The New Yorker:

Jordan Tannahill’s explicit new play fetishizes the British Royal Family but has more than sex on its mind.

By Helen Shaw

On a blue-lit stage, a naked man—blindfolded, trussed, and gagged—hangs like a deer from a pole. Pale and gleaming, he looks like a painting of St. Sebastian, rapturous in martyrdom, or the marble statue of the “Dying Gaul.” Until this moment, the Canadian playwright Jordan Tannahill’s intermittently superb “Prince Faggot,” co-produced by Soho Rep and its temporary host Playwrights Horizons, has whisked us briskly through an erotic fable about people very much like the British Royal Family. But here it pauses. The young man in the ropes is not just a character in bondage; he’s the heroic nude, an icon of tension and surrender. Kink is so old, it’s classical.

The play’s title operates as a useful sorting device, sifting for audiences who are familiar with the way that the slur has been reclaimed or who are happy to bask in full-frontal sexual tableaux, staged by the director Shayok Misha Chowdhury with explicit brio. (If you can sing out “I’d like two tickets to ‘Prince Faggot,’ please” at the box office, then you are tall enough to ride this ride.) Chowdhury, who was named a Pulitzer finalist for his play “Public Obscenities,” is also a gifted director, and he arranges his actors on David Zinn’s chandelier-hung set with an eye for exquisitely composed, color-saturated stage images—as if, any moment, cameras might start rolling.

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