ANOTHER disappointing production has hit the West End, with Daniel Fish’s reimagining of the ancient play short-circuiting.

Sophocles is currently in vogue in London, due to the unflinching exploration of war and revenge. According to classicist Edith Hall, more Greek tragedies have been performed in the last half-century than at any time since 5th-century Athens.

Sophocles’ ability to distill profound wisdom, sophisticated plotting, and emotional complexity into a 90-minute play is nothing short of remarkable, offering a stark contrast to the often meandering narratives of modern dramas. 

This feat serves as a timely reminder to contemporary playwrights of the value of concise, tightly wound storytelling.

Unfortunately, Elektra starring Brie Larson is a misfire – a production so underwhelming that it may deter first-time theatergoers for life. 

Look, I won a £1 ticket through the Pay What You Can Lottery, and that felt like a rip off.

Despite the long queues, which are due to Oscar winner Larson making her UK stage debut, the show fails to impress.

Larson, sporting a shaven head and Bikini Kill T-shirt, brings a manic energy to the title role, but her cries of “No. NO. No!” come across as more desperate and annoying than dramatic.

Without Larson’s star power, it’s unlikely this tedious and poorly directed work would have seen the light of day.

The boring production’s swanky set, designed by Jeremy Herbert, features a revolving stage and various tech equipment against a white cyclorama.

However, the overall effect is mechanical and gripping only in an unpleasant way. 

Larson’s delivery, with its odd stress patterns (she sings ‘no’ at every opportunity) and often-crushed sentences, suffocates the drama. Even the capable chorus, wielding mic stands and rock-star physicality, can’t salvage the wreckage of Anne Carson’s 2001 translation.

The storytelling is as baggy as an old T shirt, desperately in need of dramaturgical support to provide focus.

This modern adaptation is pretentious and lacking in substance. As Orestes, Patrick Vaill is bafflingly dressed as a rally driver, with a vocal delivery reminiscent of a racing commentator.

The only exception to this hot mess is Stockard Channing (in firs), who brings elegance to proceedings as Clytemnestra. She is the sole actor to humanise a role, making her the production’s one redeeming feature.

After admiring Fish’s Oklahoma!, I was disappointed to find that this production – complete with voice-distorting microphones, jets of black ink, and a blimp that represents Apollo – felt more like an experimental fringe show than a West End production.

The show is most effective in its silent moments, but unfortunately, these are few and far between.

Ultimately, the question remains: does any of it work? Alas, the answer is: No. No. No!

Elektra Duke of York’s theatre, London, until 12 April