Reflections on Love in Hadestown
A few months ago, I finally caught a showing of the acclaimed Tony-winning musical Hadestown, and it was the key dramatic moment that truly validated the experience. The musical reimagines the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice in a gritty, dystopian present fraught with hungry artists and environmental disarray. It opens with the character Hermes, the narrator, weaving the tale of descent into Hades through a mesmerizing blend of jazz and blues reminiscent of New Orleans. From the outset, there’s an undertone connecting the narrative to legendary blues musicians who barter their souls for talent—a theme that hangs heavy throughout the performance.
The production meanders through various interpretations of underworld myths, blending the stories of Orpheus and Eurydice with that of Hades and Persephone, until it reaches its pivotal moment: Orpheus defies divine instruction, glancing back at Eurydice. This moment provoked an audible gasp from the audience. I assumed most viewers were familiar with the myth, but even that familiarity doesn’t diminish the shock of the moment. The opening number hinted that the outcome could be altered this time, adding to the surprise. Overall, the performance felt genuine, particularly when it adhered to the raw simplicity of the original myth. However, one might wonder, why did Orpheus turn around when he clearly had one objective?
Ovid provides a multitude of perspectives, from which I will highlight three recurring motifs relevant to the myth’s interpretation.
Firstly, Ovid implies that Orpheus was worried about Eurydice’s “weakness.” This term, “deficeret,” presents a complex translation, alluding not just to the possibility of her abandoning him but also hinting that she might lose her way. There lies an existential contemplation regarding a mortal reverting to her inescapable fate as a shadow of the underworld.
Secondly, there’s the aspect of his insatiable desire to see her. The absence of an object in this phrase raises the question of what he longs to view: Is it to check that she is safe, to witness her presence, or even to understand what his deceased lover looks like? If we regard “oculos” as object to both verbs, he may be yearning to perceive her gaze, perhaps seeking that intimate connection to reaffirm their love. This desperation illustrates his inability to trust, suggesting the reality that the moment isn’t the same as the blissful instant of “love at first sight.” Orpheus’ desire to glimpse her, despite the uncertainty of the outcome, reveals a deeper quest for emotional assurance.
Lastly, Ovid states that his actions stem from “love.” This assertion presents a paradox. Virgil’s Georgics alludes to a “sudden madness” that engulfs the impulsive lover, an act he can forgive. However, both poets may subtly convey a more damaging interpretation of love, portraying Orpheus as a victim of the love god’s influence, compelled into irrational behavior through his affection. His longing to see her points toward a lack of restraint, implying that his love is more overwhelming than mere concern for Eurydice’s welfare. At its core, the myth explores the duality of love—it can incite madness while also binding individuals to one another, forming the foundation of societal connections.
Even from Ovid’s account, it is clear that Orpheus’s fateful choice yields a spectrum of possible interpretations, even for a literary critic. When diving into Virgil’s retelling in Aeneid 2, we find another perspective: why, knowing the repercussions, would one look back? In contrast to Orpheus, Aeneas, fleeing from burning Troy with his father and son, embodies a model of stoicism, never looking back until the bitter end when he ponders Creusa’s fate: “Alas, my wife Creusa halted, snatched away by a wretched fate” (Aen.2.738–40). Aeneas’s hesitation results in a haunting ambiguity over what he lost due to his choice to turn forward; he must grapple with the unknown, grappling with regret.
For Aeneas, each moment of failure to look back reflects a diminished sense of love, setting up a poignant contrast to Orpheus, who at least gains the clarity of knowing Eurydice’s fate. This comparison adds depth to Ovid’s claim that Orpheus acted out of love, with Aeneas’s choice representing a lack of concern for a loved one trailing behind him, strengthening the notion of love’s ambiguity.
When juxtaposed, the decisions of Orpheus and Aeneas reveal that there are no straightforward answers. The moments of contemplation regarding whether to look back serve as a perplexing riddle: the absence of a definitive answer offers insight into the individual who contemplates them. Orpheus’ choice reveals his connection to the present, while Aeneas’s forward gaze encapsulates his journey toward Rome, laden with sacrifices—Creusa being the beginning of numerous costs for the promise of a new world.
In the end, the significance may lie in how we interpret these moments—Hadestown becomes a canvas for collective audience reflection following the shocking “look back,” inviting further discussions on love, choices, and the myriad paths our interpretations reveal about ourselves. After experiencing the show, I found myself engaging with friends and querying their interpretations—these conversations revealed deeply personal insights shaped by individual experiences. One humorously skeptic response was, “Because he’s a guy!”—a reflection perhaps indicative of modern dialogues around commitment and fidelity, with differing tones based on the speaker’s gender.
Hadestown uniquely reexamines Orpheus’s decision, portraying him as a struggling artist too consumed by his ambition, neglecting the relationship he has with Eurydice, who expresses her own hunger—both literal and existential. As Hermes prompts the audience to “Sing it again!” in the finale, he acknowledges the inevitability of sorrow while encouraging resilience—mirroring the Sisyphean task of artistic creation that inherently grapples with loss and the quest for meaning embedded within our struggles.
Yet, a modern interpretation reemerges when, shortly after my return to the real world, my social media exploded with ads encouraging my return to “sing it again,” suggesting a commercial undertone layered on this heartfelt plea for perseverance. One friend likened the recurring musical motif to “an annoying advertising jingle,” highlighting the contradiction of a poignant message coalescing with commercial motives. A striking comment, indeed—what could be more reflective of contemporary society than this poignant blend of hope and consumerism?
