Rami Malek and Brie Larson Try Sophocles in London

At the Old Vic theater in London, a tenebrous stage is lit now and again with deep, yellowy-orange hues; at its center is a stark solar orb. The effect is soothing, like being gently woken by an enormous sunrise alarm. The setting is a drought-stricken Thebes and the play is a reimagining of Sophocles’ tragedy, “Oedipus Rex,” first performed around 429 B.C. and relevant as ever in our era of vainglorious leaders.

King Oedipus, played by the movie star Rami Malek — best known for his Oscar-winning performance in “Bohemian Rhapsody” — wants to figure out who killed his predecessor, Laius, in hopes that solving the mystery will bring an end to the drought. In the process, he stumbles upon a series of revelations that bear out the truth of the Oracle’s infamous prediction: that he is destined to kill his father and sleep with his mother.

In this production, running through March 29, the story is set in a featureless, vaguely postapocalyptic landscape and told through a blend of drama and dance. (The Israeli choreographer Hofesh Shechter shares the directorial credit with the Old Vic’s artistic director, Matthew Warchus.) Between scenes, a chorus throws beautifully unsettling shapes to a soundtrack of moody electronic beats and pounding drums.

The dancers’ twitchy, convulsive movements and supplicatory body language evoke the plight of a suffering populace, but once the truth is out and the gods appeased, the rain comes and the chorus moves with unburdened grace under a glorious drizzle. (Set design is by Rae Smith, lighting by Tom Visser.)

Malek’s assertive drawl and blithe, can-do rhetoric carry hints of President Trump. (“Whatever the Oracle gives us. … I can work with that!”) And Indira Varma brings a suitably regal poise to the role of Jocasta, who was long ago forced by Laius to abandon her baby. That child was Oedipus himself; he was rescued, adopted and went on to marry Jocasta.

But Ella Hickson’s script, adapted freely from Sophocles’s original, is thin and occasionally clunky, and Malek struggles to breathe life into it. His anguish simply doesn’t convince. When he learns that the mother of his children is actually his own mother, he summons only the rueful demeanor of someone who narrowly missed a subway train. This “Oedipus” is visually arresting, but weak theater.

In a scheduling oddity worthy of London’s uneven bus service, The Old Vic’s production was the second “Oedipus” running in the city in the last few weeks. Robert Icke’s adaptation, which recently closed at Wyndham’s Theater, had originally been scheduled to run in 2020, but was postponed because of the pandemic.

In contrast to Hickson’s staging, Icke situated Sophocles’ tale in a recognizably contemporary political milieu: It’s election night, and the title character (Mark Strong) is anticipating a landslide victory. The action unfolds in a campaign room strewed with pizza boxes and placards; in the foreground, a large digital clock ticks an ominous countdown. (The set is by Hildegard Bechtler.)

This Oedipus is a picture of sensitive, evolved masculinity. But his commitment to the truth undoes him when he becomes the subject of a birtherist smear. Rather than sweep it under the rug, he insists on clearing things up — with devastating consequences.

Strong’s statuesque aspect and plaintive bearing befit the tragic hero. With his tall, lean frame and shaven head, he is more silhouette than man. Lesley Manville’s Jocasta dotes aggressively, suggesting a sublimated maternal impulse, or perhaps even unconscious knowledge of the terrible truth. In a risqué scene in which Oedipus performs cunnilingus on Jocasta under her skirt, her moans of pleasure — “oh baby, baby, baby” — are an exquisitely ironic touch.

Conceived in the wake of President Trump’s 2016 election victory, Icke’s “Oedipus” doubles as a maudlin comment on the travails of center-left parties. As of 2025, it hasn’t exactly dated. But the show is best enjoyed as pure theater. The protagonist’s sheer obliviousness, and apparent decency, accentuate the pathos: “Nobody slips anything past me,” Oedipus brags to his son — but the audience knows his whole existence has been a lie. Tension builds as the clock counts down and the pieces of back story slot into place like some cruel game of Tetris.

While Malek toils as Oedipus at the Old Vic, another big-screen celebrity is making her West End debut in a lesser-spotted Sophocles play. Brie Larson, of “Room” fame and, more recently, Disney’s “The Marvels,” plays the title character in “Elektra,” plotting revenge after her mother, Clytemnestra (Stockard Channing), murders her father, Agamemnon.

This production, in a new translation by Anne Carson, runs at the Duke of York’s Theater through April 12. In it, a crew-cut Larson stalks the stage in a Bikini Kill vest and ripped jeans, declaiming into a hand-held mic, and a six-strong chorus moves the story along in bursts of harmonious song

Whenever Larson has to say the word “no,” she sings it, rather than speaking — a motif that emphasizes Elektra’s implacable defiance. Her refusal to accept her mother’s lover Aegisthus (Greg Hicks), out of respect for her father’s memory, has resulted in her being ostracized from the family: In contrast to Elektra’s punky get-up, the other members of the household appear in opulent fur coats. (The costumes are by Doey Lüthi.)

Aside from the denouement — in which Elektra’s long-lost brother Orestes (Patrick Vaill) returns to deliver Aegisthus’s comeuppance — the play is largely uneventful. To offset this, the show’s director, Daniel Fish — whose “Oklahoma” was a hit on and Off Broadway before a favorable London transfer — gives the audience a mishmash of embellishments to puzzle over.

A blimp hangs above the revolving stage. A gun on a tripod douses the performers with spray paint. Incongruous snatches of news audio play during a pivotal scene. Why?

Channing’s glibly nonchalant Clytemnestra feels apposite, and the verbal sparring between mother and daughter provides a welcome sprinkling of mirth. But the abstracted, bloodless deliveries of the other actors are less than engaging. Larson, for all her energy, has a weirdly perfunctory, one-note intensity.

Larson hadn’t trodden the boards in over a decade before taking on this role; Malek, similarly, hasn’t been onstage since early in his career. Reflecting on this, alongside the recent disappointment of Sigourney Weaver’s London “Tempest,” we might draw the following conclusions: first, that theater acting and screen acting are not the same thing, and that someone might excel at one but not the other; and second, that something is amiss when producers are routinely enticing theatergoers with stardust, only to shortchange them.