A
year ago I saw an
Antigone
which used a Middle Eastern setting to make a point about conflicting
value systems under the Iraqi occupation. Polly Findlay’s thrilling
revival in the Olivier’s Travelex season shows the other, domestic side
of the coin. In wanting to give burial rites to her dead brother
Polynices, Antigone is following mainstream social values; in decreeing
that the rebel should remain unburied and unmourned and ignoring all
counter-arguments, Creon the king of Thebes is exalting his own
convictions above both political reality and the good of the state,
which he identifies as being equal to his own will.
Findlay and designer Soutra Gilmour use a contemporary office setting,
which gradually becomes apparent as a governmental hub: in the
glass-walled back office sits Creon, in front in open-plan the Chorus
of military and political advisers discuss events, weighing loaded
words for a press release about the end of the Theban civil war. Then
Christopher Eccleston enters as Creon. There is no diplomatic way of
putting this: he is Tony Blair. This is nothing so crass as an
impersonation, with all those strange, rigid hand gestures. But
Eccleston’s Creon is driven, like Blair, by a conviction that personal
certainty can and should override any amount of popular opposition, and
he is similarly unimpassioned in his delivery. Even when railing
against his rebellious niece Antigone (Jodie Whittaker in,
coincidentally, a Liverpudlian accent reminiscent of Cherie Booth
Blair’s origins) or the blind seer Tiresias (Jamie Ballard, half his
face crusted over, giving as excellent a performance as ever), this
Creon never shows his feelings, or more likely never really understands
what it is that he is supposed to feel. In the final minutes, on
receiving the news that his niece Antigone, his son Haemon (who was
betrothed to her) and his wife Eurydice are all dead, he unexpectedly
cries, “I am nothing!” in the ecstatic roar of the vindicated
narcissist. This Creon is a tragic protagonist who fails to learn that
it is not all about him.
There is no modishness to the staging or, despite the foregoing, to the
interpretation. This is a simple, clear modern-dress production which
is both faithful to Sophocles’ original (in Don Taylor’s unadorned
1980s translation, neither florid nor blunt) and speaks vividly to our
contemporary experience. It shows admirably why such classics are
cherished for their timelessness and paradoxically also for their
continuing urgency.
Written for the Financial
Times.