Hell Hath No Fury
With my friend Rafael Luevano, last night I saw one of the last preview performances of Medea, with Fiona Shaw, at the lovely old Brooks Atkinson on 47th St. This Abbey Theater production has garnered great notices on every stop of the tour and, indeed, is very good but not perfect. There are still too many overwrought (and occasionally unintelligible) line readings from characters who, while understandably upset, should graduate their degrees of hysteria. Shrieking one's lines is the innate hazard of performing Greek tragedy.
I was bowled over at a crucial moment by a sensationally effective use of electronically generated sounds. This harrowing (and ear splitting -- be warned) moment occurs as Medea stabs to death her two young sons. The slaughter is offstage, but so powerfully suggested that it might as well be happening in your lap.
Shaw is intelligent and affecting as the distraught, vengefully wronged wife of the hero Jason. Most people, amusingly enough, will know Shaw better as Harry's insipid Aunt Petunia.
4:05:20 PM 
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