Oedipus by Steven Berkoff (After Sophocles)

In his new rendition of Sophocles' incestuous tragedy, Steven Berkoff has, in theatrical terms, gone back to the classical wellspring. The acclaimed writer-actor-director's vision of Oedipus pitches it as a melodrama in the truest sense of the term. But unfortunately, Berkoff's Oedipus puts its dramatic emphasis on the wrong notes and relies too heavily on an eight-strong ensemble chorus whose dense physical narration loses its edge in a stylised garble.

Oedipus himself (Simon Merrells) is a swaggering braggard whose quest to evade prophecy drives him to the brink of madness. But while Merrells has moments of glory—notably his wrenching despair as the production draws to a close—he spends much of the 100-minute show trapped in a maze of emotional hollowness and faintly ridiculous physical posturing. Alister O'Loughlin's Tiresias is a tower of sinister energy at first, but as soon as his dialogue begins the croaking over-enunciation sees the seer's mystique evaporate, sabotaging a crucial scene early on.

Berkoff's Creon is a saving grace, however. His wounded pride and earnest rectitude is expressive without being overwrought, and he brings a gravitas to the closing scenes that—coupled with a sudden surge in the quality of the ensemble's atmosphere-building—rescues the climax from its uninspiring beginnings. Indeed, the final moments of Oedipus are possessed of such tension and pathos that it only helps to highlight the slightly bland hour and a half that preceded them.