, so Medea and Jason share a naive belief that when they return with the sparkly sheepskin the old king will abdicate the kingdom to them. He doesn’t. The novel’s narrative swings round on the shocking passage in which it dawns on Medea that her betrayals and outrages aren’t to be rewarded with a throne, but have delivered her into slavery.

Vann’s title is borrowed from Robin Robertson’s version of Euripides’s Medea. Vann is indebted to poets, and he grants himself great poetic licence in his handling of syntax. His prose is as hacked and chopped as the corpse of poor King Pelias after Medea has bewitched his daughters into jointing him for a stew. It is as though Medea, barbarian from an immeasurably ancient world, has yet to reach the evolutionary moment when the human mind comprehended that causes had consequences, and sentences have main verbs. Vann writes always from her point of view. The resulting narrative can be wearisome, like spending time with someone too stoned to think connectedly, but it is also vivid, often appalling, sometimes piercingly
sad and frequently striking. This Medea is all sensory perception, no reflection. “The men wet and shining, skin burnt dark. Medea’s skin far whiter, turning red now, painful.” And so it goes on, right down to the final horror. “Hot blood on her hands, Aeson [her little son] jerking against her side.”

If Vann drags the reader with him into chaos and old night, Natalie Haynes seems intent on illuminating and rationalising the cluster of legends about Oedipus and his family. Haynes is an expert populariser. Her story is enriched by archaeological know-how. She gives us a clear account of the layout of the palace at Thebes. She describes markets and dresses, pots and meals. In its physical details, her story is a plausible reconstruction of urban life in a Greek palace-state – complete with obsidian mirrors and wax writing-tablets, dark rooms and sacrificial fires.

She has two narratives, arranged in orderly fashion in alternating chapters. The story of Jocasta’s marriage, widowhood and remarriage to a good-looking young stranger (who turns out to be her own son) is told in the third person, simply and realistically. Ismene, one of her daughter/grand-daughters, narrates the chapters that deal with her experience. She is attacked by an assassin. She looks on as her brothers compete for power in Thebes. She distrusts her uncle Creon. She doesn’t reveal, until the very end, when she is about to be reunited with him, that she knows why her father is a blind wanderer, and why her mother is dead.

The bipartite structure is efficient. The narrative progresses satisfyingly. But Haynes not only demystifies, she demythologises, stripping the story of its ­numinous charge. King Laius is homosexual: he orders a slave to take his place in the marriage-bed and impregnate his young wife (which means that Oedipus’s inadvertent killing of him is not actually a parricide). The sphinx is neither a fabulous monster nor a riddler: it is a predatory tribe. Jocasta kills herself not because she is shamed by the revelation of her incest, but because she has been infected with the plague and doesn’t want to pass it on to her children.

There are horrors certainly, but they are mundane ones. Eteocles’s corpse lies rotting in the sun when Creon denies it burial, but it is ghastly for its smell, and the circling vultures, rather than the offence against ­human dignity and divine decree. Even the characters’ names have been deprived of the resonance two and a half millennia of remembering have given them. Antigone and Ismene become here “Ani” and “Isy” – two ordinary girls in a tricky situation. The book is entertaining, but Pasolini it most certainly is not. Aristotle, who expected these stories to purge their audiences’ minds by overwhelming them with pity and terror, would have been sorely disappointed. 

House of Names 
Colm Tóibín
Viking, 263pp, £14.99

Bright Air Black 
David Vann
William Heinemann, 252pp, £18.99

The Children of Jocasta 
Natalie Haynes
Mantle, 336pp, £16.99

Lucy Hughes-Hallett is the author of “Heroes: Saviours, Traitors and Supermen” (Harper Perennial). Her latest novel, “Peculiar Ground”, is newly published by Fourth Estate

This article first appeared in the 18 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Age of Lies

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