A jazz cabaret take on the final hours of Socrates’ life.
By Heidi Waleson
Feb. 15, 2022 5:04 pm ET
New York
In the face of death, why not celebrate life to the fullest? That’s the spirit of Taylor Mac’s “The Hang,” now playing at HERE. Its initial January performances were canceled along with the whole Prototype Festival, at which it was suppose to have its premiere, because of the Omicron surge; how appropriate that an irreverent, queer jazz cabaret should be the show that came roaring back to life. This ebullient depiction of the final hours of Socrates features wailing saxophones, over-the-top makeup and costume design (performer El Beh’s headdress of toadstools is just one delirious element), dancing, flirtation, comedy and, always, argument. With his white robe, typewriter and sober demeanor, Plato ( Ryan Chittaphong ) is the odd man out; clearly, his published account sanitized a much more colorful event.
In “The Hang,” Mac’s Socrates, with a flower-covered cap, purple robe and gloves, and a flowing bow in his long beard, embraces the crimes for which he was condemned to death—impiety and corrupting the youth of Athens—which, in this interpretation, are code for open debate and gay sex. There’s a lot of material in Mac’s book and lyrics, and if you haven’t been studying the Greeks recently, you will probably miss some of the references and the jokes. No matter: The 100-minute show sweeps you up in its exuberant, joyous anarchy, propelled by the infectious, toe-tapping abandon of composer and music director Matt Ray’s jazz songs and interludes.
The eight musicians regularly join in the stage action: In a song about virtue, saxophonist Jessica Lurie gets into a scatting contest with singers Kat Edmonson and Synead Cidney Nichols. Contemporary references, like the ensemble number built on the catchphrase “OK Boomer,” are dropped into the mix. Socrates recounts his trial in an arch, Noel Coward -style rhymed narration, complete with British accent (“It was gayer than Spartans . . . The three proseCUtors had sons who were SUItors”). There are darker moments, as when a black-cloaked trio swoops in to declare that “the party is over . . . run, little children, flush all the drugs,” and the ensemble becomes a chorus of Socrates’ accusers. And as the hemlock starts to take effect, and Socrates sheds his gay finery for a white shroud-like garment, Mac reminds us gently that “Wondering is all we do . . . wondering is holy.”
But overall, “The Hang” is a romp about love, community and dialectics, and a showcase for a cast of dynamic performers, unleashed by director Niegel Smith and choreographer Chanon Judson. There’s the sweetness of the drag artist Wesley Garlington, festooned in orange macramé and whistling seductively to Socrates; the belting power of Queen Esther; the astonishing, lanky physique of Kenneth Ard, clad only in a harness and feather headdress; the intense dancing of Trebien Pollard (resplendent in orange rams’ horns). The costumes and the womb-like setting are by Machine Dazzle. Anastasia Durasova designed the makeup; Kate McGee, the lighting. The memory of color, momentum and joy remains even after the jazz funeral has left the stage and the dead Socrates asks Plato, “Am I to be a statue, then?” Not if this group has anything to do with it.
—Ms. Waleson writes on opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).
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