If you thought ancient Greek theatre was all solemn tragedies and poetic lamentations, think again— because this year’s Frogs at Bloomsbury Theatre took Aristophanes’ fever dream of a play and cranked the chaos up to eleven. Marketed to high schoolers (because apparently, nothing says “educational theatre” like an obscene Dionysian romp), this production threw metatheatre, modern absurdities, and a dangerous amount of gay sex jokes into the mix.
The story follows Dionysus, the flamboyant Greek god of wine and revelry, played by the equally flamboyant Seth Robinson. He descends into Pluto’s underworld, ruled by Aryan Nagpaul, with his slave Xanthius— better described as arm candy—played by Rory Patrick Graham. Dionysus embarks on this journey to resurrect the great tragedian Euripides (Kelsey Norris), as he is disappointed by the lack of good tragic plays in Athens at the moment.
The show kicked off with the croaking of frogs, setting a deceptively tranquil tone before launching into a full-throttle descent into Dionysian madness. Interestingly, the frogs were on stage for only 5 minutes, although the play is named after them. I wonder what was going through Aristophanes’ brain. The set design was… questionable. A lone pink door and steel decks covered in leaves loomed awkwardly on stage throughout the play, serving no discernible purpose at times. But hey, given the budget for classical plays, we’ll let it slide.
The performances by the actors were wonderful. Seth Robinson was a whirlwind of bedlam as Dionysus. Faith Dodd’s maid character casually seducing Xanthius with a Greggs sausage roll (don’t we all love a processed meat puff pastry?) was only topped by Xanthius’ thirst for the UCL male rowing team. Xanthius (played with glorious exasperation by Rory Patrick Graham) spent a lot of his time either being manhandled by his many exes or delivering iconic lines- “Don’t call me. Don’t come by my house.” Same, Xanthius. Same.
And then, we had the interruptions by Jack (Oliver Pilling), the ripped historian, who emerged wielding a whiteboard to explain bits of Greek history to the audience. Because what’s a better way of delivering history lessons than to get a professional model in a toga on stage? Even Dionysus couldn’t resist him— though, to be fair, Dionysus probably can’t resist anything with a pulse.
The first act was a relentless barrage of jokes that had the audience howling. Charon (Camille Marty) refusing to stop at the Lethe river because of “some guy called Keir Starmer who’ll bore you to death”? Genius. A £8.40 fare for the underworld boat ride because even death follows TFL pricing? Painfully real. Dionysus offering a French corpse (Anamaria Samargi) a cock ring instead of drachmas? Peak absurdity. And of course, the play’s obligatory jab at KCL, which—let’s be real—was barely even a challenge.
But then came Act 2, where the script’s structural integrity crumbled. Xanthius’ absence left a gaping hole in the energy of the last part of play. Everyone gets so caught up in Dionysus and Xanthius’ shenanigans that we have to be reminded why they are in the underworld in the first place. Selma Baalerud’s Aeschylus flew into fits of rage at Euripides’ intelligent debating points, and the actresses had solid stage presence, but by that point, the audience had been so thoroughly derailed by Dionysian chaos that we all kind of forgot why anyone was in the underworld to begin with.
Final verdict? Frogs is a fever dream wrapped in a toga, dunked in chaos, and served on a platter of sexual innuendos. Did the play hold up till the end? Questionable. But was it entertaining? Absolutely.
