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210 pages, Hardcover
First published January 13, 2018
It is at this precise moment that Antigone becomes a waking nightmare for me. Ivo's choice of modern dress for the actors, the sleek grey set, with its shelves of surveillance tapes that could be any contemporary despot's headquarters, the harsh colloquial savour of Anne's translation (has the word pissant ever occurred before in a translation of a Greek tragedy?), all of it becomes horrifyingly one with present reality, and the wall between the theatre and the world I know collapses. “Look at what is happening to me,” Antigone cries, “and look at the men who are doing it.” The cry of raped, beaten, murdered women everywhere, in every time.
And look at the men who are doing it.
Once you observe Sophokles's past bleed into our present, the oppressive power of rulers and the weightless cries of those who oppose them, Antigone becomes all people oppressed by power. Antigone and our world contiguous now – they happen simultaneously, transparently, layer over accreting layer of injustice and suffering.
This time round, alone in a distant city, the desolation feels different. The misery doesn't begin and end with me, as is customary. Instead it flows from the world and the clarity of great art. How comforting to label Sophokles's bleak vision phantasmagoric, demonic, hellish. Except it's nothing of the kind. Sophokles articulates suffering with a scary aplomb laced with scathing wit. That his world mimics my world terrifies me, for it flattens promise and any possibility of forward motion.
many things strange
terrible
clever
wondrous
monstrous
marvellous
dreadful
awful
and
weird
there are in the world
but none more
strange
terrible
clever
uncanny
wondrous
monstrous
marvellous
dreadful
awful
and
weird
than Man.