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Buried Heart. A near match to Papas in emotionally expressive force is the Iphigenia of Jenny Leigh, a young actress who knows where the heart lies buried. Caught like a bird in a cage of fear, she vanquishes terror in serene nobility. The chorus, which is sometimes a static, sanctimonious bore in Greek tragedy, is a fluid delight in Iphigenia. Circling in a daisy chain, opening like a petal, closing like a fist, it dances more than it speaks and speaks without oppressive foreboding. Forebodings and omens would be redundant in Iphigenia; disaster is openly sown and reaped like a poisoned crop. Opening night offered a rarity in New York theatergoing, the sight of many playgoers weeping—involuntary proof that Euripides kept faith with human truths, which, after 2,400 years, are as gapingly fresh as open wounds.