Oedipus Schmoedipus

Last week: I saw my first Greek Tragedy.

Murder and incest. The subject matter of this blog knows no bounds.

Thanks to my lovely friend Elise, who works as a seamstress in the costume department of the Brussels Opera House, last week I found myself with a free invitation to a production of the ultimate Greek Tragedy: Oedipus. Romanian composer George Enescu's Oedipus was premiered in 1936, so as operas go, it's a relatively modern work.

What I know about Greek mythology, I could write on the back of a postage stamp with a shovel, so I decided that a quick Wikipedia visit was in order beforehand, so as to familiarise myself with the legend, preempting that I wouldn't be able to follow the story or understand the subtitles. (Incidentally, the subtitles were projected in both French and Flemish - Flemish on the right and French on the left - and then swapped over mid-way through the performance, so that, no matter where you are seated, you have the opportunity to follow subtitles in your language of choice for at least half the proceedings. How very diplomatic).

The story of Oedipus goes something like this:

Once upon a time, King Laius and Queen Jocasta give birth to a son, who is then abandoned after a prophet announces that he will kill his father and marry his mother. The boy survives and is named Oedipus and brought up by King Polybus and Queen Merope who he believes to be his biological parents. When Oedipus also hears the horrific prophesy, he flees from his parental home. During his travels, in self-defence, he kills King Laius, leaving Jocasta a widow. Anybody who can kill the sphinx will be entitled to marry Jocasta and it is indeed, Oedipus that slays the monster. On discovering that he has murdered his father and married his mother, Jocasta commits suicide and then Oedipus gouges his own eyes out. Nobody lives happily ever after. The end.

Hardly an episode of Hi-De Hi.

The curtain lifted to the spectacular sight of around 120 people lined up on scaffolding at various heights all dressed in the same drab brown colour and waving olive branches. The main action was taking place in the centre where it appeared that a plastic baby was being baptised by the High Priest. Well I assumed it was the High Priest, but with his matted dreadlocks and tatty clothing, all that was missing was the dog on a string and you could forgive me for thinking I'd been transported to Glastonbury. I was quite disappointed that there was no fire juggling.


After this joyous ceremony, up popped ultimate party pooper, blind prophet Tiresias to throw a spanner in the works, predicting doom and gloom and announcing that this little baby's fate would be to bump off his Dad and shack up with his Mum. I don't know about you, but christenings I've attended have usually been followed by a rather pleasant buffet reception in the church hall or a trip to the local boozer to wet the baby's head, with no sign of Mystic Meg in sight.

For poor Oedipus it only went downhill from there, and the only adjective that springs to mind to describe his plight is 'wretched'. I think the cheeriest thing that came out of his mouth was "Happy is he who dies before he is born". But despite all this misery and despondency, I rather enjoyed myself. We had great seats (the tenth row from the front, central) and it was quite something to be in such a spectacular and prestigious building, even managing to sneak in a guided tour with Elise during the interval. The music was exquisite and performed beautifully by the orchestra and, although opera is not necessarily my bag, I could appreciate the vocal acrobatics and melodrama of the whole affair. I was particularly impressed with the scenery, which at times was built very high up and involved actors climbing up some rather long, narrow ladders. Their gymanstic prowess was to be applauded. I still haven't quite worked out why there was a fighter jet on stage at one point, though. I'm far from the world's authority on history, but I was under the impression that planes had yet to be invented in 5BC. I complimented Elise on the costumes which were delightful and explained how perplexed I was to see high visibility tabards and scally shellsuit tops amongst attire more fitting of the era. She couldn't shed any light on the matter.

But the beauty of being with Elise was that I managed to pick up on some of the insider gossip. Which is, of course, for my ears only!

Would I try this again?: Which one? Murder or incest?

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