Minotaur

A huge, human sadness skulks at the centre of one of the most memorable Greek myths, retold here for younger audiences by Adam Peck. Ariadne’s half-brother may have the head of a bull and a carnivorous appetite of nation-scouring proportions. But he has the heart of a boy. Buried away in a dark labyrinth by their father, King Minos of Crete, the Minotaur lives for the voice of his sister whenever she breaks parental command to visit him.  

The Unicorn itself has undergone partial metamorphosis for the start of its two-show Greek Season. A Mediterranean sun glows like orange jelly above amphitheatre-style seating. The audience stands in for the subjects of two quarrelling kings, who look and sound more like contemporary politicians as they forge a grisly agreement with the click of a ballpoint pen.

King Minos, a cold, ruthless meanie, picks 14 young audience members to be fed to the Minotaur (‘When’s your birthday? Cancel the party!’ ‘Scared of the dark? Perfect, let’s go!’) The cowardly and dishonest King Aegeas rushes off to prepare their laminated number tags.

Peck’s version of the myth draws a clear and sturdy thread between slick modern politics and barbaric atrocities. But this pulls director Tarek Iskander’s eye away from what could have been a more powerful act of physical storytelling. There is huge resonance in the simple image of this Minotaur. Human but for an origami-style mask formed from perforated sheet metal, he is mute and rusting for lack of love. When Ariadne steps into the labyrinth, its passages light up as if she’s activating dormant neural pathways. But this speech-heavy staging never quite seizes the bull by the horns.