This is an OK performance and it is highly likely that had I not seen the Wyndham production late last year, my assessment of it would be less harsh. But this rendition pales in comparison and as much as I had been looking forward to seeing Malik and Varma on stage, I cannot pretend that it lived up to my expectations.

It does start off very strong indeed. The apparition of the gigantic face of Oedipus looms at the back of the stage and we hear the chanting of the king’s name coming out of the darkness. Then, lighting designer Tom Visser cuts the darkness apart and suddenly a phenomenal dance troupe from the Hofesh Shechter Company takes over, writhing with visceral energy. Suddenly the stage become concealed in darkness again, the dancers disappear and then reemerge, as if cutaway, in another corner of the stage.

And at first – this is exhilarating, and different, and powerful. The dance replaces the chorus, and I like the concept – but you can have too much of a good thing. Even this opening sequence begins to drag and over the course of the 100-minute play, the dancing becomes too frequent, too long and too distracting from the play itself. Even though the dancers represent the feelings of the people, first dying of thirst, then cavorting in the rain, the movement stops being part of the story and becomes something altogether separate, removing the chance of any tension building between the characters.

Also, the dancing evokes African themes and I am really not a fan of the mix and match approach to adaptations of the classics. Stick to the original and set it at that time; adapt it to a current setting; strip it completely so as to make it timeless…. But whatever you do, do not be lazy about it. Jocasta in a pashmina, Oedipus in a suit, Tiresias straight out of Mad Max. Contemporary language, tape recorders but antique beliefs along with everything else suggesting that the set is thousand years old. You have a drought in Thebes and apparently no ability to transport water from Corinth, but plenty of microphones. This is simply another incongruent adaptation, something unfortunately many writers seem to be guilty of nowadays. The horrible re-write by Anya Reiss of the Seagull (funnily enough also with Indira Varma when staged at the Pinter) being a prime example.

But most disappointing of all is the lack of intimacy between Oedipus and Jocasta. I went to the theatre to see tension between the two, but there was none to speak of. I felt more love emanating from the photos of Malik and Varma in the programme than I did from their interaction on stage. This despite the original play being set entirely in public, whereas Ella Hickson’s adaptation adding private scenes within the palace walls. Sure, maybe unlike the passion-fuelled Mark Strong and Lesley Manville relationship, this is a more typical marriage where after many years and children desire has long been replaced by respectful cohabitation and efficient running of the household. But even then, you’d expect something more than a sort of nonplussed “oh darn it, all this time I have been sleeping with my mum, go figure.”

In conclusion, this adaptation fails to make a point. The stage swelters, drowning in reds and oranges, torn apart by strikes of lightning; but the drought overtakes the core tenant of the tragedy. Yes, it is clever to ask the question whether you should give people what they want even if it is not what they need. Should our politicians push forward for net zero even at the crippling current cost of the endeavour? But re-writing this to be a play focussed on the climate crisis and toning down the dynamic between the two people inflicted by fate is not the way forward. I get that maybe that is the best that was possible with the lead actor clearly not ready for the stage. And I do not say this because of the almost Donald Trump like American drawl. Frankly, I thought that was clever. It highlighted the ‘otherness’ of Oedipus; his immigrant status. But when Jocasta moves close to him after the truth has been revealed, he recoils away in disgust, but in a manner reminiscent of a boy being attacked by a bogey on a mate’s finger. There is no depth to this reaction. It was in desperate need of a couple of retakes.

Off the back of just having seen Sigourney Weaver in the Tempest, I am increasingly starting to think that this year I will be going to the theatre despite the presence of Hollywood starts, not because of them.