The youngest of the three great tragedians, Euripides was probably born between 485 and 480 BCE, although some classicists propose a later date. Athens was in its Golden Age during his lifetime. The campaigns of 480-79 BCE saw the Athenians destroy the invading force of the powerful Persian Empire, solidifying Athens' position as the leader of the independent Greek city-states. The decisive victory came at the Battle of Salamis in 480 BCE, in which the Athenian navy routed the Persian fleet. Aeschylus, the first-born of the three great tragedians, served as a hoplite at the great battle. Sophocles, second of the three, danced in the victory celebrations afterward. And a popular legend holds that Euripides was born at Salamis, on the very day of the victory. In his own lifetime, he was the least successful of the three men, winning first prize at the Dionysia only four times. Yet more of his plays have survived than those written by Aeschylus and Sophocles combined. As with many brilliant men whose vision is less than comforting, it was only after Euripides' death that his genius was appreciated. He was not a consistent or tidy artist. His plays sometimes suffer from weak structure, overpacked plots, and a wandering focus. But discomfort with his medium can also be seen as one of Euripides' great strengths. And sometimes, his innovation and uniqueness are mistaken for weaknesses. His Orestes can be seen as a brilliant anti-tragedy, a work that questions the aesthetic assumptions of Greek drama. But for the unimaginative reader who uses pat theories to evaluate Greek tragedy, it is far easier to dismiss the play as simply bad. Like Orestes, many of Euripides' plays have suffered at the hands of critics incapable of understanding his vision. He was undoubtedly the bad boy of Greek tragedy, and he is modern in a way that Aeschylus and Sophocles are not. The vision of Aeschylus' Oresteia, though brilliant and beautiful, can seem more like a hopeful dream than a representation of the world we know. And to modern audiences, Sophocles' heroes often seem removed from flesh-and-blood men and women. But Euripides' characters are always immediately recognizable. He is the father of the psychological drama, and he is an acute observer of human nature. Using the myths of Greece as his source, he transformed epic heroes into men of flesh and blood. Sophocles supposedly said that while he himself depicted men as they ought to be, Euripides depicted them as they really are. He was a great questioner, and Socrates reputedly was among his most ardent admirers. A characteristically Euripidean move is to take a myth and focus on some problematic element, some event or action that calls the rest of the myth's ideology into question. In Alcestis, he takes a story of a wife's goodness and transforms it into an indictment of her husband, and, by extension, an indictment of the patriarchal values the old legend upheld. In Orestes, he gives the characters the happy ending that myth provides for them, but leaves us knowing that they don't deserve it. Failure unquestionably hurt him; in Medea, the outcast barbarian sorceress speaks of the hatred people have for the clever. Euripides knew he was a great artist, and in the thousands of years since his death, generations of readers, critics and theatergoers have revered him. But the judges of the Dionysia favored others. Most of the men who beat him are now only footnotes in history. Euripides knew that he was better than they, and the endless defeats must have been maddening. But this frustration became part of his art, and his work would not be the same without the sense of loss and injustice. Euripides is arguably the darkest and most disturbing of the Greek playwrights. He questions authority, and he is fascinated by the oppressed: women, barbarians, and slaves are more than just background on the Euripidean stage. He allows them to speak, and speak well. For his complex representations of "bad women," he earned the censure of critics and judges. He depicts the position of the oppressed without romanticizing them, and his plays make war against the gods of Olympus. The universe in which Euripides believed was not benevolent, or just. Hardship falls on all, the wicked and the good, and the gods are powerful but often capricious and cruel. He questioned social structures and hollow or hypocritical ideals. Needless to say, these positions made Euripides unpopular. He was the unwanted voice of conscience in his age, a man unafraid to point out the lies with which a civilization comforts itself. Sophocles gives us heroes, and Aeschylus gives us a vision of history and teleology; Euripides gives us real men with all-too human weaknesses, and his visions are often nightmares. In the end, the frenzied descent into chaos so often imagined by Euripides was truest to Athens' fate. Infighting and dirty politics compromised Athens' good name, and Athens fell to her hated enemy, Sparta, just a few years after Euripides' death. Possibly because he faced danger at home for his ideas, Euripides left Athens in 408 BCE. He went to the court of King Archelaus of Macedon; it was there that he wrote, among other works, The Bacchae. This play shows Euripides at the height of his genius. The Bacchae is a terrifying, powerful, and complex play, one that leaves its audience with more questions than answers. It is an extremely difficult play to produce well, but when it is performed right, few plays, from any time or place, can hope to match The Bacchae in its capacity to instill terror and awe into its audience. It is arguably Euripides' masterpiece, and it has a secure place as one of the greatest plays ever written. But Euripides never lived to see it performed in Athens. He died in 406 BCE, bitter and unsure of his place in history. Shortly afterward, his son brought Euripides' last three plays, including The Bacchae, back to Athens for production. There, at the same festival where Euripides had lost to now-forgotten playwrights so many times, The Bacchae and its companion pieces won first prize.

Medea was first performed in 431 BC. Its companion pieces have been lost, but we know that this set of plays won third prize at the Dionysia, adding another disappointment to Euripides' career. Although we know nothing of the other pieces, the character of Medea undoubtedly made the Athenian audience uncomfortable; for audiences past and present, the play is something of a shocker, nihilistic and disturbing. Of the eighty-eight or so plays Euripides wrote, only nineteen (or possibly eighteen, as the authorship of Rhesus is in doubt) survive. Medea is one of the earliest surviving plays of Euripides, though it was written well into his career. It is also one of the most popular. The specific circumstances surrounding the origin of Greek drama were a puzzle even in the fourth century BC. Greek drama seems to have its roots in religious celebrations that incorporated song and dance. By the sixth century BC, Athenians had transformed a rural celebration of Dionysus into an urban festival with dancing choruses that competed for prizes. An anonymous poet came up with the idea of having the chorus interact with a masked actor. Later, Aeschylus transformed the art by using two masked actors, each playing different parts throughout the piece, making possible staged drama as we know it. With two actors and a chorus, complex plots and conflicts could be staged as never before, and the poets who competed in the festival were no longer writing elaborate hymns, but true plays. The playwrights were more than just writers. They also composed the music, choreographed the dances, and directed the actors. Athens was the only Greek city-state where this art form evolved; the comedies, tragedies, and dramas handed down to us from the period, although labeled generically as "Greek," are in fact all Athenian works. After the defeat of the Persians in a decisive campaign (480-479 BC), Athens emerged as the superpower of the independent Greek city-states, and during this time, the drama festival, or the Dionysia, became a spectacular event. The Dionysia lasted four to five days, and the city took the celebrations seriously. Prisoners were released on bail and most public business was suspended. Roughly ten thousand free male citizens, along with their slaves and dependents, watched plays in an enormous outdoor theater that could seat seventeen thousand spectators. On each of three days, the Athenians were treated to three tragedies and a satyr play (a light comedy on a mythic theme) written by one of three pre-selected tragedians, as well as one comedy by a comedic playwright. The trilogies did not have to be an extended drama dealing with the same story, although often they were. At the end of the festival, the tragedians were awarded first, second, and third prize by the judges of Dionysis. For modern readers, the Chorus may be the most alien element of the play. Greek drama was not meant to be what we would consider "naturalistic." It was a highly stylized art form: actors wore masks, and the performances incorporated song and dance. The Chorus delivers much of the exposition and expounds poetically on themes, but it is still meant to represent a group of characters. In the case of Medea, the Chorus is constituted by the women of Corinth. The relationship between the Chorus and Medea is one of the most interesting Chorus-protagonist relationships in all of Greek drama. The women are alternately horrified and enthralled by Medea: there is no question that she goes to far and commits the most horrible act possible for a mother, and for that, she earns the Chorus' pity and condemnation. And yet, they do nothing to interfere. The women live vicariously through Medea. In taking her revenge, she avenges the crimes committed against all of womankind. Powerful and fearless, Medea refuses to be wronged by men, and the Chorus cannot help but admire her. Medea is part of the gallery of Euripides' "bad women." Euripides was often attacked for portraying what Aristotle called "unscrupulously clever" women as his main characters; he depicts his tragic heroines with far less apology than his contemporaries. We are not, as in Aeschylus' Oresteia, allowed to comfort ourselves with the restoration of male-dominated order. In Medea that order is exposed as hypocritical and spineless, and in the character of Medea, we see who a woman whose suffering, instead of ennobling her, has made her monstrous. Consistent with the norms of Greek drama, Medea is not divided into acts or discrete scenes. However, time passes in non-naturalistic fashion: at certain points, it is clear that a considerable amount of time has passed in the world of the play even though only a few seconds have passed for the audience. In general, as noted by Aristotle, most Greek tragedies have action confined to a twenty-four hour period.

Greek audiences would have known the story of the ill-fated marriage between Jason, hero of the Golden Fleece, and Medea, barbarian witch and princess of Colchis. The modern reader, to fully understand the events of Medea, needs to be familiar with the legends and myths on which the play is based. Medea was of a people at the far edge of the Black Sea; for the Greeks of Euripides' time, this was the edge of the known world. She was a powerful sorceress, princess of Colchis, and a granddaughter of the sun god Helias. Jason, a great Greek hero and captain of the Argonauts, led his crew to Colchis in search of the Golden Fleece. King Aeetes, lord of Colchis and Medea's father, kept the Fleece under guard. A sorcerer himself, he was a formidable opponent. This legend takes place quite early in the chronology of Greek myth. The story is set after the ascent of Zeus, King of the gods, but is still near the beginning of his reign; Helias, the ancient sun god before Apollo's coming, is Medea's grandfather. Jason's voyage with the Argonauts predates the Trojan War, and represents the first naval assault by the Greeks against an Eastern people. The traps set by Aeetes made the Golden Fleece all but impossible to obtain. By Medea's aid, Jason overcame these obstacles, and Medea herself killed the giant serpent that guarded the Fleece. Then, to buy time during their escape, Medea killed her own brother and tossed the pieces of his corpse behind the Argo as they sailed for Greece. Her father, grief-stricken by his son's death and his daughter's treachery, had to slow his pursuit of the Argo so he could collect the pieces of his son's body for burial. Medea and Jason returned to his hereditary kingdom of Iolcus. Jason's father had died, and his uncle Pelias sat, without right, on the throne. Medea, to help Jason, convinced Pelias' daughters that she knew a way to restore the old king's youth. He would have to be killed, cut into pieces, and then put together and restored to youth by Medea's magic. The unwitting daughters did as Medea asked, but the sorceress then explained that she couldn't really bring Pelias back to life. Rather than win Jason his throne, this move forced Jason, Medea, and their children into exile. Finally, they settled in Corinth, where Jason eventually took a new bride. The action of the play begins here, soon after Medea learns of Jason's treachery. A Nurse enters, speaking of the sorrows facing Medea's family. She is joined by the Tutor and the children; they discuss Jason's betrayal of Medea. The Nurse fears for everyone's safety: she knows the violence of Medea's heart. The Tutor brings the children back into the house. The Chorus of Corinthian women enters, full of sympathy for Medea. They ask the Nurse to bring Medea out so that they might comfort her; the unfortunate woman's cries can be heard even outside the house. The Nurse complies. Medea emerges from her home, bewailing the harshness with which Fate handles women. She announces her intention to seek revenge. She asks the Chorus, as follow women, to aid her by keeping silent. The Chorus vows. Creon (not to be confused with the Creon of Sophocles' Theban cycle), king of Corinth and Jason's new father-in-law, enters and tells Medea that she is banished. She and her children must leave Corinth immediately. Medea begs for mercy, and she is granted a reprieve of one day. The old king leaves, and Medea tells the Chorus that one day is all she needs to get her revenge. Jason enters, condescending and smug. He scolds Medea for her loose tongue, telling her that her exile is her own fault. Husband and wife bicker bitterly, Medea accusing Jason of cowardice, reminding him of all that she has done for him, and condemning him for his faithlessness. Jason rationalizes all of his actions, with neatly enumerated arguments. Although he seems to have convinced himself, to most audience members Jason comes off as smug and spineless. He offers Medea money and aid in her exile, but she proudly refuses. Jason exits. Aegeus, king of Athens and old friend of Medea's, enters. Aegeus is childless. Medea tells him of her problems, and asks for safe haven in Athens. She offers to help him to have a child; she has thorough knowledge of drugs and medicines. Aegeus eagerly agrees. If Medea can reach Athens, he will protect her. Medea makes the old king vow by all the gods. With her security certain, Medea tells the Chorus of her plans. She will kill Jason's new bride and father-in-law by the aid of poisoned gifts. To make her revenge complete, she will kill her children to wound Jason and to protect them from counter-revenge by Creon's allies and friends. Many scholars now believe that the murder of Medea's children was Euripides' addition to the myth; in older versions, the children were killed by Creon's friends in revenge for the death of the king and princess. The Chorus begs Medea to reconsider these plans, but Medea insists that her revenge must be complete. Jason enters again, and Medea adapts a conciliatory tone. She begs him to allow the children to stay in Corinth. She also has the children bring gifts to the Corinthian princess. Jason is pleased by this change of heart. The Tutor soon returns with the children, telling Medea that the gifts have been received. Medea then waits anxiously for news from the palace. She speaks lovingly to her children, in a scene that is both moving and chilling, even as she steels herself so that she can kill them. She has a moment of hesitation, but she overcomes it. There is no room for compromise. A messenger comes bringing the awaited news. The poisoned dress and diadem have worked: the princess is dead. When Creon saw his daughter's corpse, he embraced her body. The poison then worked against him. The deaths were brutal and terrifying. Both daughter and father died in excruciating pain, and the bodies were barely recognizable. Medea now prepares to kill her children. She rushes into the house with a shriek. We hear the children's screams from inside the house; the Chorus considers interfering, but in the end does nothing. Jason re-enters with soldiers. He fears for the children's safety, because he knows Creon's friends will seek revenge; he has come to take the children under guard. The Chorus sorrowfully informs Jason that his children are dead. Jason now orders his guards to break the doors down, so that he can take his revenge against his wife for these atrocities. Medea appears above the palace, in a chariot drawn by dragons. She has the children's corpses with her. She mocks Jason pitilessly, foretelling an embarrassing death for him; she also refuses to give him the bodies. Jason bickers with his wife one last time, each blaming the other for what has happened. There is nothing Jason can do; with the aid of her chariot, Medea will escape to Athens. The Chorus closes the play, musing on the terrible unpredictability of fate.