It opens with blood and thunder — quite literally — as a huge, bloodied horse descends from the rafters of the National Theatre. Nima Taleghani’s new version douses the myth in chaos, rage and a torrent of expletives. It’s a swaggering, self-conscious reinvention. Part feminist howl, part fever dream, Bacchae leaves you both dazzled and disoriented.

The version largely follows the same story as Euripides’ original. There are some tweaks here and there, such as the presentation of Dionysos (Ukweli Roach) and Pentheus (James McArdle), but overall the piece largely still focuses on the Bacchae, a group of women living in the mountains of Greece and seemingly causing trouble just because they exist. It is a play that is dreadfully obvious in it aims, but also one that struggles to say anything meaningful as it tries to say so much about a lot. Taleghani’s version covers domestic violence, trans rights, sexuality, masculinity and the role of mothers, all in less than two hours. It is ambitious but a little too blunt in its focus as a result.

Nevertheless, there are some standout performances here. Clare Perkins’ Vida, the leader of the Bacchae, is charismatic and fierce, and holds the audience rapt in their attention in this commanding performance. Meanwhile Roach’s Dionysosis flamboyant and fiery, and essentially, as a demi-God, is used as a vessel for much of the play to convey its ideas about identity and belonging. 

McArdle’s Pentheus is conflicted too, wanting to be a ‘boy’ in a man’s world, struggling to be the defiant and devastating King he’s expected to be. In contrast, his estranged mother Agave, Sharon Small, is quickly swept up by the freedom of the Bacchae with bloody and violent consequences.

Taleghani’s script is, though, too much of a mess in places. Swearing like a child who has just learnt his first profanity, the ensemble, who are excellent, muddle through clumsy metaphors, fiercely crude sexual jibes and dialogue which struggles to fit in to either a 2025 BC or 2025 AD environment. Some jokes land, and some don’t. Pentheus’ frustrated lambasting of the blind prophet Tireseus’ prohecies is a nice touch, but tonally the script is all over the place.

This is a shame as director Indhu Rubasingham, whois using the piece as their first runout as the new director of the National Theatre, is bold in her direction. The choreography of scenes, using stylised sequences to mimic the role of the chorus, is bold and eye-catching, while Robert Jones’ set and costume design is stark, especially during the play’s opening moments when an enormous bloodied horse flies from the rafters. It is a bold start, but one that lacks cohesion. 

For all its fury and fire, Bacchae too often drowns in its own noise. Taleghani’s script lurches between brilliance and bluntness, and the production never quite decides if it wants to be myth, manifesto or meme. Yet in flashes — Roach’s divine swagger, Perkins’ volcanic charisma, Rubasingham’s bold theatrical muscle — you glimpse what this could have been: a Bacchae for the 21st century, if only it trusted its own chaos a little less.