Bakkhai. National Youth Theatre.

The National Youth Theatre’s REP Company delivered a solid revival of Bola Agbaje’s south London-set comedy Gone Too Far! in March. The company’s new work, Bakkhai, a Queer reimagining of Euripides’ ancient Greek tragedy The Bacchae is a very different kettle of fish.

Freely adapted from Anne Carson’s 2015 version that ran to good reviews at the Almeida, adaptor and director Maisie Newman chooses to ditch much of The Bacchae’s ambivalence towards its protagonist. In place of the traditionally vindictive, cruel, and vengeance-seeking Dionysos, the production presents the god as an almost benign agent of queer and female liberation. His role is to act as a catalyst for a kind of Theban woke rebellion against myth written by, for, and to the service of straight white men. Hats off to Newman for choosing an interesting new take on the classic and sticking to it. Arguably the Dionysian role in Greek myth has always been to disturb the status quo. The downside is that this production closes off a lot of other possible ways of interpreting Euripides’ greatest and most obviously ambiguous work. In this brisk and always engaging piece Newman gives with one hand and takes away with another.

Theban King Pentheus (Tomás Azócar-Nevin) has outlawed the orgiastic worship of the lewd and lascivious new god Dionysos. A stranger (Jack D’Arcy bedecked in vivid crimson and dripping with diamonds), apparently a priest in the service of the deity but really Dionysos himself, arrives at the palace accompanied by a cohort of chanting followers called the Bakkhai. Suspicious of the newcomer, fearful of disorder, and none too happy that most of the Theban womenfolk seem have headed off for drunken cavorting in the hills, Pentheus orders the stranger’s arrest.

But a fidgety Pentheus soon finds himself strangely attracted to the mysterious newcomer. There is a shocking pink dress locked away in a safe in the corner of the stage. It is a metaphor for the hidden, queer secrets locked away in Pentheus’ heart, and Dionysos has the key. The emerging, intense relationship between god and king offer up the show’s best, tension-filled scenes. When the two finally get it on there is an audible gasp of relief from the audience. “Who does not love this feeling?” Dionysos enquires rhetorically and it is hard not to nod along in agreement.

Of course, as one of the characters reminds us “man against god never works”. That goes for man and god too. In tragedies written by cismen “women and wine is a toxic combination” and gender fluidity is a threat not a freedom. The straight patriarchy in the form of Pentheus’ dad Kadmos (a suitably imposing Daniel Cawley) have some tricks up their sleeves for keeping the women and queers in line. Olivia Jamieson’s set, a striking rectangular podium of bright white tiles, thick with haze, looks suspiciously like the floor of an abattoir. Pentheus wants to straddle the line between two worlds, but ultimately fate will not let him. Expect blood, in the form of crushed pomegranates, to flow.

Ben Osborn’s sound design is occasionally intrusive, having the herdsman mime each other’s lines adds not a jot to the overall feel. But his original electronic dance music is superlative, the show’s bacchanalian ensemble of Theban women resemble nothing less than a hedonistic hen party on a week of MDMA-fuelled clubbing in Ibiza. These girls know how to party, and Newman’s choreography captures nightclub bedlam without even being too busy.

Nathaly Sabino is great as the king’s remorse filled sister Agave. D’Arcy’s Dionysos occasionally plays for comic effect; there is hint of the late great Barry Humphries’ comic creation Sir Les Patterson in his carnal leer. But there is pathos in D’Arcy’s performance too, particularly in the god’s wistful acknowledgement that the dark fate of the newly liberated Pentheus, for whom he has real affection, cannot be changed. Azócar-Nevin’s is tremendous as the nervous, uncertain, almost androgynous King. Giving in to Dionysos means giving in to his queerness and making common cause with the marauding hordes of wine-fuelled women. The reading is a far cry from the rigid order-driven king of Euripides’ but fits perfectly in this production.

Writer: Euripides

Adaptor: Maisie Newman from a new version by Anne Carson

Director: Maisie Newman