The magisterial Sanskrit poem comprising the Mahabharata is so epic in scope – around 75,000 verses and three million words – that it seems eminently sensible for it to be staged in two-parts over five hours (or seven, with intervals that include the option of a communal meal and storytelling).
Yet this show is positively economical in comparison to Peter Brook’s seminal adaptation from the 1980s, which was performed at almost double this length. Where that has since met with charges of orientalism, this production by Canadian company Why Not Theatre has authenticity at its heart, led by South Asian artists and combining classical elements with modern. The result is magisterial in its own right, meticulous and dazzling in parts, although the second act, with its large-scale projections and chandeliered opulence, leaves us rather coldly removed.
Written and adapted by Ravi Jain (also directing) and Miriam Fernandes, and using poetry from Carole Satyamurti’s Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling, it tells the central story of two clans connected by blood – the Kauravas and the Pandavas – and their fateful game of dice which leads to enmity, exile and devastating war.
A storyteller (played with great charm by Fernandes) is summoned to tell of the family feud, which eventually finds it focus through a blizzard of fabular stories within stories encapsulating gods and mortals, curses and cycles of revenge as well as a coda on Hindu spirituality.
Initially, it is ancient and elemental, Lorenzo Savoini’s set designed as stools set around a fire. It is the archetypal storytelling circle and the drama is enacted inside it with wonderfully playful choreography by Brandy Leary (with contributions from Jay Emmanuel and Ellora Patnaik). The low-born warrior, Arjuna (Anaka Maharaj-Sandhu), stretches his arms in the shape of a bow and women bear invisible babies, their movement casting expressive shadows against the backdrop. Modern elements work well within this traditional framework including flashes of humour through figures such as the deity, Krishna (Neil D’Souza), who speaks in witty vernacular.
As a story, it is dazzling in its imagination but dizzying in its complications (we are advised to look for meanings rather than follow all its turns). It comes into its full power during the gambling dice scene, ending with the humiliation for the Pandavas, who become bloodthirsty for revenge. The second act brings dramatic changes, far more modern in its aesthetics with back screens capturing characters up close. But the human drama feels, ironically, at an emotional remove although Darren Kuppan, as Duryodhana, the Pandavas’ eldest son, is a compelling figure. By its nature, the second act is more static with philosophical reflections on dharma, climate damage, revenge and war, but even so it feels inert and ill-paced. The Bhagavad Gita is sung as an opera by Meher Pavri and it has vocal glory but the abstract planetary projections are overbearing, looking like oversized lava lamps or corny new age visions, and seem empty of greater meaning.
Where this production soars is in its music, movement and kathakali dance. The blend of east and west, modern and classical, in John Gzowski and Suba Sankaran’s musical compositions (with contributions from Dylan Bell, Gurtej Singh Hunjan, Zaheer-Abbas Janmohamed and Hasheel Lodhia), is exquisite, with electric guitar mixed with tabla, bansuri and evocatively sung raags and geets, while the god Shiva (Jay Emmanuel) spins with terrible power as violence commences on the battlefield.
We do not always feel connected to the horrifying loss suffered by both families but it raises in its power when we return to the elemental intimacy of the storyteller at the end, which reminds us of the immense power of this epic, simply told.
• At Barbican, London, until 7 October
