Ion, Lighthouse, Poole
ONE of the most disconcerting things about Greek theatre is how it resonates with contemporary themes.
Watching this operatic adaptation of Euripides' play, I found myself thinking about adoptive children finding birth mothers, the sheer wailing desperation of women facing childlessness and the ramifications of blood ties.
However, the predominant thought was that I'd much rather have been watching the play than the opera. Even allowing for a totally focused chorus of servants, an entrancingly simple and effective set and accomplished principal singers, this production was never a pleasure.
The discordant music constantly grated, often in direct conflict with the voices and drowning many words. The final 20 minutes was an incomprehensible muddle.
The moment of light relief - this was not a tragedy, although it had all the hallmarks of one - was when a character discovered what he believed to be his son and called him Ion. Why? Because he had his 'eye on' him.
Perhaps it should be renamed Carry On Up The Oracle.
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