Much before the beginning of the play a savage murder has taken place. Clytemnestra and Aegisthus have slaughtered Agamemnon on his victorious return from the Trojan war. This murder has disturbed the moral and natural balance of things. The marble bath has been washed but the blood of the victim has not washed away. It is still visible, clamoring for revenge. The vile act covers the city like a shroud and doesn’t let her breathe. A voice that wails and thrashes about for seven years doesn’t allow anyone to forget: Electra’s blood-chilling lament echoes through the palace and the streets.

The disorder that permeates the moral and natural order must be corrected. There is no other way. The play starts, and with it the reversal of the murderer’s fortunes. The plan is designed by Apollo, the god of light. The mortals undertake its execution consciously and willingly, but they have no freedom of choice.

Beyond the metaphysical there is the political foundation: Aegisthus usurps power and governs dictatorially along with Clytemnestra. Symbol of their rule: the double axe, the same axe with which they slaughtered Agamemnon; it has been placed outside the palace for all to see and be aware of the perils of revolt. But the murderers forget that the axe has two edges: you kill with one and get killed with the other. By choosing easily identifiable symbols and paying strict attention to clarity of form we are attempting to bring to the surface the various layers of Electra, keeping in mind the portion of the audience that doesn’t understand modern Greek. We want to make sure that the images have no less of a poetic strength than the word, and we are relying heavily on our use of the chorus to succeed.