“Medea”, Ivan Vazov National Theatre, Sofia
Sasho Ognenovski in Bulgaria
21 March 2025
“Stronger than a lover’s love is a lover’s hatred. The wounds they inflict are incurable,” says Medea at one point, realizing that she is utterly lost in the labyrinth of her own self-possession. Medea is an ancient symbol of infanticide, representing an unsettling barbarism that Euripides subtly insists upon between the lines of his tragedy. She is a model of vengeance, yet rigid and unyielding precisely because of her unforgivable act.
Photo credit: Stefan Zdraveski.
Declan Donnellan’s directorial vision retains only the textual essence of this dramatic archetype, while everything else is modernized—the style, the tone, and the tragic story of a woman left with an empty and cold bed. Donnellan’s concept immerses us in Medea’s world, stripping us of the comfort of our seats and placing us directly on the stage, standing alongside her as living witnesses to her suffering.
His Medea steps out of herself and into our space—embracing us, weeping on our shoulders, showing and telling us her pain. In short, he compels us to experience her inconsolable suffering first-hand. This directorial simplicity is striking in its ability to sustain the audience’s full attention through sheer performance alone, and Donnellan succeeds entirely in this regard.
The play is performed not just by the actors but also by the audience, creating a groundbreaking theatrical experience worthy of further exploration. I have only encountered such an immersive approach once before, this being Mount Olympus: To Glorify the Cult of Tragedy, a 24-hour performance by Jan Fabre where actors and audience shared the same space for an entire day.
However, Medea takes audience involvement to an even more intense level, directly and uncompromisingly pulling us into the heart of the action. One of the essential elements of this production is the Chorus of Corinthian Women who are interwoven with the audience. Their presence initiates the unfolding tragedy, making it feel as though we are hearing and witnessing this ancient myth for the first time—even though we know it well.
Through this production, Declan Donnellan challenges conventional theatre, demonstrating that the simplification of ancient tragedy’s core elements can yield new and revelatory interpretations. Radina Kardzhilova embodies Medea as a suffering woman who has deliberately severed ties with her world in pursuit of love. Yet, in this story, she has not filled her home with faith and truth.
With volcanic emotion and sharp articulation, this brilliant actress crafts a Medea who could exist in any tragic moment of the twenty-first century. Every line she delivers echoes the voices of wronged and abandoned women whose lives hang by a thread. As a profoundly intuitive and emotionally charged performer, Kardzhilova shares her character’s misfortune with us, offering a piece of herself and inviting us to reflect on the dark stains in our own lives. Medea is a sorceress, but she is also a deeply conceived family woman. This paradox is ever-present in Kardzhilova’s performance, as she reminds us that we are not truly lost if we lose ourselves—we can always find our way back.
True despair comes from losing what we carry within us—something that can never be recovered. Velislav Pavlov’s Jason is a compelling presence, defined by restrained intensity, male dominance, and raw cruelty—an attitude that Medea refuses to accept at face value. His Jason is strikingly logical and deceptively simple, yet the depth of his portrayal reveals a complex and gripping character.
Valentin Ganev delivers an outstanding performance as Creon, a ruler whose cold detachment barely conceals his deep-seated contempt for Medea, whom he has always considered a barbarian. This experienced actor conveys his character’s arrogance and fear with masterful subtlety. Asen Dankov’s Aegeus is the only glimmer of hope in the production, the sole beacon of light in Medea’s darkness. He plays the role with infectious energy and dedication, offering Medea a fleeting but unattainable salvation. The Chorus of Corinthian Women serves as a bridge between the actors and the audience, heightening the emotional stakes of the play. Radena Valkanova, Zhoreta Nikolova, Stefania Koleva, Elena Ivanova, Nadya Keranova, and Ana Papadopulu bring a striking simplicity to their roles, offering themselves to the audience so that Medea’s tragedy is not only performed but felt—visualized through our own reactions and engagement.
The visual component of this production also radiates the wisdom of simplicity. Nick Ormerod’s stage and costume design are distilled into a pure minimal space from which emerges a small podium—a structure that later transforms into the tomb of Medea’s murdered children. The stark whiteness surrounding Medea contrasts sharply with the formal black attire of nearly all the male characters. The production listens (along with us, the audience) to the music of silence, which generates an extraordinary tension—yet another testament to the exceptional organic quality of this deeply compelling interpretation of the ancient tragedy.
Following Medea’s barbarism, one can argue that Euripides’s tragedy could also be classified as a political play. Perhaps that explains its numerous reinterpretations, particularly in the last century. However, this production reminds us that even in the ancient world—and even more so in modern times—Medea’s misfortune is a political remnant, and her entire story echoes the ambiguity of civilization.
Donnellan strips Medea of all social and societal context. He hands over the ancient archetype to modern political machinery, which grinds it down completely and creates a new figure of woman and mother—one that resonates with everyone in the audience who has come to witness this performance. The same applies to Jason. By enacting Medea’s circumstances, the audience is—perhaps without even realizing it—transformed into Jasons and Medeas themselves: calling our ex-wives just to hear the voice of our child, throwing them out of our homes after a drunken night etc. Time is on the side of the ashamed, the sacrificed, the broken Medea, while our own time—as ordinary people—slips away unnoticed, unexamined. And perhaps that is a greater tragedy than losing the one beside us.
