Everyone knows that there’s nothing edgier than saying fuck on stage. Repeatedly. And shit. And bitches. Especially when reimagining boring old Greek tragedy as a rebellious rap battle all about girlboss feminism and refugees and blowjobs. So shocking! So subversive! Suck on that, Euripides.
Let’s start with what’s good about Indhu Rubasingham’s debut as artistic director of the National Theatre, a new interpretation of The Bacchae by well-known-actor-first-time-writer Nima Taleghani. The choreography by Kate Prince is sublime, the all-female tribe of Bacchae (that is, the debauched worshipers of the god Dionysus also called Bacchus, not that this is ever explained) overwhelming the vast stage of the Olivier Theatre with break-influenced urban street dance. Robert Jones’s costumes are nice – nomadic quasi-guerrilla festival chic – and the set of giant rotating slabs and arcs of blinding light give it a cool timeless vibe. That’s about it.
Euripides’ masterpiece is a study in the horror of human nature, our proximity to madness and the hubris of pretending we are ever fully in control. Dionysus, son of Zeus and god of theatre, wine and disguises, is taking revenge on his brash and conceited cousin Pentheus, king of Thebes, for refusing to believe in him. First, he lures the women of Thebes, including Pentheus’ own mother, to the mountains to join his orgiastic revellers. Then he convinces Pentheus to dress up as a woman and spy on them. It does not end well for him. By the end, any suggestion that a god of make-believe might be a bit of a soft-touch has been dispelled in bloody carnage. The audience is left in a state of petrified revulsion, forced to confront the beast that lurks within us all.
Only they’re not – not with this production, which has apparently never seen a cringe-inducing rhyme it can resist. Highlights include pairing “youth in Asia” with “euthanasia”, “he’s your cousin” with “are you buzzing”. You know the laugh you get from using the phrase “cunning linguist”? It doesn’t work if you then clarify you mean “cunnilingus” – as Ukweli Roach’s Dionysus, gyrating in golden sequins and channelling his inner Lin-Manuel Miranda, inevitably does. The acting isn’t bad, and there are strong performances from the Bacchae’s leader Clare Perkins and sidekick Melanie-Joyce Bermudez. But nothing can salvage a script that thinks “the motherfucking queen of Thebes” is a punchline and having a character called Clitus is the last word in comedy.
This is to put to one side the major plot changes, by the way, which alter the storyline but don’t seem to have any purpose or message. There’s a second towards the end where it looks like this play might be about to say something interesting, averting the tragic ending we’re anticipating with a moment of genuine tenderness as Pentheus (James McArdle) starts to face down his inner demons. But no, we have to enact the tragedy’s grisly conclusion, if only to get in a few more jokes about oral sex. But maybe it’s all, like, really meta, yeah?
Some might argue that Euripides’ text is subversive enough, a psychological ordeal that shocks through what it reveals to us about faith and sex and ourselves. But if you think that’s a bit passé, there are countless ways to update Greek tragedy, to mess with audience expectations and explore ancient anxieties through a modern lens. This production skirts the challenge entirely. Worse, it seems to think the audience won’t notice as long as the cast say fuck enough. It might be entertaining, but it won’t make you think, and it won’t make you feel.
[See also: Doomers records our AI angst]
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This article appears in the 01 Oct 2025 issue of the New Statesman, Life and Fate
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