METAMORPHOSES

Hammersmith Club

★★★★

“Theatrical gold may be a hyperbole too far, but they have certainly created a real gem”

To say that Ovid’s epic, narrative “Metamorphoses” is old is an understatement. Written between 2 and 8 CE, the many myths that are recorded in his fifteen-book magnum opus were already centuries old. Yet over the millennia its influence hasn’t waned, and it continues to inspire. Dante, Chaucer and, of course, Shakespeare were all devotees, allowing Ovid’s poetry to shape their own work; and even today it sparks theatrical adaptations. Mary Zimmerman’s Pulitzer Prize-winning “Metamorphoses: Based on the Myths of Ovid” is one such example. Written at the turn of the twenty-first century it casts a contemporary eye on the likes of Eros and Psyche, Orpheus and Eurydice, Midas, Zeus… and the creation. Among others.

Milkweed Productions’ current interpretation maintains the modernity of Zimmerman’s narrative yet manages to instil a timeless magic with its innovative and evocative staging. Two bathing pools (rather inviting looking, in this heatwave) dominate the space, providing metaphorical and literal depth for the performers, who don’t shy away from fully immersing themselves in both the water and the text. We are in a hall in the back streets of Hammersmith which, in itself, is a touch bereft of atmosphere despite its sense of grandeur. Daylight floods through the high windows leaving little room for lighting, but the stripped-down approach allows us to focus on the performance. The Victorian, gold-leaf cornices are serendipitously appropriate as Midas bookends the show.

The eleven-strong cast play many roles as well as repeatedly switching into narrator mode. Directed by Eileen MacDonald (who also plays Eurydice – among others), the switches are seamless and as fluid as the ripples of water in the pools. With the audience on three sides, the whole space is used including the minstrels’ balcony and the raised stage as well as the central floor space; drawing us into the action. Surrounded by Antony Lam’s subtle soundscape, minimalism rules the day, but the result is engaging and moving, as well as funny and playful.

Harry Pritchard’s Midas is a privileged manchild who ignores the advice that his wish is a “really bad idea”. In a neat twist, gold is synonymous with profit, which lends a suitably satirical and contemporary take on the dialogue. Pritchard later turns up as the insatiable Erysichthon who ends up eating himself accompanied by the incongruous strains of jazz music. Astute little choices permeate this staging, sometimes missed, but more often visible in their ingenuity. MacDonald’s Eurydice, drowning in the pool, replicates the tragic Ophelia of Millais’ famous oil painting.

The amount of doubling up of characters is impressive, but nevertheless easy to follow, with each performer succinctly embodying their role with quirky, eccentric touches. Three laundresses narrate much of the story before slipping into their other characters; whether a significant mythical protagonist or a servant, nursemaid, even a disembodied voice. Music is used sparsely but beautifully and evocatively. We long for Lam’s violin to reappear following its brief appearance, yet their singing voice lingers in the air, suspended in our hearts. Elsewhere, the delicate ensemble harmonies are equally gorgeous.

It is difficult – and unfair – to single out any cast members. Each convey their own charismatic individuality; from Cameron Chavers’ cool, sassy Aphrodite, Cheri McKenzie’s striking Hermes, Shannon Smith’s formidable Bacchus, Abigail Devine’s headstrong Pomona, Lucy Krubiner’s disapproving Alcyone, with Anne McCarron taking on a ridiculous number of personas. They all shift into their other roles with ease, aided by McKenzie’s elegant choreography, which comes to the fore at moments such as the slightly dubious seduction of Cinyras by his daughter Myrrah (an impressive Rachael Dowsett). The seediness of this story is overruled by the brutal tragedy depicted in the inspired movement. But we soon return to humour, with Brandon Jewell’s wonderful turn as the brattish public schoolboy, Phaeton, lounging by the pool before driving Daddy’s sun too close to the earth. Most spoilt kids just crash the car – he trashes the whole earth in flames.

This company have a fine hold on Zimmerman’s writing which balances humour and satire with poetry and lyricism. They have less of an eye on the clock, perhaps, but nothing an interval wouldn’t cure. The evening ends on an optimistic note, with Midas’ wish revoked. Indeed, his capacity to turn everything he touches into gold may have been a curse for Midas. For this company it is a gift. Theatrical gold may be a hyperbole too far, but they have certainly created a real gem.

METAMORPHOSES

Hammersmith Club

Reviewed on 16th July 2026

by Jonathan Evans

METAMORPHOSES

METAMORPHOSES

METAMORPHOSES