Flipping through the programme for The Bacchae, you get the sense that Classic Stage Ireland is desperate to be taken seriously. Endorsements from Sir Michael Gambon and Seamus Heaney; extracts from ecstatic reviews of previous productions; a full and detailed outline of the company’s ethos; and two fine essays contextualising the play are presented as a kind of stern clearing of the throat that says, "You WILL pay attention.” Granted, a straight but comparatively no-frills presentation of classic Greek drama without a Seamus Heaney or a Michael Gambon attached might well find itself faced with befuddlement and giggles, and this production walks a tightrope on which one false step could produce an imbalance that would topple it over into farce.

The nerves remain on edge as we are introduced to Dylan McDonough’s Dionysus, son of Zeus, who walks among the skeptical people of Thebes in a natty trenchcoat and cravat, smoking a herbal cigarette. To titters of amusement from the crowd, he points out the fire exits and blows a smoke ring, and were it not for the absolute calm, clarity, and sense of focus in McDonough’s face, body, and voice, it would feel like drama club. Preliminaries over, the lighting shifts and McDonough launches full-bore into the exposition, explaining Dionysus’ plan to take mortal form and walk among the Thebans to encourage their celebration of his festival and with a promise to punish the unbelievers who scorn his followers. As the actor moves fluidly and confidently about the stage, imperious but also dashing, never camp but charged with sexual energy, we can breathe a sigh of relief. The control never falters, and McDonough gives a beautifully libidinal performance of a terrifying divine energy capable of playfulness, warmth, and cold fury. The production is on solid footing.

This same razor’s edge sense of perilous balance prevails throughout, and credit must be due to director Andy Hinds for holding firm. The cast are uniformly committed to the aesthetic, and feel no need to wink to the audience even when the audience seem to want it. Though the extensive chorus work by seven actors playing the titular assembly of Dionysus’ (female) followers makes up much of the performance, the dramaturgy turns on two key speeches. The first is an impassioned theological address by the seer Teiresias (Patrick O’Donnell), who attempts to urge the angry king Pentheus (Steve Cash) to accept Dionysus’ godhead and allow free worship in his name. O’Donnell pulls this off beautifully, maintaining a simple and sincere sense of rapture and respect for religion that convinces the audience of the basic rightness of submission to the will of God over man. Again Hinds keeps his actor moving, and O’Donnell prevents the ‘blind guy’ bit from overwhelming what he is saying and what the character is doing in narrative terms. Once this speech has worked, the rest follows smoothly: we need no more lectures.

The second key scene comes later as Agave (Lesa Thurman) returns from the Bacchic revels having killed the king, her own son, in an orgy of violence described by the dumbstruck courtiers. Thurman’s skillful performance brings us from the orgasmic delirium of the Chorus to the feeling of slowly dawning horror and tragedy with which the play concludes. Again, this is a crucial piece of delivery, requiring deliberate, delicate moves through levels and stages of emotion and reason, and Thurman proves an excellent guide. As realisation dawns, partly triggered by her father Cadmus (Nick Devlin), mortal pain and suffering becomes tangible (and must do, for the play to work). Again with a sense of control and balance that seems nigh on perfect, the actor delivers. By the time Dionysus returns to pronounce merciless judgement on those who doubted and scorned him, no one is tittering anymore.

Watching this really very bare bones production, you are constantly aware of how easily something of this nature can descend into sophomoric silliness, and sometimes this can come from an undue sense of stern formality. Luckily this production doesn’t require an apologia: it stands in precise balance and is both fun and rewarding. But you are also made keenly aware of how close and yet so far minimalism is from another type of desperation. Limited costumes, limited space, a text that requires vocal precision because there are no great tricks or spectacles to distract you from pure theatrical dialogue. It could so easily feel like an exercise or a show, but it doesn’t. It is good, basic, dare we say ‘classic’ theatre, finely executed and ultimately extremely effective.

Harvey O’Brien is a writer and critic, and lectures in Film Studies at University College Dublin.