Just as the subway levels all social strata, the sauna, too, becomes a great equalizer, where social classes dissolve into shared vulnerability. On a humid, rainy night, a unique group of theatergoers gathered at the Russian and Turkish Baths in the East Village to experience this profound blend firsthand.
From seasoned art lovers to curious newcomers, attendees of all ages stripped down to their swimsuits and wrapped themselves in navy robes. Their destination: a sweltering, un-air-conditioned subway car, the setting for “Dutchman.” This powerful play about race and sex, written by Amiri Baraka in 1964, was directed by artist Rashid Johnson, marking its second staging at the 10th Street bathhouse. Johnson, known primarily as a visual artist and filmmaker, was first inspired to adapt and direct the play in this unique setting in 2013, drawing inspiration from his own weekly sauna rituals.
“It felt so natural,” Johnson, 48, commented on the striking choice of venue. “It’s almost strangely obvious.”
This five-night revival of the one-act play celebrates the 20th anniversary of Performa, New York’s esteemed performance-art biennial. The production also aligns with Johnson’s first major museum survey, currently showcased at the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum until mid-January.
“I wouldn’t dare have an expectation for an audience to receive anything in any sort of specific way,” Johnson stated. “I would like for them to be really present. And I think I’ve created a condition, and the circumstance, to which that presence is almost guaranteed.”
This is not a performance for the faint of heart. The script includes racial slurs hurled multiple times, and with temperatures far exceeding typical home thermostats, the risk of fainting is very real.
“Somewhere in the 150s,” reported Dmitry Shapiro, a co-owner of the baths, after checking the temperature in the notorious Russian Room. While lower than its usual 194 degrees, it remained hot enough to dry beef into jerky.
The evening commenced in the bathhouse’s restaurant, where guests, adorned in matching wrap-tie robes and separated from their phones, mingled under a “Russian Home Cooking” menu featuring daily specials like “beer shrimp,” tuna salad, and Anna’s borscht.
“I think even the way we’re entering into this is part of the experience,” noted Alexandria Pang, 35, a global luxury brands director and a member of Performa’s young visionaries steering committee. “There’s a vulnerability to it.”
Johnson initiated the proceedings by requesting a single clap, then cautioned the audience that they would soon be “on top of each other,” advising experienced sauna-goers to choose higher seating.
“Heat rises,” he explained, “It’s a simple science lesson.”
Carefully, attendees clutched the railing as they descended into the cavernous baths, wary of slipping. The play unfolded across three distinct spaces: the Turkish Sauna, a designated rest area, and the spa’s crown jewel, the Russian Room.
A group of 40 spectators crammed onto wooden benches as the actors, illuminated solely by flashlights, commanded the center of the room, mere inches from the audience’s faces.
“Dutchman” introduces Clay, a Black man, to Lula, a white woman, in a deceptively simple encounter. Their initial flirtation on a train rapidly escalates into a volatile exchange, transforming the carriage into a suffocating pressure cooker of aggression.
This intense 45-minute production, featuring dialogue as searing as the ambient heat, stars only two actors: Jerod Haynes and Tori Ernst.
For Ms. Ernst, this marks a return to her role as Lula, a character she first brought to life in the 2013 staging at the age of 22.
“It’s sort of that old saying of like, ‘Wow, this piece is still relevant, how amazing and how sad,’” she reflected. “I think that that’s really struck me this time around.”
With her hair in a high ponytail, dressed in a red bikini, vibrant red lipstick, and a black mesh dress, Ms. Ernst’s Lula alternately teases Clay with seductive overtures and erupts into frantic monologues. Her dialogue swings from dismissive jabs like, “You’re a well-known type,” to surreal imagery: “You look like death eating a soda cracker.”
As the suffocating heat intensified, audience members’ shoulders began to slump. The pop of plastic bottles echoed through the room as guests sought hydration, and some eventually discarded their robes altogether.
As the performance moved into the Russian Room, Lula’s initial eccentric flirtation transformed into something darker. She shrieked, moaned, and cooed in a baby voice, spewing rabid racist remarks.
The palpable tension in the room grew, marked by agitated breaths and a collective dousing of water bottles. One man, positioned nearest the sauna stove, stood, then sat, visibly wrestling with the decision to leave before ultimately choosing to remain for the duration.
“The heat is the main character,” Jerod Haynes emphasized. “It forces you to confront what’s in front of you.”
As Clay’s presence swelled, the audience seemed to shrink. His eruption of rage, no longer suppressible, spun like a furious salad spinner, flinging droplets from his mouth and hands, mingling with the collective sweat of the room.
The audience was transformed, at first, into fellow subway passengers, collectively wiping their brows alongside Lula and Clay. Yet, in the climactic finale, their role shifted to something far darker: witnesses to a simulated murder.
When Lula’s knife clattered to the ground, the audience, simultaneously stunned and ready for release, prepared to applaud.
The actors gracefully accepted bouquets of roses and took their bows.
“Now let’s get out of here,” Haynes exclaimed with an expletive, prompting cheers from the theatergoers who then poured out of the Russian Room and into the cold plunge.
Daniel Humm, the celebrated restaurateur behind Eleven Madison Park, a veteran of saunas himself, described the experience as “uncomfortable, which was the point.”
“It was intense,” his wife, Annabelle Dexter-Jones, known for her role in “Succession,” added. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
As attendees wrung out their towels, Matthew Filbert, 31, sat on a bench, lost in thought, staring into the distance.
“I’m just trying to digest it, honestly,” he confessed.