Kore at The Magnetic Theatre

It was a refreshing homecoming to step back into The Magnetic Theatre’s black box space on Depot Street after more than a year of Zoom theater, outdoor theater, walking theater, and all the rest. Flashing my ID and photo of my vaccination card, I strode maskless into the cool, comforting confines of a real live theater. 

I was there to see the world premiere of Kore: A Modern Telling of the Persephone Myth by Gabrielle Orcha. As the subtitle suggests, Kore, which means “maiden” in Greek and was one of Persephone’s ancient epithets, tracks the original myth very closely.

For those rusty on their Classics: Persephone, daughter of Demeter (goddess of the harvest) is abducted by Hades (god of death), and Demeter’s ensuing despair forbids all vegetation to grow. Zeus forces Hades to release Persephone for half the year, resulting in fruitful spring and summer, and when she descends back into the Underworld, Demeter is once again consumed by grief, and the earth cycles to barren autumn and winter.

Orcha’s retelling modernizes and subverts various aspects of the original myth. For example, rather than being kidnapped, this Persephone (Heather Nicole Bronson) is deeply attracted to Hades (Zak Hamrick) in a “bad boy” sort of way. (After all, who could be badder than the Lord of the Underworld?) And instead of an origin story for the seasons, Orcha and director Jessica Johnson elevate the mother-daughter relationship to the forefront of the show’s themes.

As Kore/Persephone, Bronson is a bright, sprightly presence, belying her insistence that she is inexorably drawn to the dark, cold, and quiet of Hades (“I wish I was a root vegetable,” she moans in the first scene). She’s in her early 20s, the “failure to launch” period of her life — technically an adult, but flashing a bratty teen attitude from time to time.

Meanwhile, Demeter (Katie Langwell) is understandably anxious about her daughter becoming Queen of the Dead. Langwell plays Demeter as a hippy-ish Tiger Mom, an Earth Mother draped in loose, forest-toned linens who eschews GPS for vague holistic reasons. But when her daughter leaves home in a huff and winds up with Hades, she snaps into action, bursting through the door of the Underworld with a stream of curse words and a slap to his face (“Where’s my daughter, motherfucker?!?”). 

Hamrick is a cool, suave Hades, well-dressed and wearing snakeskin boots. He provides an understated take on the tortured boy in a leather jacket get-up, and is angsty without being annoying (“Who does the Lord of the Underworld pray to?” he pleads to the audience with big doe eyes).

Finally, Hecate, goddess of witchcraft (portrayed in one scene by Bronson and another two by Langwell) plays the role of an impish guide, her black hood covering her face, carrying her emblematic keys and “torch” — in this case, an amber flashlight. Langwell, especially, is a ton of fun, leaning into a New Yawk accent, cryptically repeating lyrics to classic rock tunes, and handing out “business cards” to audience members.

As you can probably tell, Kore exists in a liminal space between myth and reality. Most of the dialogue is in normal contemporary American vernacular, but fantastical elements — like meeting the god of death in a singles bar — are taken in stride by the characters as everyday occurrences. 

In this way, Kore joins a long theatrical tradition of magical realism, from Lorca to Sarah Ruhl. Indeed, there are strong flashes of Ruhl’s Eurydice throughout Kore, plus some welcome comedy in this juxtaposition of fantasy and reality. At one point, Persephone comes home with a grocery bag marked “Underworld Grocers,” from which she eats the infamous pomegranate seeds that bind her to Hades forever.

Still, there are some elements of Kore that struck me as a little on-the-nose. The play is eminently recognizable as an update of the Persephone myth, so is it really necessary to keep the same names, the literal “god” title, the expected colors (black for Hades, green for Demeter, etc.)? 

For my part, I would have liked to see something that, while still drawing inspiration from the original myth, flies a little further afield. What if Hades was a corporate CEO or a politician (nudge nudge, god of death) or Persephone a runaway teen? I would have loved to see Demeter as a struggling single mom, her “fertility” symbolized by art or pottery or animals — anything other than literal gardening.

In short, I think Orcha should be more confident in letting the play stand on its own. Indeed, the best and most memorable parts of Kore are the original elements. One surprising and somewhat transgressive scene features Persephone and Hades, seated on their respective thrones, getting each other off by telling cheesy dirty jokes (Can I tell you a joke about my dick? Never mind, it’s too long…). They writhe in ecstasy; erotic but not intimate — a little funny and a little terrifying.

On the other hand, there is a genuinely heartwarming scene where the lovers are in the forest watching a lunar eclipse. Hades asks Persephone if he can lie on top of her (cue the laughter). But he doesn’t mean sex — he wants to lay his head on her breast and close his eyes, releasing, for a moment, his burdensome solitude. 

This authentic human moment was more compelling to me than all the clever allusions or wink-and-nods to Greek mythology that pepper the story — although, as a mythology nerd myself, I did appreciate all of those. 

Abby Auman crafts a lush and dreamy lighting design — perhaps more magical to me after a year without stage lights. The lighting is heavy on isolation, with intense blues and ambers for the underworld and upper world, respectively.

Tyler Johnson provides a serviceable set design that complements the binary question of the show — namely, which life will Persephone choose? On one side, Hades’ apartment (i.e. The Underworld) — a chic, slightly gothic bachelor pad; on the other, Demeter’s chill green living room, featuring a curiously anachronistic corded land line.

Kore is exactly as advertised: a modern telling of the Persephone myth. It is also an example of what I believe Magnetic does best — small-cast, evocative, light-on-its-feet storytelling. It is original and somewhat magical, without being so avant-garde it alienates Asheville audiences.

Although it may imitate its source material a bit too literally, Kore contains many gems for its audience to cherish, bring home, and examine more closely for some time after. For me, that is the ultimate goal of live theatre — and what a joy it is to experience it once more.

Kore has performances at 7:30 p.m., Thursday-Saturday, July 15-24, and at 4 p.m. on Sunday, July 18. For tickets and more information, visit themagnetictheatre.org.

(Photos courtesy of The Magnetic Theatre)