Oyin Oladejo & Michelle Monteith in Medusa | Photo by Dahlia Katz
As she stretches the ancient myth across time, Erin Shields’ Medusa feels both commonplace and epic—an impressive balancing act achieved through compelling characterizations and a clever structure. In this boldly stylized production, presented by Soulpepper in association with Outside the March, director Mitchell Cushman employs his distinctive brand of fanciful and deeply considered theatrical artifice.
With surprisingly unobtrusive tokens of modernity blended in, the first act feels both classic and contemporary as we see Medusa (Oyin Oladejo) applying for a job in Athena’s (Michelle Monteith) vastly influential conglomerate—which supplies pretty much everything from useful doo-dads to systems of government. Trying to impress her powerful new boss without seeming either weak or arrogant, this first half of Shields’ reworking of the story offers up a tensely affectionate dynamic between these ambitious and enterprising women.
The audience is required to don headphones, which amplify the cacophonous hissing of the serpents (portrayed, variously, by the entire ensemble surrounding Oladejo). Whispering into microphones attached to serpentine tendrils hanging from above and coiling about the stage, they portray Medusa’s conflicted thoughts. Heidi Chan (sound designer) and Tori Morrison (headset system designer) have crafted an immersive, finely integrated sense of Medusa’s internal world—her confidence, insecurity, sense of humour and neuroses—as she navigates a fraught situation.
The text suggests a vast network of interwoven systems of control and community activism locked in a perpetual dance of idealogical sparring. In their personifying portrait of this state of affairs, Oladejo and Monteith are fully riveting as women with vision. As a trio, Medusa with her sisters, Stheno (Amy Keating) and Eurydale (Sasha Kahn), represent mortals—which this story contextualizes as the poor and struggling masses. Anahita Dehbonehie’s set reinforces this with a hovel-like abode cluttered with hang-dry laundry. By contrast, the gods here are the elite and privileged of society, their surroundings an elegant blend of pristine white-and-gold office chic.
Though rather endearing at first, Gord Rand’s Poseidon is cocky and condescending. In an inspired bit of narrative craft, Shields leads up to his rape of Medusa with compelling nuance. By having him insinuate himself, with a smarmy paternal charm, into her confidence, we understand how Medusa is seduced into believing he’s a feminist ally. The cumulative effect of the scene is deeply uncomfortable in how it almost convinces us that she is complicit in the violation done to her. She isn’t, but he does provide a catalyst for her empowerment and we can see how, with our tendency to normalize men’s predatory behaviour, the situation could be interpreted in his favour.
When Athena, as per the myth, blames her for the appalling scene she happens upon, Oladejo’s focused and viscerally intimidating expression of erupting rage is exhilarating, cathartic and grounded by a sense of distilled purpose. And it’s a hell of an act closer!
Amy Keating & Dante Prince in Medusa | Photo by Dahlia Katz
The follow-up is, initially, quite jarring. The plastic sheeting that lent a hazy, almost iridescent backdrop to the first act, is pulled around to the front and makes it clear that the violence and destruction we’re witnessing has been quarantined. This is “The Gorgon’s Cave,” a contemporary rage room, specifically designed for women to unleash their pent-up frustration with the dismissive or controlling men in their lives—situations ranging from mundanely irritating to truly distressing.
The headphones are dropped for the second act, but the immersion continues. With the house lights coming up at key moments and the actors venturing into the audience, we understand that the whole theatre is this new environment. We follow two workers, Annie (Keating) and Percy (Danté Prince), employed by the disembodied voice of the now emancipated Medusa, cleaning-up after and resetting these rage rooms.
This new scenario, with its aesthetic shift, demands we reach for the connections to the first act and the larger mythos. There are plenty of lyrical echoes in props, dialogue and situational dynamics to help us orient ourselves. Is there something a little hokey about how these characters talk about toxic masculinity and female rage? There is, sure, but the discourse—where these buzz words are bandied about relentlessly—feels familiar and honest.
Annie and Percy are a genuinely endearing duo. Keating’s nonchalance is ever-so-subtly sardonic and her playful buoyancy is fully disarming. Prince is earnest and adorable as a young man trying so hard to embody the “not all men” ethos, to be aware and considerate in this space reserved for female empowerment. His “I’m not that kinda guy” assurances seem a bit trite, but his overcompensation isn’t deceptive, just awkward. This contemporary Perseus does eventually end up with a sword and shield, though his climactic interaction with Medusa properly subverts our expectations.
Excluding Oladejo in the titular role, the rest of the cast manifest an array of supporting characters. One of the most cartoonishly amusing is Prince’s turn as Jason, a naively boastful “hero” whom the opportunistic Athena knows perfectly how to patronize and employ. Another highlight, and thematic exemplar, is Monteith’s heartbreaking portrait of a woman who is ultimately punished for asserting her autonomy.
Medusa
June 19 to July 12, 2026
Young Centre for the Performing Arts, Baillie Theatre
(50 Tank House Lane)
2 hours, 30 minutes (including intermission)
A scene from Medusa | Photo by Dahlia Katz