Theatre: An Iliad
3 October at 20:00, 5 October at 15:00, and 8 October at 16:00
Open Window Campus
Alan Committie holds an audience through the full sweep of the Trojan War in An Iliad. An Iliad is a one-man show that is funny, furious and quietly devastating.
Narrating and acting at the same time is an already demanding feat. Committie is a storyteller and character all at once, going from a weary narrator into the proud Hector, the raging Achilles and the grieving King Priam. The shifts are quick and clear, so the story never loses its thread.
At the final showcasing of An Iliad at the Open Window Campus, the audience keep their eyes on Alan Committie who tells the tale of the Trojan war. PHOTO: Supplied/Woordfees
That dual role is the production’s greatest strength. As narrator, Committie speaks directly to the audience. He confides in them, complains about the burden of a tale he sings for centuries and calls on the muse to help him through it. Committie gives each character real weight, as he focuses on making the monologue intimate and impactful.
Humour plays a vital role. Committie’s modern inserts puncture the epic’s solemnity, drawing laughter that lets the audience relax before the story turns darker. Together, humour and heartbreak make the setting feel both entertaining and necessary.
The atmosphere peaks when he plays Hector, his wife and their baby son in a single scene. A husband and wife pleading with one another, and a child startled by the father’s helmet, are each given their own voice, and the audience follows every turn without confusion.
He is just as sharp when control slips away – as Patroclus, flushed with bloodlust, stops mid-scene and apologises to the audience, a jolt that rippled through the theatre.
Most striking of all is a moment that steps outside of the myth. A relentless list of wars, running from antiquity to the present day, makes it clear that this is not only about the Trojan War — it is uncomfortable — and it is meant to be.
The quiet scenes may be the best. When Priam kneels before Achilles to ask for his son’s body, the performance slows and simplifies. Two men grieve, and the rage drains away. The narration refuses to sing what comes next – the fall of Troy – and leaves the audience to imagine it. That restraint carries more weight than any staging could.
An Iliad is a reminder that theatre needs no more than a voice and a story with conviction. Anyone who thinks of Homer as a distant character should see it.