Elektra, Duke of York’s Theatre, London, February 2025: Punked Out

The Greeks are back.  There are currently two Greek tragedies playing in the West End: Oedipus at The Old Vic and Elektra at the Duke of York’s. Earlier in 2025, another production of Oedipus, starring Mark Strong and Lesley Manville, closed, while in 2023, @SohoPlace staged Medea, with Sophie Okonedo in the title role.

London theatre programming often feels cyclical, and at present, directors and theatres seem to be turning their gaze towards Greek tragedies. What’s driving this wave of classical Greek theatre? Perhaps directors and actors are seeking new classical challenges beyond Shakespeare. Or maybe this programming reflects a response to the despair many are feeling as our world is consumed by natural disasters, war, mass killings, and relentless inhumanity. The Greeks looked to the gods for answers to such suffering — perhaps now we are looking to them to make sense of the chaos we have created.

Greece is the birthplace of Western drama. In 6th-century BCE Athens, theatre first freed itself from ancient ritual with the development of the dithyramb — a 50-strong chorus who chanted a form of choral song at festivals in honour of Dionysus, the god of wine, fruitfulness and vegetation. The actor and playwright Thespis is credited with creating drama when he added a single actor alongside the dithyramb. Wearing different masks to portray various characters, the actor enabled dialogue to take place between him and the chorus, marking the birth of theatrical performance.

Aeschylus reduced the chorus from 50 to 12 and introduced a second actor. Sophocles later increased the chorus to 15 and added a third actor, expanding the number of characters that could be portrayed. The practice of doubling — actors taking on multiple roles — allowed for even greater versatility in storytelling.

Another important element of classic Greek theatre was its visual spectacle. Movement — particularly dance — played a key role. This aspect is often overlooked today, as only the words have survived.

Greek theatre sets were designed vertically to represent the cosmos: the gods resided above, the underworld or place of exile was below, and the earth — depicted as a flat circle — was represented by the circular orchestra where the chorus performed.

One of my favourite mental pastimes upon entering a theatre is observing a set and asking myself: What is it saying? What clues does it offer about what is to come? Entering the Duke of York’s Theatre, where Daniel Fish’s production of Elektrais currently playing, you are met with a sparse stage: a semi-circular scrim upstage, a slowly rotating revolve with a light fixture that periodically shines on the audience, a speaker suspended just above the stage, a small metal staircase stage left, and a few dangling microphones, among other objects. With so few elements, it’s clear that each has been chosen for maximum impact, signalling that Fish is placing the language front and centre. The production tries hard not to look like a typical West End show; instead it seems to be striving to be more evocative of something one might encounter at New York’s, LaMaMa Theatre or St. Ann’s Warehouse in Brooklyn.

Fish brings a stripped-back aesthetic to his work — perhaps years of working Off- and Off-Off Broadway have shaped his less-is-more approach. He is very much a New York director; his output carrying a swagger reminiscent of the city —specifically downtown New York — edgy, intellectual, and somewhat uncompromising.

The concept here is to set Elektra in a punk milieu — a compelling idea. The production suggests a setting akin to CBGB, the iconic New York downtown bastion of rock ‘n’ roll and the birthplace of punk. Jeremy Herbert’s set design and Doey Lüthi’s costumes — which, at moments cleverly nod to ancient Greece without ever veering into frat-boy toga party territory — contribute to the aesthetic. The overall look and feel of the production, however, comes across as a sanitised, moneyed version of the real thing — about as punk as The Great British Bake Off.

I first encountered Fish’s work when his revelatory production of Oklahoma! arrived at the Young Vic in 2022 after its Broadway run. Oklahoma! was easily the best thing I saw that year — it defied all of my expectations and made me see a piece I know well in a completely new way.

I was eager to see what Fish would do next. When Elektra was announced, I was intrigued, but not excited.

I have great admiration for Greek drama, but I find the seven surviving plays more interesting for their historical significance and place in the canon than being entertaining or satisfying dramatically. My general view is that they should be studied and read but rarely staged. It is difficult for modern directors to find ways into the plays that unlock them for contemporary audiences, lifting them beyond a purely scholarly exercise. The plays are full of intense human emotions and big existential questions — questions that have remained with us more than 2,000 years later. Arguably, what has changed is how we, for the most part, grapple with them, both internally and outwardly.

The Greek dramatists portrayed humanity in relatively simplistic terms. The emotions they depict are somewhat blunt — my mother killed my father, so I want to destroy my mother; my husband left me, so I kill his children to punish him. In production, the characters can seem lacking in subtlety or complexity, and it can feel as though they reiterate their emotional state over and over, with little inner struggle or evolution. It is not a question of what they will do, but how long before they do it.

The plays were written to both educate the public on moral and ethical questions and entertain. Attendance was mandatory for free adult males, as it was considered a civic duty.  Citizens were even paid a full day’s wage to attend, and initially, tickets were free. Taking these factors into consideration helps explain the two-dimensionality of the work. There is little dramatic tension. The acts themselves are dramatic and complex, but the storytelling rarely is. Drama has evolved; simply presenting a dramatic narrative or intriguing inciting incident is not enough to engage a modern audience or make us care.

I have yet to experience a fully successful production of one of the plays as written. For me, their ultimate value lies in how they established the template upon which the art has evolved.

Sophocles’ Electra, as directed by Fish, becomes Elektra – a brief seventy-five-minute study played without an interval. The esteemed Canadian poet and professor Anne Carson is its translator. Carson’s professional background is evident — the text resembles an oratorio more than a play. A red pen has been taken to the original; characters and subplots have been omitted. Carson and Fish have flattened the story. This pared-back approach keeps the drama taut and focused, but it also diminishes it. This streamlined approach can cause confusion, as the narrative at times feels both languid and rushed. It can also take a while to grasp who is who and how the characters are connected.

Electra is believed to be one of Sophocles’ later plays, and he put a great deal into it. Like his contemporaries, he crafted complex and challenging plots. The challenge for actors is finding a varied emotional arc; for the director, it is to craft a concept and execution that bring the work to life while avoiding tedium. With Elektra, Fish leans into this challenge by seemingly being unaware of it or ignoring it altogether. Even with its brisk running time, I found myself, on more than one occasion, closing my eyes and catching up on some sleep.

Larson is a confident stage performer; she appears at home on the stage and commands it naturally. I’m unsure whether she has a voice suited to the theatre, as in this production, much of her dialogue is delivered via a microphone and—at—times—through a vocoder, unintentionally evoking Cher’s global hit Believe.

Larson’s Elektra has the petulance of a privileged, moody teenager — her myopic focus on her emotions leaves little room for anything else. This is not her fault; it is written into the translation. Carson and Fish could have taken greater liberties with the source material, fleshing out the characters to create more nuance and a deeper inner conflict.

I admire Fish’s talent and the commitment he has for the type of theatre he wishes to create.  There is a certain bravery at play here — perhaps even recklessness — but there is also purpose, thought, and belief in the mission and vision, flawed though it may be.

In addition to Larson, the production gains an additional jolt of star power from the casting of Stockard Channing as Clytemnestra, Elektra’s murderous but wholly rational mother.

Channing is a seasoned performer in all areas of the profession; her mere presence lends the project a certain gravitas. Her Clytemnestra is still a beauty: the heavy eye makeup gives her the look of Elizabeth Taylor in a New Romantic phase. This Clytemnestra is more than just a mother to adult children — we believe she has a passionate and active sex life with her new husband, Aegisthus, the cousin of her murdered husband, Agamemnon. The contrast with the seemingly chaste, grief-consumed Elektra is striking.

The production would benefit from more stage time between Clytemnestra and Elektra. Carson’s translation is economical, and this crucial relationship seems underdeveloped, which further distances us from the human stakes at play.

For all of Daniel Fish’s talent and intellectual rigour, this production feels more like an intellectual exercise than an engaging theatrical experience. I cannot imagine many leaving The Duke of York’s feeling either entertained or satisfied. Those qualities can be found in any well-executed production, regardless of genre — The Cherry Orchard or Noises Off.

Great theatre requires balance. Ideas, concepts, and thought are vital, but they are most effective when the execution is layered, allowing them to resonates on multiple levels and making us care about what we are witnessing.

These Seven sisters move and speak as one. Immaculately rehearsed yet retaining a sense of presence and spontaneity. They share a collective mind but are never less than strikingly individual. At times, they serve as Elektra’s backing singers, higher consciousness, would-be protectors, and confidants. Their trust in one another is palpable; they rely on each other completely, and together, they create something close to magical. This is the most exciting and effective use of a Greek chorus I have ever experienced, demonstrating just how stunning a theatrical asset this device can be. If the entire production matched this level of invention and precision, it would be truly unmissable.

Hannah Bristow, Wallis Currie-Wood, Jo Goldsmith-Eteson, Nardia Ruth, Rebecca Thorn, and Adeola Yemitan make up the chorus, and each deserves praise for their beautiful work.

Fish knows how to balance concept and entertainment —something he demonstrated so thrillingly with his production of Oklahoma! Entertaining is not a bad thing; a touch of light can open the door to deeper, more challenging questions.

Fish’s quasi rock ‘n’ roll approach is intriguing in theory but falls flat in execution, it doesn’t go far enough. Everything feels superficial, and Fish’s choices create distance between the material and our engagement, ultimately rendering the production uninvolving and—dare I say—boring.

While the production is filled with good ideas, none feel fully realised — with the exception of the chorus. For the most part, the concepts remain half-baked — take, for example, Elektra and her brother Orestes being the only characters dressed in recognisably modern dress — Orestes (a forgettable Patrick Vail, a frequent Fish collaborator) is costumed as a motorcyclist. Is this sartorial choice meant to suggest that the younger generation has broken away from the past?

I prefer adaptations of these plays that take a bold approach — staying true to their source material while bringing them to life in a way that speaks to the present. An excellent example is The Gospel at Colonus, Lee Breuer and Bob Telson’s 1983 radical and yet wholly accessible retelling ofOedipus. 

Reflecting on the splendour of The Gospel at Colonus highlights the missed opportunity in Fish’s Elektra. His approach is too safe — it never feels dangerous or immediate — the antithesis of punk. Had he truly deconstructed the play and rebuilt it with insight and originality, he might have created something akin to The Gospel at Colonus, which remains, to this day, both relevant and deeply faithful to Sophocles.

Fish’s production sits beautifully on the stage of the Duke of York’s and within the theatre itself. The Duke of York’s is part of the Ambassadors Theatre Group (ATG) portfolio.

ATG is owned by the American private equity firm Providence Equity Partners, which acquired the group in 2013.

There has been much discussion about a private equity firm owning ATG, and the concern is understandable — after all, private equity firms exist to make money, not art.

Since Providence took control, ATG has expanded in both size and significance while undertaking the restoration of many of its theatres. Venues that had been neglected for decades — despite so-called restoration fees being added to ticket purchases for as long as I can remember — have at last received the attention they deserve.

The Duke of York’s, like most of ATG’s venues, is now beautifully restored — a welcoming, comfortable space that will serve future generations of theatremakers and audiences to come.

These restorations go beyond aesthetics; they stand as a declaration that theatre matters, the arts matter, our cultural history matters — and we matter.

Providence Equity Partners’ shareholders have undoubtedly profited greatly from the acquisition of ATG, but whether intentionally or not, they have also performed a civic duty worthy of the Greeks.

TKR