If, like me, you had Greek Tragedy down as an austere thing, full of parched plains, unswerving Fate and dour verse, then 'The Bacchae' might come as a pleasant surprise. It has these things of course, but the first quality that shocks is the vibrant, fervid excess of the language. The story concerns Dionysus, the God of wine, the Life Force, the Chaos of the Irrational etc., who inspires a possessed devotion in his acolytes, as they express themselves in high-flown, ecstatic rhapsodies. Not every one takes this proto-hippie's divinity seriously, in particular the family of his mortal mother, led by the impetuous teenage king Pentheus, who sees all this Bacchanalia in the woods and mountains in loose robes as so much lechery. Dionysus exacts such terrible revenge on these unbelievers that 'Bacchae' makes Shakespeare's 'Titus Andronicus' look like a Julie Andrews vehicle.
If Sophocles' 'Oedipus the King' is the first detective story, than 'Bacchae' might be the first police procedural - a central sequence sees Pentheus arrest Dionysus and interrogate him, a scene as tightly written and suspenseful as any thriller. But detection and policing, embodying the forces of reason and the Law, have no power against the Irrational or Unknowable, and Pentheus is soon made mad, his order and sense of self in tatters. The terrible grip of irony familiar from Greek Tragedy gives the play a violent momentum, but the most extraordinary scenes take place offstage, related in vivid and tumultuous monolgues by messengers - the whirlwind revenge of Dionysus' female followers on the forces of surveilling civilisation, and the cruel enactment of the God's revenge. This idea of hearing about improbable catastrophes but not being able to see them adds ot the supernatural terror that is the play's fevered life-blood.