The Bacchae

An internationally-acclaimed, locally-born actor, recognised for his work on both stage and screen, returns to his homeland. He is given the leading role in an ancient tragedy translated by the nation's foremost living playwright. And then, all the spells and bells and stage tricks that can be devised are thrown at the production until it can barely hold up the expectation.

Finally, it crumbles under the weight of so much ambition, extravagance and overblown, pointless innovation.

The Bacchae should be a horrible play. Its central event is that of a mother killing her own son while in a drunken, ecstatic rage, so deranged with self-indulgence that she cannot recognise him. But this production by the National Theatre of Scotland manages to leave the audience unbruised and more-or-less unshocked.

Much of this is due to the evident desire to create a new, innovative, production of the Greek tragedy for the 21st century. Dionysus is a camped-up glam rock star and his maenads are backing singers. Their Top of the Pops-style songs and dances barely hint at the sensuous release, the drunken hedonism that is both the appeal of the Bacchic cult and which also leads to its dark side. Alan Cumming's divine pop star may be sexy, but he is insufficiently dangerous or shocking to provoke novel sexual thrills in an age when your granny might like that David Bowie off the TV. The dazzling effects - of which there are many - certainly highlight Dionysus' powers, but cannot do anything to bring out the emotional power of the play. In fact, it all ends up fairly tame.

Paola Dionisotti as Agave, the mother, bears much of the dramatic burden. Her task is to convince the audience that blind, mindless, son-killing ecstasy is possible, and she must then punch home the horror when she realises just what she has done. But Dionisotti's wailing and wrenching is not fully convincing, nor sufficiently heart-breaking.

The Bacchae has some triumphant moments. Cumming's depiction of Dionysus as both all-powerful and desperately insecure in his need for worship is cunning and subtle, as is his comic timing. At times his camp schtick wears a little thin, even tending towards panto antics, but he is charismatic, sprightly and holds the production up. Tony Curran provides a good counter as the severe, moralistic Pentheus. The special effects are undeniably stunning, and David Greig's script manages to transfer ancient verse into believable dialogue, with clever wordplay and poetic cadences sprinkled throughout.

But so much of this is unnecessary and trivial, since it is the real meat of the play, the appalling human tragedy, where the production falls short, rendering the rest an empty shell of breathtaking spectacle.