Bacchae – Olivier, National Theatre

Clare Perkins and the company of Bacchae at the Olivier, National Theatre. Picture: Marc Brenner

Bacchae continues at the Olivier, National Theatre, London until 1 November 2025.

Star rating: three stars ★ ★ ★ ✩ ✩

The Bacchae by Ancient Greek tragedian Euripides is brutal and brilliant. Queen Agave of Thebes has been kidnapped and brainwashed by theatre and wine god Dionysos and his “Bacchae” Maenad followers. Queen Agave’s son, King Pentheus, takes a hostage of his own in retaliation and Dionysos comes along willingly in disguise as a mortal. He convinces Pentheus to disguise himself as a Maenad to observe the Bacchae – who by now boast the entire female Theban population as adherents – but the Bacchic spell is so intoxicating that Agave mistakes her son for a mountain lion and [2,400-year-old spoiler warning] rips him to pieces with her bare hands.

For the debut show of her National Theatre artistic director tenure, Indhu Rubasingham has drafted in actor Nima Taleghani (Netflix’s Heartstopper, Jamie Lloyd’s Cyrano de Bergerac) to pen this new play based on Euripides. Updating the classics is familiar territory for the National, but using a brand-new writer and turning one of the canon’s most haunting tragedies into a comedy is quite the statement to kick off Rubasingham’s tenure.

Bold moves are to be applauded of course, but some choices here will be divisive. The corny ‘Hey kidz, this ain’t your parents’ Euripides!’ tone permeates not just the marketing, but the script too. Young people compelled to put down their phones and book a ticket are surely searching for a new experience; a challenge rather than pandering; something unfamiliar rather than snippets of youth-speak gleaned from TikTok by creatives some decades older.

Bacchae mirrors the lyrical writing of Ancient Greek theatre with rap-adjacent rhyming verse that is frequently witty and fresh, but sometimes strays into the territory of bad poetry slam cringe. There’s nothing wrong with turning a tragedy into a comedy, but the ‘throw anything at the wall for laughs’ approach yielding ‘youth in Asia’ and ‘cunning linguist’ puns on the Olivier stage in 2025 is a little dispiriting.

However, Bacchae’s main misstep is philosophical. For me, the beauty of Ancient Greek tragedy lies in its polytheistic rejection of dualism. There is no absolute good nor absolute evil, just warring shades of grey with which humanity must find peace. The blanket of Apollonian rationality we drape over life’s cruel mysteries to give them fathomable shape is ripped apart by the Dionysian power of live theatre’s morally complex stories. In our resulting discomfort we encounter the sublime.

Bacchae favours a more modern approach. Where Euripides gives us enigma, here we are presented with straightforward motivations. Subtext becomes text becomes slogans explicitly expressed. So many ‘important issues’ are paid lip service that the ancient play’s never-more-relevant socio-political themes are diluted to cursory hashtag-activism.

Nowhere is Bacchae’s thin psychology more disappointing than in the case of Agave, whose shocking dramatic climax is painstakingly signposted and therefore undermined. Euripides’ iconic monologue in which this bereaved mother comes to terms with what she has done is reduced to a few words and sobs. Sharon Small is a fantastic presence throughout and does what she can with a terminally gutted role, but the script does not give her the raw material to reach the dramatic heights achieved by other fine actors who have previously portrayed this character.

Instead, the standout role is an invented one: Vida, the warrior turned maenad who raised Dionysos when he was a rejected infant. Clare Perkins addresses the audience directly with a winning east London swagger, becoming the show’s moral centre as the Maenad’s growing thirst for blood causes them to splinter. This subplot is a deviation from Euripides’ anonymous chorus. Here, each of Dionysos’ followers is given a name, backstory and character. All are brought to life with spark and verve by a brilliant ensemble of performers, though sadly the script blesses none with much depth.

James McArdle brings out plenty of humour in his portrayal of King Pentheus and he is often the most compelling presence on stage. He wrestles with his masculinity during his flirtation with Dionysos – a fantastic dynamic that is also present in Euripides but much expanded on here – and his sensitivity saves his character’s dalliance with women’s clothing from descending too far into 1970s ‘man in a dress = funny’ giggles.

Ukweli Roach’s Dionysos has charisma in spades, but he ultimately proves far more human than god. It is true that the joy of the Ancient Greek pantheon is the flawed personalities that give a theological explanation for the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, but despite possessing the obligatory temper and hedonism, this deity is short on mystery.

Despite Bacchae’s questionable presentation of classical tragedy, it takes such big swings and sticks so unrelentingly to its vision that it is impossible to hate and – crucially – easy to enjoy. Theatre is a collaborative enterprise, and with so much talent at the National, there is plenty to redeem this piece.

From the giant and bloody white horse that opens the show to the stage’s impressive rotating tiers and descending set pieces, Rubasingham and designer Robert Jones arrange tableau after tableau of stunning imagery. If the objective is to lure in younger audiences, this is a smart approach. No matter how many CGI explosions and landscapes popular media exposes us to, there is no substitute for looking up from a phone screen and being blown away by what is physically in front of you. Lighting designer Oliver Fenwick could be the real MVP here, with a circular lighting rig torn straight from a Pink Floyd concert used to stunning effect.

Sound designers Ben and Max Ringham pump out dependable bass booms and tense pulsations you may have heard in the Olivier before, but the collaboration with DJ Walde is where the magic lies. Ancient theatre was musical, and we are treated to stirring electronic compositions throughout. Kate Prince’s choreography frequently pushes these musical sequences into powerful territory. The cast – the ensemble of Maenads in particular – dance with a striking intensity.

Bacchae begins with a prognostication by the blind prophet Tiresias, played with the requisite gravitas plus a bonus cheeky twinkle in the eye by Simon Startin. As the National Theatre’s new artistic director, Rubasingham is similarly inviting us to look to the future, and it is a promising one. Informed by new writing and a youthful, politically aware spirit, this theatre is going to take big swings, paying no mind to the delicate sensibilities of some traditional theatregoers. This inaugural show will be divisive, but it will spark conversation, and be enjoyed by many.

Despite some faults, Bacchae is a never-boring 100 minutes of theatre that proves the National’s world-class team of designers, dramaturgs and performers are at the top of their game when it comes to making magic. It is winningly cheeky, unapologetic and self-assured, no matter what highfaluting expectations of snobby critics end up dashed. To paraphrase the show: there is a fine line between good theatre and bad theatre and Bacchae straddles it to completion. This is an irreverent and enjoyable entry point to classical tragedy that suggests Rubasingham’s National Theatre tenure will be anything but dull.

Ian Bowkett