'If it ain't broke, don't fix it'

A few years ago, two siblings slept together in Brookside, again causing a storm of protest.

Yet centuries ago, Sophocles wrote Oedipus, a tale of incest, murder and jealousy.

And it hardly causes a stir.

For what makes Oedipus, the tragedy based around a man who kills his father and sleeps with his mother, so acceptable is the mere fact that it is art, darling.

Yet most shocking of all is that Blake Morrison, who, in asking his cast to deliver the lines in colloquial Yorkshire accents, appears to think his version is somehow clever and modern.

But surely our friends from over the Pennines would say 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it'.

Oedipus in itself is an admirable tragedy, gripping but yet shocking and full of symbolism.

It is emotional, engaging, sometimes boring, but also undeniably well-scripted.

Yet, when given what the Octagon terms "a breath of fresh air", you can't help but wonder whether it was worth it.

In effect, the actors -- who, incidentally were excellent, faultless even -- were only given the chance to swear a bit and be that little more shocking, however unfair that may sound.

Of course, one fully understands that theatre is diverse. One also must applaud the award-winning shows the Octagon has showcased.

But one also has to remember the Octagon was once on the verge of collapse. So it seems strange to offer a play which appeals only to a niche audience -- and then to go down the oh so tiresome path of modernisation.

Oedipus is a man who has been asked to overcome a devastating plague and find the murderer of the previous ruler, Laius. Through a series of well scripted twists and turns, he discovers a cruel truth.

But at the same time the audience also discovers a truth: sometimes it's best keep to tradition or just don't try at all.

David Crookes TWO months ago, TV soap EastEnders caused an outcry when a mother and her son shared a quick kiss on screen.

A few years ago, two siblings slept together in Brookside, again causing a storm of protest.

Yet centuries ago, Sophocles wrote Oedipus, a tale of incest, murder and jealousy.

And it hardly causes a stir.

For what makes Oedipus, the tragedy based around a man who kills his father and sleeps with his mother, so acceptable is the mere fact that it is art, darling.

Yet most shocking of all is that Blake Morrison, who, in asking his cast to deliver the lines in colloquial Yorkshire accents, appears to think his version is somehow clever and modern.

But surely our friends from over the Pennines would say 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it'.

Oedipus in itself is an admirable tragedy, gripping but yet shocking and full of symbolism.

It is emotional, engaging, sometimes boring, but also undeniably well-scripted.

Yet, when given what the Octagon terms "a breath of fresh air", you can't help but wonder whether it was worth it.

In effect, the actors -- who, incidentally were excellent, faultless even -- were only given the chance to swear a bit and be that little more shocking, however unfair that may sound.

Of course, one fully understands that theatre is diverse. One also must applaud the award-winning shows the Octagon has showcased.

But one also has to remember the Octagon was once on the verge of collapse. So it seems strange to offer a play which appeals only to a niche audience -- and then to go down the oh so tiresome path of modernisation. Oedipus is a man who has been asked to overcome a devastating plague and find the murderer of the previous ruler, Laius. Through a series of well scripted twists and turns, he discovers a cruel truth.

David Crookes