Rami Malek is weirdly indifferent to the freakish turns of this slack, disjointed staging of Oedipus

Sudden blackouts blind the audience, but set design is the most interesting thing about this unbalanced production of the Greek classic

Rami Malek (Oedipus) and Indira Varma (Jocasta) in ‘Oedipus’ at The Old Vic (Manuel Harlan)

Splayed fingers shimmer like desert air. Bodies creep into poses stolen from Greek vases. Then, from the scrum of bacchic ravers, a figure emerges. It’s Rami Malek, looking like he’s been dragged from cold storage and reanimated by an ancient spell. The Oscar-winning star is the uncanny centre of this season’s second take on the tragedy Oedipus, following Robert Icke’s brilliantly imagined modern-day political retelling last year. It could be classical overkill. But the only things this stately, disjointed staging has in common with Icke’s literal blinder of a production is a title and a few lurid plot details.

Here, choreographer Hofesh Shechter shares directing duties with Old Vic boss Matthew Warchus, who’s long been working to reestablish this theatre as a home for dance. The text itself has been rejigged by Ella Hickson, who keeps its Greek setting and leavens it with jarring notes of humour. If all the creatives in this unbalanced production have a shared aim (though often it doesn’t feel that way) it’s to make sure that no one in the theatre has any idea what’s coming next.

Sudden blackouts blind the audience, before writhing dancers appear in faint beams of light on a dim stage – they’re the people of Thebes, calling on the gods to bring water back to their parched desert city. Rae Smith’s set and Tom Visser’s lighting combine to create a space that feels part art gallery, part underground club, with Olafur Eliasson-esque combinations of glowing light and haze making the sun beam down mercilessly.

It’s impressive, but there’s oddly little interaction between the Shechter crew and this play’s actors – and the talky bits feel like they’re sapped of all tension and energy by comparison. Malek plays his part with a haunted detachment, as an already-doomed creature whose downfall is inevitable. He’s an odd match for Indira Varma, who plays his wife Jocasta with studied poise breaking into arch humour. The only thing they have in common is a weird indifference to the freakish turns their lives are taking. Presumably, they’re representatives of the rarified Greek elite who’ve retreated into their minds, while their subjects live out the painful bodily realities of hunger and human sacrifice.

Warchus heightens the staginess of their scenes by making them declaim their lines into echoing microphones, straight into the audience, with the sound design purring out the roars and murmurs of their restless citizens. These are earthly gods, not real people. But that makes it almost impossible to actually care about them. Especially since Hickson’s adaptation clings much too tightly to the tedious practicalities of how, exactly, Oedipus came to commit mythology’s most notorious feat of accidental incest – instead of Sophocles’ far more interesting (and topical) political themes.

Her biggest innovation here is a lightly feminist one: Jocasta is blameless in this tragedy, so why should she be punished? But her reimagining of this queen’s fate feels totally at odds both with the production’s weighty approach, and the lack of character development that’s gone before.

Ultimately, this Oedipus is one for contemporary dance fans, and theatre lovers hoping for a coherent take on this often-told story should seek elsewhere. It’s gorgeous to look at, but there’s more tension in a single chorus member’s bent finger than in its whole slack plot.

Until 29 March; oldvictheatre.com