Having betrayed her family for the man she loves, helped him become legend, and been whisked away to Corinth, Medea finds herself cast aside by husband Jason in favour of King Kreon’s daughter. Alone with her three children in a strange land where she is viewed with suspicion and hatred by those at court, Medea schemes – but how far is she willing to go for revenge? 

Staged on a raised runway amongst a standing audience, Liz Lochhead’s adaptation of Euripedes’ tragedy Medea for the National Theatre of Scotland is a roaring tour-de-force of emotion carried by the strength of its central character. Adura Onashile is simply phenomenal in the role of Medea, boiling with righteous fury, oozing dominance, and trading witty barbs with Jason and his new-bride Glauke. While the cast are each offered their moments to shine – with Robert Jack’s slimy, gaslighting portrayal of Jason being a stand-out – it is Onashile who brings an unrequited intensity to the stage that she occupies for the majority of the performance, fending off all comers who dare to challenge her. 

To this end, Onashile is joined by a chorus of the “women of all-time.” Starting amongst the audience as a pseudo-vox populi, they encourage Medea to have strength before turning their backs on her when they deem her actions reprehensible. Lochhead’s incorporation of Scots-inflected language pays off dividends here, offering a group distinct from Medea yet surprisingly on her side. Indeed Lochhead’s flair for the poetic creates an adaptation that feels linguistically robust and flows beautifully, but it’s the Scots that really helps it stand out. It’s a smart distinction between characters that adds an extra level of alienation for the central character, while fitting perfectly with the aural tradition of Greek myths. 

This contemporaneity extends into the additional use of British Sign-Language, with one member of the chorus signing their lines reflecting a wider breadth than might initially be considered within a traditional chorus. It also adds to the accessibility of the performance, something that is clearly on the mind, with seating thankfully available for those who cannot stand for the entire run-time.

The bigger issue however is the decision to charge £37 for a ticket. While there are several concession options available, it feels ironic that a production with alienation as a core theme would become a symbol of the Edinburgh International Festival’s continued alienation of a large portion of its audience with unreasonable pricing. Despite all of its strengths, it’s difficult to recommend this production to many as a result. 

That said, the performance is an undeniably spectacular one, and there is so much to love about it. Its sparse staging means that there is nothing to detract from the weight of emotions on display, and James Jones’ music only serves to subtly underscore the more significant beats of the narrative through chimes, gongs, and singing bowls. It all coalesces into something mesmerising, it’s just a shame that many will be unable to see it.