The Chronicle January 2020

13 ST EDWARD’S CHRONICLE

by her man (relatable from so many contemporary news clips) until, at news of her own son’s death, the veneer shatters and she too rushes to her own anguished doom. And what of this young Haemon? Winston Frieze gave us such an initially reasonable, devoted heir, determined to learn from his father until the latter’s feet of clay become all too apparent, not least when the threats Haemon makes against himself are mistaken by Creon to be treacherous: this was a fabulous scene, as the stichomythia became heated to boiling point and beyond. The interplay between Ismene and her sister was just as strong, with Phoebe Taylor and Victoria Iliffe interacting in such a convincingly sibling manner, the former pleading with Antigone to see the sense in finding a middle way while the latter became consequently increasingly headstrong and self-righteous – you could hear the change in Victoria’s intonation. The voice of reason, backed by divinely inspired inner sight, was persuasively provided by Charlie Scales as the sightless seer, Tiresias. He used all the space provided so well to exhibit his urgency – simultaneously querulous with his stick and ominously authoritative. His

caution to us was clear, but Creon held out defiant, against his favoured pillar, accusing the old man’s motivation to be corrupted by bribery, while looking increasingly perturbed and finally pitiful if not pitiable. Creon’s self-assuredness diminished as Antigone’s grew; Ben and Victoria could not have represented this any more convincingly. Antigone was imposing, and as statuesque as an archaic kore, rarely looking directly at the chorus: she knew her mind.

Though she expressed her fear and profound distress, she did not waver and stood alone, unwilling to share her glorious death with sister or betrothed. Victoria, along with the rest of the team, were without exception well cast and all outstanding in their roles, as well as making a superb ensemble. So then, an entire flock of goats must now be fleet-footing its way down the steep sides of the Acropolis to our North Wall Theatre of Dionysus – shovel, anyone?