Medea of the Laundromat

Tweet

To those steeped in the ink-stained annals of Off-Off-Broadway lore, the name H.M. Koutoukas rings with the wild, chaotic resonance of a downtown oracle. Though perhaps not uttered nightly around suburban dinner tables, in the demi-monde of experimental theatre, he is nothing short of a cult legend—a brash, bejeweled prophet of the absurd who, in the 1960s, hurled theatrical convention into the spin cycle and emerged with an Obie Award in 1966 for the audacious act of “Assaulting Established Tradition.” One suspects he framed that accolade not as a laurel but as a challenge—to go further, weirder, wilder.

It is in that unhinged, fabulous spirit that Medea of the Laundromat is reborn, not merely revived. And oh, what a resurrection it is. If Koutoukas’ works are rarely staged, that needs to be remedied, for this is theatre not as passive spectacle but as glorious provocation—a drag-charged, disco-fueled invocation to the gods of soap and vengeance.

Let the dilettantes have their polished prosceniums and their polite matinees. Let the purists savor their memories of the 1982 Broadway revival, the Robinson Jeffers adaptation that starred Zoe Caldwell with the legendary Dame Judith Anderson as her Nurse.

Here, under the direction of (and scenically designed by) Arthur Adair, we are not only ushered into the august shadows of a Corinthian temple but into the chrome-and-formica sanctum of that most American of sanctuaries: the laundromat. And it is here—amid a glittering shrine of columns, sequined drapery, and a central aisle that serves as both a runway and ritual passage, just screaming for voguers—that the tale of Medea reaches its boiling point. The set, both intimate and hilariously reverent, transforms the quotidian into the mythic. Forget the sacred flames of ancient altars—this is theatre lit by spin cycles and fluorescent rage.

Koutoukas dispenses with any pretense of traditional gravitas from the start, opting instead for campy subversion. In his world, Creon is not the stern patriarch but King Crayon, a figure of waxy authority, accompanied by his daughter, the saccharine and doomed Princess Crayola. Jason, ever the golden-haired philanderer, prepares to abandon Medea—the tempestuous sorceress from the wrong side of the sea—in favor of this pastel princess. And as with all classic Greek tragedies, exile looms… but not for long. In Koutoukas’ hands, fate is less divine decree and more a deliciously chaotic narrative whim: the royal pair die mysteriously offstage, and the audience is left delightfully unmoored.

Enter the Nurse—portrayed with unhinged verve by Jenne Vath—who storms the stage like a banshee in orthopedic shoes, wielding a baby doll and a bottomless well of theatrical fury. One moment she is crooning to her fake infant; the next, the poor creature is tossed unceremoniously into a laundry basket. The detergent bottle and the baby make contact with a noticeable thud. It is tragicomic madness of the highest order. When she bellows, “Women of Corinth, lay down your laundry!” one is unsure whether to weep or howl with laughter.

And then there is the storm of flashing lights, booming thunder, and the thump of disco. A masked figure emerges—a menacing hybrid of comedy and tragedy. Beneath the mask: John-Andrew Morrison’s Medea, swathed in Sally Lesser’s divine costuming, part goddess, part housewife, wholly incensed. His performance simmers with electric rage, contempt, heartbreak, and yes—flamboyance. Koutoukas’ Medea is no slow-burning victim; she’s a queen with a plan, and she has access to Tide and fabric softener. When she hisses, “You wanna hurt a man? Then hurt his only son,” the chill that descends is very real.

But make no mistake—this is not merely a parody. It is an excavation of myth through the tools of satire, drag, and experimental performance. It gleefully mocks the mechanics of Greek tragedy while honoring its primal power. The lighting design by Federico Restrepo blazes and flickers like divine intervention. When Jason (played with strutting bravado and impeccable comic timing by Jason Howard) arrives, adorned in golden sandals and the misplaced confidence of a man who has never questioned his own importance, he finds himself utterly outmatched.

And then there is the leaf blower. Yes, the Nurse returns, this time wielding a shoulder-mounted contraption of suburban vengeance, and Jason is swept, quite literally, offstage. In a final, self-aware wink to the tradition of grand tragedy and the legacy of downtown drag, we are reminded that theatrical masks may conceal—but they can also reveal.

This is not merely a delightful evening of theatre—it is a defiant, sequined middle finger to theatrical complacency. The cast, many of whom trained under the maverick George Ferencz at La MaMa, bring authentic chops to the chaos. Morrison is transcendent, as raw as he is precise. Vath is a hurricane in scrubs (and let it be known she is the hardest working actress south of the TKTS line as she races from her curtain call at Theater Row Theater’s production of Cracked Open to aid and abet the sorceress on the cover of Child Abuse Monthly). Howard’s Jason is laughable, pitiable, and oddly endearing—a fallen hero undone by hubris and soap suds.

Medea of the Laundromat does what all great theatre should: it agitates, amuses, and astonishes. It leaves you wrung out, like your favorite shirt pulled from a spin cycle. The tragedy is real, the comedy biting, and the catharsis? Immaculate.

One exits the theatre reminded that even in our age of digital sterility, the primal howl of live performance still echoes—and sometimes, it echoes from a laundromat. Bring quarters!

Medea of the Laundromat (through June 22, 2025)

La MaMa Experimental Theater Club in association with Lucille Lortel Theatre

The Club, 74A East 4th Street, in Manhattan

For tickets, visit http://www.ovationtix.com

Running time: 74 minutes without an intermission