MEDEAMEDEAMEDEA Review — A Story of Female Rage

Medea screams — Mary Eliza Willingham as Medea

Medea is perhaps the most hated woman in Greek mythology, a title difficult to earn with competition like Clytemnestra and Pandora. Over 2,000 years ago, a woman killing her own children was among the worst crimes human beings could imagine, and in the modern era, not much has changed. Motherhood is still considered a woman’s highest aspiration and motivation, and violence is still considered profoundly unladylike, acceptable for men but verboten for women.

Medea kneels holding a baby garment, other baby clothes scattered around her — Mary Eliza Willingham as Medea

It’s no surprise, then, that Olivia Buntaine’s feminist reimagining, MEDEAMEDEAMEDEA, now in its world premiere with Theatre EVOLVE, resonates so deeply. When Medea walks onstage, screaming, crying, and slamming her palms to the ground repeatedly, I immediately thought, yes. This is what it feels like. As the story progresses, weaving Medea’s present-day heartbreak after Jason leaves her for the princess of Corinth with the backstory of their falling in love and her leaving her family and homeland to be with him, Medea and her two companions, the Nurse and the Neighbor, discuss the core issues of womanhood across millennia, from sex to motherhood to power. The script would be breathtaking if it stopped trying to explain itself.

Three women stand in a triangle in front of a cauldron — (L to R) Amber Dow as the Nurse, Mary Eliza Willingham as Medea, and Marley Doakes as the Neighbor

When the play is just story, it is remarkably effective. I found myself pulling faces at Jason’s entitled worldview, barking a laugh at Medea’s cutting comebacks, and nodding along at the truths the three women dropped throughout. Where Buntaine’s script falters, however, is when Medea, the Neighbor, and the Nurse, already recognizable as the Mother, Maiden, and Crone (the three forms of the goddess Hecate and archetypes for women everywhere), transform literally into those roles and recite overwrought poetry behind a veil. Here, the women spell out the show’s messages: Medea has no voice in her own story, men take everything from women until there is nothing left, and so on. Worst of all is when a voice recording plays over Medea’s mixing of her final deadly potion, describing medical standards for defining insanity. Everything the playwright is trying to say, about women and madness and legacy, is there in the text. By spelling it out, she undermines her own message, betraying a lack of confidence in both her own script and her audience’s intelligence.

A woman stands behind a veil — Mary Eliza Willingham as Medea

Despite these frustratingly on-the-nose sections, the play is still moving; I left the theatre feeling in touch with my own deep rage and sorrow at the way women are treated in this patriarchal world. The strong cast helps. Mary Eliza Willingham is a commanding Medea, her every acting choice powerful and compelling. Amber Dow has both flawless comedic timing and intense emotional moments as the Nurse. Marley Doakes effectively embodies the fiery spirit of the young Neighbor. And Riley Lucas captures every bit of nuance in both Jason’s heel turn and the Messenger’s parallels to his boss. The design does much with little: scenic designer Rose Johnson crafts a simple environment usable for a variety of settings, and costume designer Jana Lynn Casey creates a similar effect with just a handful of colors, although the sound design falls victim to easily fixable errors like noticeable gaps in looping music.

Medea kneels at Jason's feet, his hand underneath her chin — (L to R) Mary Eliza Willingham as Medea and Riley Lucas as Jason

MEDEAMEDEAMEDEA is so close to a perfect play. It’s no simple task to retell a story that has been told countless times over hundreds of years and manage to say something new, and Buntaine pulls it off spectacularly. I just wish she could get out of her own way. Nevertheless, this potent world premiere is worth seeing for its sheer quantity of raw emotional truth.