Hecuba Provokes Catharsis and Compassion in the Ancient Theatre of Epidaurus

Hecuba, Not Hecuba, written and directed by Portuguese director, festival director, author, and performer Tiago Rodrigues and performed by actors from Comédie-Française (one of the oldest theatre companies still running, formed 1680), premiered at the Festival d’Avignon in France at the end of June but found its true home amid the ancient theatrical spirits of Greece at the Ancient Theatre of Epidaurus at the Athens Epidaurus Festival late July 2024. [A shorter report on the Avignon performance and another in Pilsen can be found elsewhere in this issue.]

I was fortunate to witness not a clash but a camaraderie, a magnificent mingling coexistence of cultures, languages, characters, emotions, and eras that blended together flawlessly to present a timeless tale of humanity in all its myriad forms, from the tragic to transcendent, from the grotesque to the glorious. The production, the performances, and the setting combined created a transformative experience that vividly reminds one of the necessity and vital power of theatre to heal and create collective awareness of shared human existence.

Like all great odysseys, internal and external, my journey began with crossing an ocean from New York to Athens, followed by a quick metro ride to a two-hour bus excursion alongside the Sardonic Gulf. We traversed dense pine forests and drove by dirt road goat farms clinging to cliffs. The epic voyage was part of the soul-opening that prepares one for the profoundness of encountering the ancient Theatre of Epidaurus for the first time, a theatre with exquisite acoustics and aesthetics built in the 4th century BC by the architect Polykleitos the Younger that seats up to 14,000, still in use for contemporary audiences to experience dance, music and dramatic performances as the ancients did thousands of years before.

Dionysus is best known as the Greek god of theatre, ecstatic dance and wine. His temple and theatre are in the heart of Athens at the Acropolis. However, in Epidaurus, the God of choice is the God of medicine, Asclepius, who the performances were meant to worship. While the connection to theatre and medicine may not seem obvious outright, ancient Greeks believed that seeing comedic and tragic plays was a form of healing, observing that those watching dramas performed onstage had positive effects mentally and physically. In fact, the word catharsis was coined by Aristotle in his Poetics and is derived from the Greek word “kathairein,” which means "to cleanse or purge.” This term aptly describes the release of emotional tension Aristotle noted that spectators experienced when viewing dramatic tragedy. Why are we drawn to witnessing pain and suffering on stages and screens? It connects us with universal humanity and fosters understanding.

“We sometimes think that our grief is unique, without precedent, that no one in the history of humanity has suffered so much. But we only need to watch a play,” Rodrigues explained.

Upon entering what feels like a truly sacred space, a centuries-old amphitheatre surrounded by woodlands growing dark in the dusk, the ancient spell is broken by 20th- century sounds. Otis Redding's voice, full of love and longing, soul and sorrow, cuts through the night sky. The somewhat odd opening music choice will come full circle in one of the play's most powerful moments. The set (scenography by Fernando Riberio) is simple: a few tables, some chairs, and a large object obscured by black cloth, looming like a mountainous Pandora’s box filled with secrets. But the real set is the setting, which dwarfs anything manmade or modern.

The actors are clad in black flowing garments (by Jose Antonio Tenente)—European chic, with a nod to the Greek draping of yesteryear. Indeed, upon the opening lines (spoken in French with Greek and English surtitles on the sidelines), the ensemble introduces themselves as the chorus. They aim to set the tone and stage, explaining in unison their multiple roles and purpose. It’s a little cute and slightly undermines the depth and intensity of the performances to come, but a lighthearted introductory approach has a way of disarming an audience, just as the Otis Redding music did. The Comédie-Française ensemble is superb, and each of them volleys between roles of an actor rehearsing for a present-day performance of Euripides’ Hecuba in Paris, France, the character they are

portraying in Euripides’ Hecuba, and several people entangled in a court case. Seamlessly, they shift from one role to another without fussiness or overt formality, a credit to the actors and the director.

In the first scene, they are all gathered for a table reading of Euripides’ Hecuba. As is

typical in these gatherings, the actors (playing actors) are in various self-centric states, detracting from the task at hand. Some are bored or frustrated, waiting for their lines; others are desperate to know their entrances and exits, arrogantly claiming more space than the others (particularly the actor who plays Polymestor, a brilliantly pompous and despicable role for Loïc Corbery). Then there’s the lead actress playing Hecuba, Nadia (played with exceptional dimension and sensitivity by Elsa Lepoivre). Nadia is clearly distracted, constantly checking the time, eager to depart. The only thing on her mind is her son’s court case.

Nadia’s son, Otis, named after the musician, is autistic. She attempts a pun that people suggested she prophesied his condition by naming him thus (say Otis with a French accent, and you get “au-tee-ss”)—a little humor attempt that falters, especially when trying to keep up with the translations. Otis is verbally limited to about fifty words, mainly something and not something. Fruit, not fruit; home, not home; mama, not mama; cuddle, not cuddle (hence Hecuba, Not Hecuba). It was a vehement “not cuddle” that alerted her maternal instincts that something was very wrong. She approached him from behind, arms open for an embrace, and Otis threw his arms into an “X” above his head and yelled, “Not cuddle!” Most of the time, Otis is under the state’s care in a facility. This gesture made Nadia certain he was being abused, and the remainder of the performance darts between scenes betwixt Euripides’ Hecuba characters that parallel or sometimes contrast with lawyers, prosecutors, defendants, witnesses and the accused abusers. Life imitates art and vice versa.

In the court, human nature is revealed as it is on stage. Elissa Alloula plays the actress portraying Coryphaea (a mountain goddess) in Hecuba and Nérine in the courts. As Nérine, she confesses to witnessing the abuse. Her fears of speaking out because she is an immigrant and threatened with deportation are lessened by being a mother and caretaker. Conversely, Séphora Pondi, who also plays Nadia’s lawyer preparing her for the wrath of the cross-examination (“Why, as his mother, do you allow the state to take care of Otis?”) is another who looks after Otis but is devoid of proper training for caring for an autistic child.

Hecuba, Not Hecuba. Photo © Alex Kat

Gaël Kamilindi, who is barely more than an observer for the first half of the play, gets two strong moments to shine as the actor. Playing the small role of a servant in Euripides’ Hecuba, he confronts Nadia’s lamentations about the insurmountable stress of her son’s abuse and the trail by putting his own pain and role into perspective. “At least he is alive!” he challenges her, referring to the loss of his father, who was his “whole world.” Each character, no matter how small, has a life and relationships that are their “world.” This pivotal moment speaks to the universality of pain and Rodriguez’s observation on how we each suffer individually and feel we are in a silo with our anguish, while others are feeling tormented too. Kamilindi’s sympathetic actor is starkly contrasted by Dubois, Otis's lead abuser. Cold, hard and staring blankly ahead, he defiantly defends himself for “doing what needed to be done.”

Denis Podalydès, who also plays the actor portraying Agamemnon (a controversial

character, not as outright villainous as Polymestor, but the one who lays judgment on Hecuba, ultimately deciding she was right in her vengeance on Polymestor and his sons), also plays the Prosecutor, an amiable man who grows more so as the trial continues with subtleties like offering or denying refreshments to the witnesses and passionately defending Nadia and Otis. In one such moment, he questions the reason for force, and when Kamilindi, as Dubois, states he felt threatened, Podalydès, as Polymestor, flails his arms back and forth at his chest and shouts, “He was dancing!” This transitions into one of the most unexpectedly powerful moments of the play. Each cast member dons a helmet (like those worn by children to protect them from injury) and, to Otis Redding’s “Try A Little Tenderness,” flings their arms about with wild abandon and joy. At first, it seemed absurd, another attempt at humor flattered. But, almost immediately, another

sensation rushed over me as the actors, fully committed, almost forgetting themselves, flung their limbs with such sweet sincerity and innocence that I felt the waterworks welling up in my eyes uncontrollably.

Hecuba, Not Hecuba. Photo © Alex Kat

I felt a combination of the absurdity, innocence, joy and the unspeakable violations to crush those feelings. It hit me then that catharsis wasn’t the only healing effect of witnessing tragedy. The greater emotion and, indeed, power that is stirred is compassion. I cannot personally relate to the plights of these characters; the tragic mother (Hecuba, who lost most of her nineteen children, or Nadia with her abused autistic son) is far removed from my experience. Yet, the depth of compassion such performances provoke is enough to feel the pain as your own. And with that, to feel less isolated in your struggles and less separate from others’ hurt.

Perhaps this was Nadia’s turning point as well. The actress and mother was at first defensive when hearing Dubois’ excuses, then in a bold choice that could only happen at a theatre surrounded by pine trees engulfed by the velvety night, Lepoivre shifted from defensiveness to listening as she wandered off the stage into the woods, her pale skin and blond hair glowing against the darkness. She emerged from the forest with a new purpose, even some compassion for Dubois, the abuser, as a fellow victim of systemic abuse and with a newfound vengeance for the real perpetrator, the mastermind behind the government-run grossly lacking facilities, the Alternate Minister, arrogant, slick, vile and dangerous as Polymestor himself, played by the same actor in that role, Loïc Corbery. Nadia performs to the press to highlight the injustices. The Minister’s defenses fall flat as lies and sophistry. Their battle plays out much like Euripides’ Hecuba, with justice being served blindingly.

A significant theme peppered throughout is of a canine kind. In some tellings of Hecuba, she was transformed into a dog by the gods after snarling at Odysseus as a slave. This seeming punishment allowed her to escape. Dogs play an integral part. Nadia speaks of an animation that Otis adores (parents of autistic children have noted that cartoons and anime are calming and enjoyable because the emotions are easier to identify) about a stray dog roaming alone, who upon various turns, shows up more beaten and injured, eventually losing a leg. This is later emphasized when the black drape covering the mountainous set piece reveals a grotesque statue of a wolfish hound whose leg falls off. Nadia uses this as a prop to represent Otis to the press. In the play’s final triumphant moments, Nadia tells the audience end of the cartoon, the lost stray finds a puppy, and they are no longer afraid or alone.