Review of ‘Bloodsport’: “Modern-day Iliad screams loud, but it has no stentorian voice”

A Greek tragedy is unfolding on the stage at Stratford East. If the gods of theatre are keen to seek retaliation, I cannot blame them. In the end, it is a mediocre play. Even worse, it butchers one of the finest ancient narratives the Western world has ever coined, and it has virtually nothing to show for it.

The legend of Helen of Troy relives (in a catatonic state, that is) in Ava Pickett’s contemporary adaptation, Bloodsport. Don’t look for colossal wooden horses, constricting sea serpents, or weak spots in heroes’ heels. Instead, the story involves the rise of half a nation against the will of an unhappy wife, following the fabrication that her non-white lover had sexually assaulted her.

If you’re getting excited about the premise, I’ll advise you to keep your hopes down. As low as you can, actually. While commenting on immigration scapegoating and other problems affecting an increasingly divided, ultraradicalised society can be the basis for a stirring, thought-provoking piece, I can assure you this is nothing of the sort. All you will encounter are excruciatingly one-dimensional characters, cliched humour, and a message that’s so on the nose you might get a bleed.

Picket’s deficiencies as a writer surface primarily through her inability to bring complexity and nuance to both the recount and its personages. For a play that challenges patriarchal structures, it’s surprising how strict its gender roles are: the husbands are evil and only evil; Helen is a model of nonconformity; and her sister-in-law, Cee, is the traditional enabling wife who lives to serve her spouse because she doesn’t know any better.

Don’t worry if you’re uncertain about which side you should be on. They will tell you. And they’ll make sure the message is clear — over and over again. Standing against xenophobia, sexism, and other kinds of social inequality isn’t the issue. Great works have done so in the past, and new ones are just as welcome. But this is a clunky attempt that presents itself as deep and stimulating when, in truth, it’s exceedingly shallow and insults the viewer’s intelligence.

Its political observations are outrageously unsubtle. So much so that you will be tempted to bill the venue for squint-eye surgery from all the times you couldn’t help but roll them. Not only is the subtext coarse, but its thematic approach is lazy and self-righteous. It criticises a reality but demonstrates zero interest in understanding it. Ultimately, it has one single purpose: to preach rather than explore.

The structure is flawed as well. Although the pacing is engaging, the ending is rushed, half-hearted, and unfulfilling. The insertion of a one-person chorus is also unnecessary — and painfully boring. His contribution is overexpositional. He doesn’t provide any information that we haven’t grasped from the action. And his remarks are a constant reminder of the play’s determination not to make us think — but to tell us what to think.

Picket’s lack of originality pervades her struggle to make her work distinctive. The script is plagued by superfluous ties to the source material, which add nothing to the dramaturgy. The Gods, for instance, are referenced on countless occasions as if they were functional characters. But contrary to The Iliad, they have no influence or say in anything that happens. And their inclusion is even more capricious than the real deities.

The performances are the production’s only redeeming feature — apart from its staging, which, although unimpressive, is nonetheless elaborate. As for the cast, Michelle Dockery and Laura Aikman deliver compelling portrayals as Helen and Cee, brimming with rapport while counterbalancing the former’s brittleness with the latter’s tongue-in-cheekness. Another mention goes to Emma Monnickendam for her impassioned, touching rendition of Helen’s daughter, Hermione.

“This is the new England”, a smirking raconteur professes as the stage goes into complete darkness. As much as this play depicts a concerning situation, it should be taken as a warning about how poor remakes can be. I’m not trying to be a Cassandra, but eventually, its promising premise evaporates into another myth. I don’t know about the protagonist’s face, but this piece might be the one that launched a thousand viewers the other way.

Bloodsport: After Helen of Troy plays at London’s Theatre Royal Stratford East until 10 October. Tickets available on the following link.

By Guillermo Nazara