Medea unveiled. De-masked. Fractured, powerful, dangerous, vulnerable, mourning, mad, screaming, agonized, laughing, victorious, deadly. Each of the actresses, both Medea and not Medea. Medea as she becomes, Medea as she was, Medea as she is not.
By far the best play of term, it held us in its grasp for only fifty minutes. A bare stage, a flurry of movement, a wailing, cacophony of voices. It embodied the chaos of a conflicted soul, a woman torn between her choices. This Medea was not guilty or innocent, evil or good, justifiable or monstrous, woman or demon, but all at once. This Medea was the raging presence of all her sins and all her virtues -- her past guilt and long forgotten innocence.
It was a Kristevean revelry in the rage, rhythm, and passion of the chora, yet created from its chaos meaning that crystallized like diamond, digging deep.
And at its climax, splattered with the blood of a torn child, Medea stood, gloating in her furious, avenging glory, and crouched, shattered with grief, agonizingly gentle as she gathered the torn pieces of her once-breathing child.
Here's a link to a brief clip from the play.
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