Reflections on Hadestown
We saw Hadestown a few days ago. I was fairly blown away by the production, as was Elizabeth, and I wanted to try and say some things about it.
Let me first say that I am not an afficionado of Broadway musicals. Granted, I grew up listening to Jesus Christ Superstar, and it remains one of the most important pieces of music for me personally. I was also brought to tears by Hedwig and the Angry Inch, and I loved The Book of Mormon for its sharp, raunchy hilarity. But that's about it. I've seen a few other shows here and there (Miss Saigon, Cats), but none have left much impression on me. Thus I am generally unfamiliar with the history and conventions of musicals.
But Hadestown was undeniably great. Certainly, one reason was the music. Like with JCS, I have listened to and loved the music for quite a while. Seeing it brought to life on the stage — even with significant departures from the original 2010 album — felt thrilling. Act 1, in particular, delivered one banger after another. The buildup of energy as we approached intermission was spectacular. And while I thought the music in Act 2 was not quite as powerful, there was a satisfying emotional arc centered on the love story of Orpheus and Eurydice (and, obliquely, between Hades and Persephone).
What I really want to focus on, though, are the ideas at work in the production. I found myself doing a surprising amount of thinking during the performance. While its central themes might not be especially novel, I found them to be woven together in remarkably fresh and compelling ways. In no particular order, then...
I love the culminating idea, voiced by the excellent Hermes, that this is an old story, and it doesn't have a happy ending — but we're going to tell it again and again, as if...this time...it might yet be different. Reminds me of Camus's interpretation of Sisyphus: meaning, if there is any, must come from out of the struggle itself, and its repetition (some Kierkegaard here as well). We must imagine Sisyphus happy.
The “translation” into a more modern — though not exactly contemporary — context enables the plot to function as a critique of industrialism, in particular the extractive economy, and of the politics of othering. Hades (here not just a place, but a corporation) is a coal and oil conglomerate, sharing its name with its boss/CEO, who “seems to own everything.” (Hm, who else likes to plaster his name on everything he possibly can?) Workers go to Hades on a train (slightly sinister undertones not accidental), and live in a kind of company town. Driven by desperation, they have literally sold their souls in exchange for stable but empty employment — thus becoming, if not literally dead, then “dead to life.”
What is their labor? The workers' employment seems to consist of mining and extraction in service of “building the wall” that keeps them free. Free from what? The brilliant call-and-response song at the heart of the album explains: the wall keeps out the enemy, which is called poverty. But the real enemy is those who want what we have got. And what is that? We have a wall to work upon: we have work, and they have none, and our work is never done. Not to sound pretentious, but this lyrical sleight of hand crisply evokes the empty circularity of late capitalism, where production both feeds and manufactures the demand it supplies. These riches, framed in opposition to the specter of poverty, could only be seen as such by dead souls — the souls that have been signed over to Hades.
What is their recreation? For relief, the workers drink in the house of Persephone, who distracts and entertains them with diverting songs while numbing her own nagging conscience with the same river of wine she purveys. (The underworld river Lethe, from which the dead must drink, means 'forgetfulness'.) Sure, she has access to the boss, and gets to live above ground for half the year, but in the end she is hardly more free than the workers she entertains.
The way the show deals with the bargain struck by Orpheus with Hades, and the requirement that Orpheus not look back, is quite interesting. After being moved by Orpheus, whose song reawakens his youthful love of Persephone, Hades agrees to let Orpheus take Eurydice back to the sun. But then the Fates intervene, reminding him that he cannot be seen as simply giving in to a mortal. In order to save face, the permission he has granted is recast as a test: Orpheus can have Eurydice only if he walks ahead of her for the entire long journey up from Hades and does not look back even once. It sounds easy enough, but part of being a mortal is our keen awareness of the passage of time. The trek is long and arduous, and Orpheus, walking alone, begins to entertain doubts. Eventually they overwhelm him and he turns, and thus fails the test. Hades, it seems, gets it both ways: he has offered mercy, but keeps Eurydice anyway.
Speaking of Eurydice, the production elevates her in comparison to most ancient tellings of the myth by giving her an agency in her own death that she did not have in ancient versions of the myth. Rather than simply being unknowingly struck down by a viper, she signs away her soul because she is hungry, and because Orpheus has left her alone too long while he works on his song. The viper is recast as an Edenic snake, offering her a seemingly better bargain than the one she has. Of course, with agency comes blame: she is not merely a passive victim but becomes complicit in her fate.