Istvan Reviews ➤ TROILUS AND CRESSIDA ⏤ Shakespeare BASH’d

Shakespeare penned some really nasty gems that are rarely performed. Rather than the expected lyrical professions, uplifting us even in moments of darkness, these surly plays offer a different sort of catharsis and insight. As I get older, I’m drawn more and more towards these prickly, mostly neglected works. While the cartoonishly brutal Titus Andronicus is rather popular (and I love it dearly), equally jaundiced, uncomfortable plays like Coriolanus and Timon of Athens deserve more love. Troilus and Cressida fits snugly into this bitter treasury and I’m so grateful to Shakespeare BASH’d for taking it on!

In their refined, minimalist style—eliminating scenic elements save for a few essential props or key thematic emblems—text and performance are the priority here under James Wallis’s kinetic, grounded direction. A gilded mirror hangs at one end of the sunken, in-the-round intimacy of The Theatre Centre’s BMO Incubator space. During a handful of transitional moments, characters fixate on their own reflection. While I’m not fully certain about the full thematic intent, it does seem indicative of the vanity on display—for all the talk of honour and valour, there is really none to be found here. Ah, except for the one genuinely admirable dude, but things don’t work out so well for him.   

Tracking the events of The Iliad, this cynically funny, bleak and sporadically poignant play is set during the Trojan War. It assumes we’re already familiar, so other than an opening prologue that basically tells us we’re in the middle of this story we all know, the broader context is only vaguely sketched out here. Helen has been stolen from the Greeks and so they have been warring up a storm with the Trojans, but the factions are now at an impasse. Is she really that special or important, worthy of all the bloodshed? The military folk discuss this at great length and decide she’s a valuable property for the “honour” of possessing her. She’s the epitome of a trophy wife. Gross.

So much of the humanity here is gross, gloriously so, and I am here for it! All the long-ass, pompous speeches about nobility or whatever are empty as fuck. Shakespeare wants us to consider all the grand words and contrast them with actual behaviour. The entire cast are emphatically persuasive in their rendering of these mostly awful people—some in double and even triple roles.

I’ll shout out some folks whose portrayals struck the deepest chord for me.

Oddly, our titular couple, Troilus (Deivan Steele) and Cressida (Breanne Tice), have very little stage time together. Their romance is nipped, just as its budding, when she’s swapped out for a soldier held captive by the Greeks. Their initial meeting is very cute and rather sweet, facilitated by Geoffrey Armour’s deliciously flamboyant Pandarus. It’s here that Steele really gets to flex Troilus’s endearing bashfulness, a valuable contrast to the resentment and collective bravado that defines him later on. Tice—her unassuming, girlish attire setting her apart from the dark, masculine, military presence that surrounds her—holds her own as an affectionate yet pragmatic young woman.

In one of the most distressing scenes, as the men of the Greek encampment pass her around for a kiss, she lets us see how absolutely terrified she is while retaining some dignity through evasive maneuvering and sheer wit. By the men of the story, she’s considered a slut and Troilus is especially put out by her supposed capriciousness for flirting with the Greek Diometes (Austin Eckert, with his absolutely swoon-worthy voice!). But Shakespeare clearly knew, and we should too, that she’s doing her best to survive, with as much integrity as she can muster, a very rapey situation.

In addition to elegantly inhabiting the unremarkable Helen, associate director Kate Martin also does what she can to be earnest and affecting with the thankless role of Cassandra, who only appears to yell plaintively about her prophetic visions of death and destruction.

Julia Nish-Lapidus, who often scoops up the fool role in these ventures, plays Thersites here as a reporter. Armed with camera and notepad, seeing through the bluster and boasting, she’s got scornful jabs aplenty. Set apart at a comic distance throughout, I was struck by her look to Achilles (Andrew Iles) after his appalling display of ego and treachery—more on that soon. She has no clever words for once, just a glance of such utter contempt, I was surprised by the brief glimpse at a genuine moral compass.

Ah, Hector, this poor guy is the only one to fully embody all the bombastically noble rhetoric. Jordin Hall cuts an adorably masculine, amiable and upright figure. Persistently chivalrous, his downfall is truly gut-wrenching and thematically resonant—not because it is gory here, no, it’s the betrayal by and indignity at the hands of Achilles and his henchmen, descending upon him when he’s most vulnerable, that is so harrowing.

One of the more understated and touching portraits here is Felix Beauchamp’s Patroclus, Achilles’ protégé. It is very unsubtly suggested that they are lovers. Thersites is rather rude and emasculating in her comments (“male varlet,” “masculine whore”) and Beauchamp’s performance indicates he is affronted, but it isn’t mere wounded male pride. Her dismissive tone clearly affects him more profoundly than intended, suggesting that he’s more emotionally invested in his relationship to Achilles than his retorts outwardly show.

In his sound design, Matt Nish-Lapidus features an ominous and unnerving fanfare. Whenever the text indicates trumpets, this not quite identifiable, eerie, protracted sting resounds, adding significantly to the overall portentous vibes. Sruthi Suresan’s lighting design is deceptively simple. Without colour or prominent texturing, the white wash never draws attention from the performances, though it does subtly define our focus from moment to moment.

You know how so many Shakespeare plays end with some player humbly pleading for approval and acceptance? Yeah, that doesn’t happen here. Pandarus, who closes out the play, gives zero shits about whether we are pleased or not. In fact, he calls us all pimps and wishes upon us the diseases of our shared trade.

Iconic.

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Troilus and Cressida
January 29 to February 8, 2026
The Theatre Centre, BMO Incubator
(1115 Queen Street West)
3 hours (including intermission)