arrives trumpeting fist clenched rebellion, only to implode into hashtag politics. In remoulding crudly Euripides' tragedy into tawdry cabaret, the National Theatre has committed the deadliest artistic sin of all: cringe. Pentheus rules Thebes with patriarchal bluster until the Bacchae, an order of hedonistic women, arrive under the banner of demi-god Dionysus. The bones of Euripides’ tragedy are there, but the production won’t let you forget that this is an oh so radical re-telling.