by Maria Poiată, photo: Augustina Iohan
„Medea” comes to the stage of the festival in the Nomad Theater version from the Republic of Korea not as a myth, but as a confession. A one-woman show. One body, one voice, one tragedy.
On stage, a single actress, dressed somberly in black, flowing garments — a symbol of the losses that have left behind a deep inner void, hard to cross.
„Medea Voice” does not revive the classical myth to illustrate or reinterpret it; instead, it breaks it away from any sterile mythological decor and brings it back to life in a new, raw, and direct form. Here, Medea is no longer the monstrous figure of Greek tragedy, but a woman, a mother who unveils her suffering and despair — a story told in her own words, with her own body, with her own pain. The author does not save her; he gives her what has been denied to her for centuries: the right to speak for herself. This is a living, restless Medea, who does not necessarily ask to be understood — she demands to be felt.
The stage space is stripped down to its essence: at one end, a pedestal with a box — inside it, under Medea’s mask, lies red sand, like blood — a symbol of a past frozen in place, trapped by prejudice. At the other end, a simple, tall chair holds the Golden Fleece — the deceptive promise of a love turned into betrayal.
The heavy, oppressive music — percussion instruments, drums, traditional Korean instruments, and the sound of the sea — turns the show into a ritual of purification. The rhythm becomes a pulse of pain, of fury, of helplessness.
Medea does not ask for the right to reply. She takes it. She is no longer a version told by others. This is Medea’s version — harsh, alive, personal. On stage, she becomes all the voices that tried to define her and condemn her. She impersonates Jason with sarcasm and cruelty — a vain, cold man who speaks of survival as if it were a predator’s theory.
The actress’s body becomes the main narrator of the show. Through it, rage, suffering, and despair are expressed. It does not support the story — it builds it. Her strong stride, electrifying dance, and fluid, slicing movements cut through the air with waves of tension, saying what cannot be spoken. It’s a dance of repression, of suffocated pain — a choreography of a lost and hollow soul. Medea’s gestures swing between frenzy and tenderness — a brutal blend of fury and affection. Her gaze cuts through the air, searches for the audience, draws it in, confronts it, defies it — forces it to become a witness, perhaps even a complicit one.
When Medea overturns the box and begins to scatter the sand with her trembling hands, the bright red spills across the floor — like an open wound before the spectator. It is the blood of those killed by Jason, blood that has seeped deep into the marrow of the earth. Medea spreads the red sand across the stage, then gathers it in her palms and caresses it as if it were the bodies of her lost children. In that moment, the entire space is overwhelmed with a searing pain. Medea does not only mourn her children — she mourns an entire crushed motherhood. Every gesture becomes a cry.
The performance, written and directed by Son Jeung-Woo, succeeds in reconstructing the myth of Medea not through rewriting, but through a radical reclamation of her voice — a voice fragmented yet firm, torn by guilt and yet lucid, powerful, and unbound.