my etcetera

On Wednesday, we went to see Phèdre, a play originally written in rhymed alexandrine couplets in the seventeenth century by Jean Racine. The production at the National Theatre features Ted Hughes‘s free-verse translation of the French version. But the playwrights are not the stars of the show. Instead, the billing is clearly given to Dame Helen Mirren, whose face is prominently displayed on the bright red poster. Reading the cast list, I noticed that Mirren did not have an understudy, further suggesting that the play could not be performed without her. Finally, at the end of the play, Mirren got her own curtain call. Whether she deserved it was perhaps open to question.

The play is based on Greek mythology and has a complex plot of intrigue and betrayal. Although the story itself is very powerful and engaging, the production unfortunately failed to move me. There were countless dramatic scenes in which the characters deliver supposedly emotionally-charged speeches; however, to me they felt flat and left me underwhelmed. That is not to say the performances were necessarily bad. Mirren herself was fine, although this may have been a slight let-down considering the hype and expectations placed on her performance in the title role, the incestuous Phèdre who lusts after her stepson. The best piece of acting was given by Margaret Tyzack who played Oenone, Phèdre’s manipulative and self-serving nurse. The worst piece was Dominic Cooper’s stiff Hippolytus, a moping bore who spent much of the play posing like a depressed teenager. Because of this, when at the end of the play his tutor Théramène described Hippolytus’s allegedly heroic battle with a horned monster and his subsequent tragic death, it was completely unconvincing.

If I had to summarise my feelings about the play, I would say that I felt distanced throughout: emotionally, intellectually, and dramatically. I have already written about how I was unmoved by the forcedly passionate speeches delivered by the various actors and actresses. It was also hard to engage with the story as much of it is reported by characters instead of being performed. The minimalism of the stage, although well designed and suggestive of ancient Greece, added to this feeling of bareness. At times I felt that I was only watching snippets of a rehearsal.

Perhaps my expectations of the play were too high that it could not meet them. The things we anticipate most often disappoint. Or perhaps it has little to do with my expectations and Phèdre was simply a disappointment.