As long as he loves his mother…

Since I can’t possibly be objective about the production, I have asked Lulu (who said she was going to the Press Night) to be my first Guest Reviewer.

Oedipus is a play that we always find is somehow about us. And I’d always thought, the more stylised the presentation – masks, formal movement, ululation – the easier it is to latch on to the universality. I like my Greek tragedy really, really Greek.

So it is disconcerting at first as, on to a beaten copper domed stage, through a huge bronze door, appears a shirt-clad Ralph Fiennes looking anything but kingly, followed by a down-to-earth chorus of short, middle-aged businessmen in black suits, seating themselves on wooden benches at a refectory table that looks like something from a Maida Vale canalside pub. And what of Clare Higgins’ matronly but undeniably seaside-landlady-like Jocasta, in a too-tight black dress and clippy heels?

But then Fiennes launches, with typical vocal power, into his opening speech…and then one by one the chorus start to speak, then to sing…and the spell begins to be woven, blending the ancient and modern elements so that the eruption on to the stage of Alan Howard’s Teirisias as an Irish dunk, in a crumpled cream linen safari suit, seems to strike just the right note, lending unexpected credibility to his seemingly rambling riddles and even more to the irritable impatience of the questioning king and his anxious listeners.

Ralph Fiennes is a cool, cerebral actor, and I wasn’t expecting to be moved by him, but in his interpretation the intellectual ability and emotional restraint of Oedipus the man is foregrounded, throwing the escalating flashes of anger and despair into relief, and controlling the mounting horror as effectively as any Hollywood thriller. Even Jocasta’s uptight hairdo responds to the unstoppable downward tumult, disintegrating into hanks of fallen curls just ready for Oedipus to clutch in disgust and drag her to her knees as understanding dawns and he sees her in the harsh light of truth.

It’s an uneven production. The low points: being distracted by Jocasta’s shoes coming dangerously close to wide gaps in the flooring. An audience that took 20 minutes to settle down. A misguided attempt by the National Theatre to do a ‘Greek-themed’ evening by playing 1930s rembetika in the foyer beforehand, the bouzouki creating the wrong mood entirely. And a pacey, fluent new translation by Frank McGuinness that had just a few too many colloquialisms not to grate (‘I rule the roost here!’)

And the high spots? A chorus worthy of any Eisteddfod, with a lead singer you could listen to all night. Teirisias gloriously reimagined but still the outsider always, cursed by understanding. A heart-wrenching final scene with the ruined king and his children, little Antigone already fierce and loyal against her own interests, daddy’s little girl no matter what wrongs he’s committed, no matter how terrible he appears with the blood weeping from his pierced and sightless eyes. A perfect stage that looks like the roof of a church and at the same time an antique map of the world, revolving so slowly you hardly notice, in the 90-minute span bringing itself, and the audience, full circle, beginning and ending with itself, with ourselves.