Kevin Moriarty aims to re-ritualize ancient Greek tragedy for digital-age Dallas.
What director wouldn’t? With his ‘free adaptation’ of Sophocles’ ‘Electra,’ the artistic director of the Dallas Theater Center hopes to re-invest the ancient tragedy with the kind of mythic, civic and emotional force it once held. But this is not some white-box-set-and-dance-rock revival of Sophocles’ tale of revenge, gods and royal murders. Moriarty took the inventive gamble of staging ‘Electra’ outdoors in the heart of the Arts District – somewhat as the Athenians might have seen it originally at the Theater of Dionysus on the slope of the Acropolis. Moriarty has added modern dress and an electronic update: Audience members wear wireless headphones as we move from site to site in and around Annette Strauss Square. We hear not just the onstage characters; we listen to the spirit of King Agamemnon (Alex Organ) who performs the function, more or less, of the Greek chorus, bemoaning, explicating, beseeching, blessing.
Moriarty sees himself as a ‘big idea’ director, and this entire interactive, city-at-night staging is the kind of large-scale gesture and technical challenge he’s drawn to – akin to turning the Wyly Theatre into a football field for ‘Colossal.’ Or sending theatergoers off in bump-em cars in ‘The Wiz’ to ride along the Yellow Brick Road.
Immersive theater outdoors on this scale is a novel and ambitious experience – and with the headphones, probably unique at the moment. Knowing the kinds of hurdles and restrictions the Meyerson Symphony Center and the AT&T PAC must have thrown at anything relatively unconventional like this, serious plaudits are in order for the whole daring, striking and yes, sputtering, clunky effort.
Moriarty clearly wants to Say Something About the State of Dallas in a Tragic, Ceremonial Form. Good for him. But to give one example: The director reverses the Greek tradition of keeping the violence offstage. Towards the end, he confines the audience inside the Annette Strauss Square’s bunker-like support room, lending the final murders a face-to-face intimacy. We’ve moved from the wide-open amphitheater down into this narrow, utilitarian tunnel to witness some bitter bloodshed. In effect, we’ve gone ‘backstage’ to see what the Greeks never did.
Then we all walk back outside – in single-file – to the Winspear’s reflecting pool to perform a toro nagashi, the Japanese ceremony of floating paper lanterns downstream to help guide ancestral souls to the afterlife. With a cool evening, with ordinary people encircling the dark pond and placing (battery-powered) candles on its mirror-flat surface, the entire moment – from procession to contemplation – makes for an undeniably peaceful, glimmering moment. That is, if you don’t mind being repeatedly herded around by a small army of ushers. It can feel a little coercive. And provided you can ignore much of what’s being said on the headphones during that glimmering moment. Serenity may elude you.
The fact is it’s difficult to invent a new ritual, a set of meaningful words and gestures that actually have the heart-cracking impact of catharsis. Think of all the balloon-drops at political conventions, all the accompanying punditry and video fireworks intended to exalt and celebrate. These are, indeed, rituals — repeated actions intended to make a statement, mark the occasion as important, connect the moment to our lives. In short, it’s all supposed to make these words real. But it takes a rare convergence of rhetoric, events and political leaders to achieve anything remotely like that. Mostly, we roll our eyes or change the channel. Rituals are like re-enacted, collective memories. They embody shared meanings and they transport those meanings across time from past to future. Offhand, I can’t think of any that are battery-powered.
So seriously, there’s little in our contemporary culture with any narrative so central and so solemn that it could provide some equivalent to the tragedy of the House of Atreus. Maybe the rise and fall of the Kennedys. Perhaps our Civil War and civil rights struggle. For the Athenians, this was the whole ball of wax, not simply a family brawl re-enacted as entertainment. It was military history elevated to national religion and self-definition, it was ethical philosophy and municipal politics being debated and fought over onstage.
It was, of course, a grimly familiar story. The Trojan War, Part III: The Fallout. When King Agamemnon returned to Mycenae after defeating Troy, his wife Clytemnestra murdered him to live with her lover, the usurper Aegisthus. (Curiously, the program for ‘Electra’ locates us in Argos — which was Aeschylus and Euripedes’ setting for their versions of the story. Every translation of Sophocles’ script I can find locates it in Mycenae.) For years, daughter Electra – the primal resentful teenager – has vowed to avenge her father’s death and now learns her brother Orestes – whom everyone thought was dead – has finally come home with retribution on his mind as well.
Sophocles wrote his version in the shadow of Aeschylus’ ‘Oresteia’ trilogy, performed some 40 years earlier and even then considered by the Greeks to be one of their literary monuments. Quite the precedent to go up against. What Sophocles brought to Aeschylus’ story was his famous austerity. He honed the myth by creating relentlessly driven characters with a fury for justice. He sharpened the stakes, especially in the great face-off between Electra (Abbey Siegworth) and Clytemnestra (Sally Nystuen Vahle). Unlike Aeschylus, Sophocles grants Clytemnestra something of a fair case by stressing the king’s killing of their daughter Iphigenia. He sacrificed her to the goddess Artemis to let the Greek army finally set sail for Troy. Agamemnon chose his brother’s grievance about losing Helen, plus his own need not to lose face in front of his soldiers — Agamemnon chose these over his daughter’s life.
It’s much the same choice parents make when we send our children to war: We sacrifice them. Her accusation of calculated, cost-benefit murder makes Clytemnestra less an adulterous back-stabber. It balances the mother-daughter argument more, tipping it back and forth like a vicious cross-examination. Electra eventually declares outright she’s more than willing to use evil to counteract evil. So – how does one disentangle justice from both revenge and family grudges?
While Moriarty is an ‘idea’ director, he’s not proven himself a particularly effective ‘actor’s director.’ With strong women, he basically sets them on ‘Take No Prisoners, Level 12’ and never has them downshift into anything more subtle. His forays into Greek dramas are prime exhibits. In Moriarty’s remarkably torrid, muscular version of ‘Oedipus el Rey,’ Sabina Zuniga Varela (who played Queen Jocasta) at least had the chance to take a break from all her gangland machisma to unveil a needy, lonely, mature woman. In his unattractive but undeniably fierce ‘Medea,’ Sally Nystuen Vahle played the title character as a walking blunt-force trauma.
She does much the same here against Siegworth. Non-stop rage and resentment are wearying to watch and listen to (much less perform), and Sophocles knows this. It’s why both his Chorus and Electra’s sister Chrysothemis (an appealing Tiana Kaye Johnson) provide (ineffective) voices of caution and common sense. It’s also why some of Siegworth’s most affecting moments come when she suddenly opens up with tender disbelief because Orestes (Yusef Seevers) has seemingly come back from the dead. At last, we all can take a breather. Ditto with the ruse that Paedagogus, Orestes’ loyal servant, spins out about Orestes’ demise. All the shouting stops, and we get this cinematic action sequence, as actor David Coffee vividly recounts a neck-and-neck chariot race to the death.
Otherwise, it’s as if all Moriarty can do is try to find new outlets for these characters’ rage: He has Siegworth attack a trash can. OK. So we half-expect her to heave it across the lawn like a professional wrestler. Or stomp on it like a beer can. Instead, she plucks out a few crumpled wrappers and strews them about. Perhaps Moriarty wants us to see Electra’s long-searing grief as fundamentally childish or ineffectual — because that’s what this looks like: a tantrum.
The director and his actors probably felt the need to fill up that football-field-sized lawn with some arm-flinging emotions. The smaller, more enclosed scenes at beginning and end are the effective ones. Brilliantly, Diggie, the scene designer, has created brutalist-concrete walls and white-neon abstractions that evoke Sophocles’ rock-hard style and the sun-baked Mediterranean setting — as well as the Arts District’s own architecture. Diggie’s slabs are as bold and modern as a Louis Kahn masterwork and as primal as an old stone temple — especially in the first scene at Agamemnon’s tomb, which looks as though it was simply trucked over here from the lobby of the Meyerson. Along with Broken Chord’s ominous but restrained underscoring throughout, Diggie’s stark designs make this ‘Electra’ open with a sharp beauty and a chilly awe. The music and the set pieces are the strongest, shrewdest elements of the entire production.
And then there’s Dallas itself. With this ‘Electra,’ Moriarty’s main shot at contemporary relevance and civic significance is his fundamental tactic: He uses the entire Strauss Square and the city skyline as the setting. This ancient story is happening right here. If you wish to Uber there, it’s right across the street from valet parking for Stephan Pyles’ Flora Street Cafe. What could be more Dallas?
So let’s consider the city surroundings and what they say, however unintended or ironic. We enter the amphitheater by walking past a small shrine to one of our local deities: a white Lexus GS Turbo with the FSport package. It was common for Greek homes to have a small statue of a good-luck god near the entrance. But this is impressive, a display fit for a palace. The car is elevated on a beautifully lit, angled platform, the better for our inspection and adoration. I felt remiss; A bad omen: I’d not brought Lexus-Dionysus an offering.
As we enter the amphitheater, we can see, across Woodall Rogers, the outline and lights of that august American temple, the Federal Reserve Bank. And during the performance, when Electra occasionally shouts a curse to the heavens or in the general direction of her mother’s house, Siegworth seems to aim it at 1900 Pearl, the unfinished tower that looms over the entire drama. It’s a skyscraper that a number of Arts District fans hate for blocking a major view of the Meyerson, for crowding in on Strauss Square’s own expansive airiness, for adding yet another blue-glass, office box to a downtown that doesn’t really need more and for paving over one of the last small bits of green space left in downtown.
I’m not simply having fun mocking things here. I have to believe Moriarty is well aware of how spectacular this view is, what it lends ‘Electra’ with its wide display of urban wealth, commercial vitality and aesthetic sterility. Why else would he go to all the logistical troubles of rain dates and headphones and ushers to stage ‘Electra’ like this, in a location that shouts Here is Dallas in All Its Ambitions?
In David Grene’s translation of ‘Electra,’ Orestes expressly states at his father’s tomb that he’s come to purify and restore his home country. There may be no plague in Mycenae — as there is in Thebes in Sophocles’ ‘Oedipus’ — but Greek tragedies established the trope of opening in a city that’s unwell, troubled, burdened. The palace stands in for the entire citizenry. It’s a metaphor that runs through Shakespeare (“Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark”) to Ibsen, Chekhov and Shaw (“This soul’s prison we call England. She will strike and sink and split”).
But while Moriarity has gone to all this trouble to place ‘Electra’ practically in our town square, I’m not sure what, if anything, he wants to say about the State of Downtown Dallas – other than it makes for a splendid backdrop for a piece of theater. Perhaps that the town needs healing of some sort. What town doesn’t? But what kind of healing? For what?
Healing of a particularly grim kind is what Sophoclean tragedy is all about. When we come to the final killings that will restore the House of Atreus, Electra dreams of an axe felling a tree. Agamemnon was murdered with an axe, and Aeschylus specifies Orestes uses a battle axe against both Aegisthus (Tyrees Allen) and Clytemnestra. (Indeed, in battling her son, Clytemnestra calls for her own battle-axe — way to go, Mom). But staging two axe murders in full view of an audience crowded into a medium-sized room is not an easy bit of fight choreography to pull off convincingly. Limbs need to be lost. Instead, Seevers uses a dagger – which is a little disappointing. All this build-up, all this raging and we get a a couple of minor, back-alley stabbings.
But Moriarty seems to want this anti-climactic feel: The evil couple end up as just a pair of corpses, heaped on the ground here like trash about to be put out for pick-up, covered by plastic sheets with a bit of blood smeared on them. Sic semper tyrannis. And as we know, this isn’t the ending-ending. Moriarty has a much (hoped-for) calmer resolution in mind.
During the killings, a second disappointment comes when, having howled for most of an hour, Siegworth speeds past perhaps the two most blood-curdling words in all of Sophocles. Imagine: As was the tradition, Clytemnestra is offstage when Orestes heads after her. The Athenians hear her screams, hear the battle axe smash her, hear her cry for pity. “You had none for him nor for his father” Electra replies — and watches offstage what the audience can only imagine.
Another scream. Then Electra urges her brother: “Strike – again.”
Now that’s murderous hatred.
I bring up the butchery because it took Aeschylus three full plays to work out all his issues with justifiable regicide and with the Furies, the primordial gods crying for vengeance. Ultimately, he opts in favor of Athens’ trial-by-jury as a divinely ordained solution. Sophocles, on the other hand, sets up the basic moral arithmetic of tragedy in drama after drama: Only bloodshed will expiate, only it will restore order. Don’t look to gods or civic institutions – “blood to answer blood,” as Electra says. Not simple revenge, but sacrifice. In tragedy, the evil are destroyed but the good will suffer (and often die) trying to achieve some modicum of justice. That’s ‘Hamlet.’ That’s ‘Othello.’ That’s ‘The Duchess of Malfi’ and ‘The Crucible.’
And that’s why Sophocles’ ‘Electra’ ends so abruptly, almost like a rebuke to Aeschylus’ extended moral wrangling. The evil king and queen are killed, and David Grene’s translation has the chorus immediately state, ‘O race of Atreus, how many sufferings were yours before you came at last so hard to freedom, perfected by this day’s deed.’
‘Perfected.’ Quite the claim for a screaming double homicide. There’s Sophocles’ austerity for you. When they’re done, that’s it, he declares, This horrid house is cleansed. You may exit on the right.
But Moriarty can’t leave it at such an abrupt, brutal finish. So we head out on our candle-lit procession and wend our way to an attempted sense of, well, serenity is too strong a word. Resolution, then, the feeling that all the shouting and stabbing were worth it and everyone’s going to come out A-OK. We hear Alex Organ relate the characters’ various futures: what happened to Orestes, what happened to Electra, who got married, who went into real estate. And then we hear his “favorite story” about all this: Iphigenia was never sacrificed by Agamemnon in the first place. (This is, in fact, a variant Greek myth.) The goddess Artemis rescued her and replaced her with a deer.
It’s a lovely thought. But it makes nonsense of what’s preceded it. First, if Iphigenia was never killed and a deer was sacrificed in her stead, wouldn’t Agamemnon know? Wasn’t he there? Or is this just Agamemnon offering us a happy notion to make us feel better? And if we’re to take this as the Chorus speaking and not Agamemnon, the deer replacement story still undermines Clytemnestra’s major justification for killing her husband. And a major reason Orestes seeks vengeance: The king never murdered his daughter.
We’re left with a disjointed experience, an ushered promenade around the Winspear, above ground and underground, onstage and off. For what it’s worth, we get a participatory theatrical experience unlike any other. We hardly get any kind of catharsis but then — who does these days?