Aman leaves his wife for a younger woman — a plotline as
recognizable to modern audiences as it was to Euripides’ playgoers in 431 BC.
But what makes “Medea” a tragic paradigm of wild proportions is not its
conveyance of the archetypal heartbroken woman, but of a woman so racked by
grief she is driven to reckless measures, murdering her husband and,
ultimately, her children.

Any actress would devour Medea’s role, thick with motives
both rash and psychologically profound. Though she possesses supernatural prowess,
it is incited by a weakness so intimately human that — even amid homicidal
enchantments — we identify with her agonizing outcries.

Second-year MFA student Jihae Park tackles these sweeping
transitions with an elegance and intelligence that lights up the hauntingly
bare set. As she shudders, eye-level with the audience and doused in a syrupy
blood-red spotlight, we are invited into the conscience of an embittered woman,
tossed aside after a lifetime of groveling at men’s feet. By the time the
85-minute production reaches its chilling climax, we don’t know whether to
commend her triumphant testament to woman’s cunning, or question her
willingness to betray motherhood for the sake of vengeance.

A perfectly synced chorus — servants clad in tattered beige trench
coats and white face paint — accelerates Medea’s emotional rollercoaster and
provides needed punctuations of comic relief (think men miming childbirth),
when Park’s raging monologues begin to fatigue. The chorus members only break
from their fluid narration to play Medea’s counterparts — Mandel Weiss regular
Johnny Wu impressively rises from choral chanting as Jason, the coolly
patronizing husband who assures Medea that his desertion is entirely rational.
“I’d rather be sung about than be a saint,” he smugly explains. This
self-satisfied swagger exposes the root of Medea’s repressed hatred without
being overtly antagonistic — the gender powerplay is subtle yet present
throughout Park’s interactions with the expertly unlikable King Creon (Peter
Wylie) and Aegeus (Irungu Mutu).

But nonstop heady plot revelations don’t encumber the
production, thanks to the artful insight of director Isis Saratial Misdary. The
circular stage is framed by little more than tightly hung ropes and a single
black staircase, from which Medea descends (the initial point of her avalanche
into madness). A piece of red silk acts at once as her poisoned offering to
Creon (father of Jason’s new bride), and as a call to the deities to justify
lethal intentions.

The limited use of props complements an equally sparse
musical backdrop. The hollow beating of a single drum parallels aappropriate
peaks in Medea’s quest for retribution.

The timelessness of the Greek epic is drawn upon in
Misdary’s adaptation — we could be witnessing any era, any kingdom, any woman’s
anguish. While this interpretive style allows certain liberties (amid spiritual
transformation, Medea’s speech dissolves into rapid Korean diatribe), it also
neglects scenes that are traditionally expected (Medea’s final chariot ride,
King Creon’s decision to poison himself). Omissions aside, we still leave the
theater with the disturbing understanding that a woman’s grief can bend the
limits of human reasoning to their gruesome breaking point.