Sisyphus had it easy. A grotesque tyrant, the king of Ephyra slaughtered guests in violation of the sacred right of hospitality, much like the treacherous Freys in Game of Thrones. His punishment, meted out by Zeus, was pretty lenient. All he has to do is roll a rock up a mountain over and over for the rest of eternity.
Dull and difficult work, sure, but Princess Iphigenia of Mycenae had it way worse.
Her crime? Being born to the warmonger King Agamemnon. Set on destroying Troy – all because Helen had agency over her own love life – his invasion fleet was stuck in want of wind all because he foolishly felled one of Artemis’ sacred deer. Here’s the thing: the goddess of the hunt (plus children and their birth) isn’t too keen on humans claiming her herd. The price for his trespass? Sacrificing his daughter.
Yup, innocent Iphigenia – whose name means ‘strong-born’ – gets it for no discernible reason, all because of the world’s worst dad (he gets his dues later).
The travesty of this ancient Greek myth underpins the much more mortal concerns of a young unemployed woman, Effie, in Welsh playwright Gary Owen’s Iphigenia in Splott. Debuting in 2015 during grinding Tory austerity, this Cardiff council estate-set drama is focused on her ‘fuck it’ determination to live life loud and large, despite a distinct lack of funds. It’s a theme that bites just as hard now we’re caught in the maw of a cost-of-living crisis.
Returning to Red Stitch like Sisyphus’ boulder after an equally impressive first run that was knocked sideways during the blur of lockdowns, Iphigenia in Splott is held aloft by an Atlas-like performance of towering linguistic and emotional strength from solo performer Jessica Clarke. A magnificent 90-minute monologue, it hurls Effie (and us, the audience) headfirst into an oncoming storm. It’s a Bacchanalian ride.
From the off, Effie won’t have any slut-shaming from the tut-tutting Greek chorus of upstanding citizens who sneer down their noses at her boozy, loose and juicy ways. She’s proud of her body and her ability to cast a spell over any man in the pub, all while trying to shake loose her hulking brute of sorta-boyfriend whose pug ugly dog dumps unpicked-up turds all over their street.
If there’s to be a sacrifice, it’ll be on her terms. An indomitable Effie leans into the wilding winds and reshapes her assumed destiny into something far more powerful. In capturing her mercurial YOLO, Clarke is an elemental force in an unflappable performance that whisks us from vodka-induced vomits on the bathroom floor through a glimmer of real love with a wounded soldier and on to the promise of a brighter future. But will her hopes be dashed on the rocks? The odyssey on which we communally embark is a wonder to behold, scooping us up from its more obvious beat towards a clarion call worthy of social realist filmmaker Ken Loach.
Keen-eyed director Gary Abrahams (Yentl, Angels in America) deploys a choreographer’s spin on Clarke’s muscularly frenetic performance, encapsulating as it does both furious rapture and agony rubbed raw. She prowls every inch of set designers Sophie Woodward and Jacob Battista’s flickering underworld: the faded mundanity of a claustrophobic benefits office, with lighting designer Rachel Burke casting a sickly pallor over this prison of a cruel government’s making. A rebel’s spark is captured by a Promethean Effie, seizing power as she breaks the fourth wall, commanding a dimmer switch that also controls our auditorium.
Just who is watching whom in this arena?
If fate has set its cruel eye on Effie to discard her on a sacrificial pyre, then the lady’s not for burning. Clad in her armour of puffer jacket, hoodie and leggings – also designed by Woodward and Battista – she’ll battle the fates themselves in a ferociously engaging play that packs an Olympian’s punch.
Iphigenia in Splott is playing at Red Stitch Actors Theatre until September 22 and tickets start from $35. Get yours over here.
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