One thing about having a blog that’s this old is that if you scroll back enough you can see yourself shift and change, and you can also see yourself stay the same.
I first wrote about Sleep No More after my second visit, as my personal theatre paradigm shifted irrevocably. Then, in March 2013, I already called it home.
Many things changed since then. But that, never did.
There might be something long and sappy here before, I suppose, this blog will go on a permanent hiatus because there won’t be anything to write here about in the world. And I said so many times that I don’t much care for Punchdrunk’s masked shows any more, but writing the sentence above opened some sort of a void in my heart.
I want to say that I don’t know what I’m feeling in regards to Sleep No More closing, but, truth be told, I do, and that feeling is grief.
(It is valid, I suppose, to grieve the permanent loss of something which lured you in before your frontal lobe was fully developed and shaped your life’s experiences. )
(Unless the final - final-final - definitely we promise this time it’s actually final - extension moves a couple months forward, in which case I’ll probably be going through this process once more.)
Absolutely no one is here anymore which suits me fine, because this entry is in equal part very full of gushing and very opinionated. I only have my own heart, my own sleep deprived brain and my own set of memories, all of which are here for you to see.
I always have this fear of walking into the drone and haze-filled McKittrick and feeling absolutely nothing. That fear is particularly potent now, not only because it was nearly three years again - not by choice this time around, of course - but because feeling nothing is more or less my entire experience with The Burnt City. Well, it’s that, peppered with boredom and annoyance. I tried to get on with it, I really did. I have several unfinished drafts of why my predominant emotion there is irritation and why my stomach is so woefully free of butterflies when it comes to that show, but I’m struggling to finish any of them because I just don’t… care. I will write about this at a later date, maybe. This is not the point here.
When I’m actually at the McKittrick, it hits me all of the sudden. This bubbly feeling when the non-reality suddenly overwhelms all your senses. I sit on a crate in a bar made literally out of cardboard, watching a man reset a set of cards as the soundscape blazes around us, rich and full of detail, and I feel alive. I rush down after them along a dark corridor, red light barely illuminating the way, and feel safe. I take an offered hand and feel seen. I feel seen there on any single night more than I have thought possible after being dunked into an ice-cold and deeply impenetrable universe of the Burnt City. In twelve hours I am here I laugh, I cry, I gasp out loud, as my mind fizzes with giddiness at the old, the new, and the magical.
Perhaps part of this is nostalgia. Perhaps it is part scarcity. Still, no matter how much the world, my life, my tastes, or my body changes, this first immersive show I have seen remains a constant source of giddiness. My love for Sleep No More is a constant.
This show is full of surprises. I see and experience things I have not seen in years: MacDuff and the Bald Witch dancing below, as Duncan is slowly losing consciousness above; an umbrella handle pressed into my hand; trousers thrown at me to sort out. As always, familiar and unfamiliar, old and new dance together. Evik Abbott-freaking-Main is in the show, and Miguel Anaya is in the show, and I feel the passage of time and all those years on my own shoulders, but the feeling of it being a constant only intensifies.
Generally, the cast is so strong now. Not all of them perform their characters in the way I like to see them. I can be a bit particular about what I like, but obviously tradition of a character performance to so akin to folklore that some elements of them get lost to time. That said, every single person I lay eyes on commits fully, and the newbies are clearly trained exceptionally well to keep the best parts of their characters shiny and vivid. Despite the fact that some of my favourites had not returned to the show, I genuinely think that in terms of the median ability this is the strongest cast I have seen in a very long while, possibly since 2015.
It helps that there are updates to choreography and the set: a lot are small things, possibly not overly noticeable if you’re not an obsessive follower of the same six characters, but the massive change to the graveyard is clearly an excellent one both from a visual perspective, and in terms of accessibility.
Unsurprisingly, I don’t like the Manderley Bar change. I genuinely think that it affects the atmosphere in a negative way, insomuch that it more or less murders the atmosphere altogether. I have some very choice opinions on the creatives (well, the creative, singular) in terms of how much input they should be making into this show, especially considering that the Burnt City does incorporate some of their worse choices, and their take on the bar is only one of them. But, not to be unkind, this is a perfect dictionary example of “if it ain’t broken, don’t fix it”. There was nothing wrong with the Manderley. It was more or less perfect. It exists in the same world as the building, and, considering that they are now printing those newspaper programs that also anchors it in that world, a decision to dial down pretty much all in-world aspect of Manderley to non-existence is undisputedly terrible. I sincerely hope that Emursive shrugs this artistic input off soon enough.
Here are some general notes on the first three shows I saw, with the last one separated into a recap of its own because it was awesome. There is much less shade beyond this point.
Brandon Coleman’s Speakeasy is as delightful as he always was, despite the absence of any in-loop interactions. The latter, I’m sure, is not at all on the performers: I haven’t seen anyone do the card game this trip. He still has a boy witch/magical being vibe of a barman, playful and judgemental at the same time. Plus, his movement is wonderful. He always sees people around him: a nod, a condescending smile, a wry lifting on the eyebrow - they follow us along.
Nando Morland’s Fulton is brand new but really lovely. Very soft and a little bit detached from other characters - but not the audience, as it is pretty evident that he is already very comfortable with people. His Fulton has a very solid sense of cohesion, with some very fun choices. He offers me his hand and shows me the finale after I have followed him for the whole loop. This is what I call a “walk down/finale/walkout triple whammy”, which for a stretch of time was not at all the modus operandi of the Town characters. Meaning that someone decided to actively teach him this part of the loop, and that, to me, is truly remarkable. When the older performers serve me some old-school vibes I’m utterly delighted but not really surprised. When a new one does it, I am elated.
Jeff Docimo as Speakeasy on a no-Fulton show is extremely fun. He always messed around a lot, but I think the best thing I have seen to date from this character was Speakeasy-Fulton coming down to the lobby instead of the card game to have a full-on dance around with the Porter, helping him reset the space, and matching his gleeful vibe beat for beat before giving him a massive hug. Considering that this was Parker Murphy, whose Porter is of a pretty dark variety, this relationship works incredibly well.
Parker’s Porter made me giggle and made me cry. I christened his general mood as a sad evil gremlin, but there is an earnestness to him that I found disarming. There is a juvenile streak, which is both evident in the way he full-on moons over Boy Witch and in the way he visibly enjoys his small and large pranks. He is not stuck in a melancholy mode, beaming even through parts of the Cabaret, the passage about Boy Witch falling in love clearly sparking serious hope all the way to the rejection. He rummages through Agnes’ luggage and shows her the stolen money with vicious glee. It is a very solid hour indeed, and I am very pleasantly surprised that if the 1:1 was at some point altered for the pandemic, it is certainly back to its former self now.
Nate Carter’s Fulton is an utter revelation. He got me with calling out wordlessly for Speakeasy when the latter is waking towards the rave, and honestly every single thing he did was full of life. It’s performers like that who fill the Town with joy for me. I’m enthralled enough to watch every single scene, including some that only happen after Taxi arrives. He is fixing his glasses on his nose as he goes around the day. He recoils with his full body, eyes blown wide, muscles contracting, from the mangled bones. Every moment of his performance is full to the brim. I don’t know who is teaching this role these days - although I have my suspicions -, but hot damn they are doing a great job. He makes one of the strongest Cunning Men to date.
Walking into the middle of the ballroom and seeing Evik Abbott-Main as Malcolm was one of the best experiences of this trip. It did completely decimate my plans of following Brandon Coleman’s Banquo, but, honestly, worth it. They have this way of staring at you that goes right into your soul. They are intense and more collected than some of the other Malcolms, but not at all intimidating, which is a lovely feat. At the top of the show, I’m utterly sleep deprived and my world is fuzzy at the edges, and I can barely breathe because I have just run eight flights of stairs after them forgetting that I’m no longer a fit 22-year old who used to dance full time, and I am overwhelmed in the best possible way. Evik’s Malcolm together with Brandon as Banquo and Elias Rosa as Macduff make for a very vivid trio, too: softly determined Malcolm; young and vibrant Banquo; strong, imposing Macduff. They bounce off each other in every scene; it’s both impressive and beautiful to watch.
I follow Duncan for the first time in many many years, mostly because it’s Miguel Anaya and when have I ever not followed him? The murder particularly strikes me, not just in performance, but in the general staging, and the way sound is integrated here. As I listen to the clock ticking, intensifying, and, abruptly, stopping completely, I think about this very moment as the reason I love this show so freaking much. Movement, sound, light, and themes, all combining to create a single effict: you’d think I would not be surprised by this considering that we have a whole show of our own in the city. You’d think.
—
My last visit is a thing of absolute beauty.
I run to the ballroom. Bald Witch catches my eye, and then Nate’s Boy witch follows her gaze. He does not stop staring at me the whole scene as all of the audience in there, composed of mostly tourists, just leave halfway through the scene. I may not be completely alone sitting on a pillar there, but I certainly feel alone in the world as the witches glance and wink and roll their eyes. Even when I spread my attention, taking in what is by far the most vibrant Ballroom scene this visit, I feel their eyes. Still, I’m not sure if I want to follow Boy Witch, so I hold back to watch Banquo being beckoned up the stairs. Then, no one else is running after the Boy so…
I stop and lean against the wall opposite the luggage room. He has been waiting for me, eyes twinkling. He reaches out, rolls over the counter, limbs flying, then hops off to press me into the wall, hands flying to my mask: an intimate gesture. Yes, I think, I’m not leaving now. He dances with the Porter, manipulating him perfectly and magically. It’s the same choreography as ever, and I have surely seen it dozens of times, but I am taken aback anew by the clarity of what is going on here. The Boy Witch looks me in the eye as he drops his once-lover to the ground. We run up the stairs. As always, he disappears behind the corner, only to wait for his followers - one follower, singular, me - with a smug, satisfied expression.
The pool table solo makes me gasp: he throws himself around ferociously, contorting in ways which look unnatural, tortured. He reaches out to me, a gesture I know is also part of the choreography, but still reads so clearly as begging for help. “You, you did this” he screams at a different mask in clear English (an infinitely better choice than using nonsense explicatives if you ask me) as he is packed up.
I manage to get a prime spot for the rave. It’s the only rave I watch this trip and it’s made better for it. It feels as magical as ten years ago. Holy hell, it’s been ten years and this show still makes my eyes water and my heart rate soar.
Boy witch cries curled under a warm shower before emitting a howl of utter despair that freezes my blood cold in an instant. It feels as invasive as ever but more than that, it’s devastating. He points at the towel. Throws me his trousers. I follow again, as he disappears behind a corner. I expect him to wait, as they always do, but I do not expect him to jump out at me and slam me into the wall before folding over me, one hand behind my back, cheek close to mine. “Thank you”, he whispers into my shoulder. “Thank you”. I squeeze his elbow because I don’t know what else to do to offer my support and understanding. Then I try and fail not to cry during the whole banquet scene sitting on a pillar.
The trees move around me. I breathe in sadness and breathe out pure unadulterated joy as I watch the magic happen around me. Again that perfect synchronisation of light, sound and movement; familiar but never old.
He takes my hand and brings me to watch cabaret which is as sweet, as melancholy and as effective as ever. He looks me in the eye and my world zeroed in on him. My eyes water once more, tears itching under the mask.
There is no 1:1 but instead, he slowly and carefully composes himself in the mirror, stretching his face into a mask of happiness: it’s unnerving because you know it is not real. His boy witch may be as playful as the rest of them, but he has a sinister edge which is not very common.
He spreads his attention beautifully during the loop, making me feel special and appreciated but still bringing others in, and they can’t help but scuttle after him. He is one of the best Boy Witches I have ever seen and my heart sings.
But the show is not over yet. In fact, I have spotted Jack Blackmon being Fulton so naturally, I hop up the stairs. Old habits die hard, you know.
His is a sweet and vibrant portrayal - just as I expected it to be. He walks in straight, sharp lines, hurrying up and down the high street in a way which betrays him as an underdog in town. He brandishes his umbrella when he finds Sexy Witch - the same umbrella I hold for him at the graveyard, which is an interaction I was absolutely certain disappeared for good at some point over the years. He finds a bird and then hurriedly tidies up Taxi’s counter as if in fear of upsetting his imposing neighbour: a gesture which encapsulates his entire personality. His rituals are deliberate, I keep at his heels when… he fights Taxidermist?
The show had a stairway entrance so I assumed it was going to be a Taxi-less show but what do I know? I don’t have time to even discern who plays the part before it is all over and Fulton is running for the door.
I want to follow him for the rest of the loop but then I peer over the corner to see who actually is Taxi and it’s Evik again, what is a girl to do? *Not* follow one of the best Taxis this show has ever seen?
And, yeah, they are still spectacular. They steal Hecate’s supplies. They play with the audience, seeing them everywhere, constantly. They have a mask that follows closely but when the time comes their eyes fly at mine. I am honestly taken aback because there are a fair few followers around so their choice feels weird but, naturally, I take the hand. I am planning to be here for the long run anyway. “I’ll be right back”, a honey-thick swagger in that one line.
Their little pranks on the audience are not huge but they are noticeable and delightful. They hide behind a pillar and stare at Fulton’s door. Then their eyes slide to mine, watching them watching the Tailor, and they make half a step back, out of my view. It is small but deliberately playful. They hide and stalk with predatory intent, and have a sense of superiority which is beautiful. It’s a perfect mixture of scary and funny which I love in my Taxis.
I follow them downstairs, which is absolutely worth it. The funniest thing is how unperturbed Taxi is by the gruesome bedroom scene, there is almost a satisfaction there as they touch the phantom blood on the sheets: a perfect example of how, if placed well, a lack of a reaction is as much of a choice as having a reaction.
Later, when we return to taxidermy, they wrap a piece of string around my wrist. “Friends forever,” they say, words dripping with sarcasm; I can’t but huff out a laugh. Then they proceed to… hand-feed Boy Witch a.. candy? A grape? The boy eats it hungrily and sloppily either way.
They take my hand and bring me down, giving me a front-row view. This is the second time this trip, and as I have mentioned in the past, this is my favourite interaction in this show ever, which was so woefully missed several years back. Macbeth hangs. I start to feel pangs of bitter melancholy when a hand skids down my arm to lead me out and unmask me for the last time this trip.
“You are brilliant!” I blurt out after I am unmasked, breaking the no-speaking conduct, because, well, they are. I don’t think those performers know how special they make people feel when they gift them so much of their time.
I feel the love which is overwhelming - for the show I have so much history with, and which still fills me to the brim with happiness.
What is the point of coming to previews if not the satisfaction of seeing things change and get better. So, here are some of the points I made earlier this week that have already been improved by Sunday. And some things that I'm still struggling with.
The light is “there” now, with levels stored out, and the amount of focus being just right. It finally gives you that wonderful “no close up close up” feeling, and blurs the edges of the world. I still wish it was a bit more angular on the Troy side, but that’s a personal preference. Similar things happened with sound, although I hear that’s still not technically complete. At any rate the tech boards are gone, which is a damn good thing.
Having a human being actually telling audience what to do is an excellent move, although I saw that human being just following the show in a white mask later, so guessing it’s not yet an actual character. Still, a very basic version of the Sleep No More’s pre-elevator speech already makes all the difference in audience behaviour. It’s not that people don’t break the rules - because they do - it’s more that they know they are doing so when they decide to open their mouths. All good things there.
Audience flow has been tweaked. There are still torrents of white masks clogging the corridors here and there around popular characters, but I have seen many opportunities for audience to splinter away. Also, keeping the 1:1 placeholders (as in, character disappearing alone) is a good way to keep the audience flow consistent. The idea of having two staggered finales is an excellent one, too. I don’t know how it affected Mycenae yet, but the new finale in Troy, even though it’s also not raised, did not seem to have been overcrowded, and the audience filtered back at a very good pace. The finale itself is an extended version of an existing scene, in which the pre-made part fits the purpose surprisingly well, and the new part definitely needs work. Still, it’s wonderful to see how a big problem was swiftly identified and addressed by the company.
I have been thinking why I find it hard to pinpoint where they were going with the vibe of Troy, and then @drinkthehalo pointed out that it does not have a specific time it belongs to, and I think it kind of nails it. The vibe is “eighties but make it art deco”, but it does not read as any version of real or even alternate history the way you would expect it to. It’s still nostalgic in certain ways, but it also has a strange sense that you don’t really understand this world at all.
I have discovered “The Macduff loop”! It did not touch my heart, but it the quality of choreography and performance actually blew my mind. There is a very special joy in watching a character traverse the space seemingly by air. Generally speaking though, a big barrier I am hitting with the Burnt City is that I am a serial follower of resident characters, when a week in those are understandably not finished yet. And I know, logically, that there is no point sticking to them at the stage the show is at, but it’s where my heart lies, so I have set myself up to be constantly underwhelmed.
It’s kind of hard to put my finger on exactly how those unfinished loops don’t do much for me, but I think it’s actually their consistency. Hear me out. First three months of The Drowned Man, your Doctors, your Grocers and your Badlands Jacks were all going absolutely buck-wild. The unfinished parts were constantly improvised around you, with you, for you. Here, those loops are detached from you. It’s not just the lack of inclusion - although honestly a few games I saw characters play with themselves would have been infinitely more engaging if they were played with the audience - it’s this rigidity in every single thing that happens. There is little fun to be had here. I see the Punchdrunk’s ethos of “everything must be scripted” at work, but I am by now convinced that this is the rule that is best broken. At least at this early stage, when not everything is scripted yet.
Even the way the drugged/dead/supernatural characters are aware of being watched seems to be very tightly controlled, subtle: a feeling more than an action. There isn’t this stark direct forth wall break that indicates very clearly that the character you are watching has transcended. Some notable TDM alumni are larger than life, but the majority have a sense of detachedness around them which does not help connect with the smaller of the stories.
I find that I relate to the characters through being a part of their journey; and so far I’m failing to find my Romolas and Banquos to an extend where I’m wondering if they are even here.
For all that, this show is definitely growing on me, so maybe by end of summer - or another half a dozen visits in - I will be singing a very different tune.
Below is my initial impression of the Burnt City after the first preview. It is structured as assorted thoughts, interspersed with trying to portray the angle from which those thought occur. It’s not a review (I hear reviewing previews is what we call a dick move), but it’s also not… not a review. I will be avoiding spoilers outside of generally known things: the space, setting, etc.
—
I rush after a woman through dark winding streets of Troy. The world suddenly zeroes in on her green satin dress. I find myself grinning at some point, caught unawares by the joy of it all. An hour passes before I even notice.
—
One. The impression.
The familiarity is striking. Donning a familiar white mask and entering a dark labyrinth to a familiar voice speaking over your head. Familiar dancers gliding through the space below. Comfortable hum of the all too familiar drone, spiralling into the all too familiar drop. Rounding the corner, you can see a character set off, a familiar flock of white masks rushing after them, bumping into each other chaotically. Another character approaches a locked door, reaches out for the keys on their wrist. Masks behind all but buzz in anticipation: that, too, is familiar.
Mycenae is a dark, war-torn land, sand crunching under the feet. But I take particular joy at strolling through angular, elegant art-deco Troy, peeking into shops and dwellings: every Punchdrunk’s show has a town, Troy is that. It’s textured and homey. If one wanted to, they could spend a whole three hours just being a tourist here, milling around the sights.
There are Punchdrunk performance tropes, I realise faintly, that are very visible here. A character looks behind them worriedly, eyes glancing across the masks. They swallow, scratch their neck. Hurry further. Another character looks at a white mask directly, unblinkingly. They let the moment hang. Another is looking onto a distressing scene, eyes wide, their chest heaving in a panic. Echoes of someone else, somewhere else.
The music swells at one point: uplifting, trilling strings filling the space, and you instantly recognise it as a reset. How weird that while being very different, the quality of the music just feels like it must be a reset. And if one could distill the sense that Burnt City gives you is that: it’s different, and yet not that different at all. For better or for worse.
—
“…Seeing stupid Punchdrunk’s stupid new show, stupidly”, I grumble to my Pathfinder group the night before. I feel petulant, a small child throwing a temper tantrum. There is something so deeply discomforting in dunking head first into something from our collective past. It’s far beyond nervous anticipation. It’s almost irksome, like reading an old diary, full of sentiments and thoughts you don’t want to think you ever held. Why would you make the same work you made a decade ago, I think, annoyed. Why would you want to dip your toes into “same old, same old”. I never would. I absolutely never would.
—
Two. Same old, same old.
It is a Punchdrunk show. There is honestly very little else I can say about its structure that’s not encompassed by that sentence. I also don’t want to comment on the content, because it’s certainly not bedded in enough, and also because I tend to follow secondary characters over the leads anyway. Besides, my knowledge of the classics exists kind of in the opposition to the ones chosen by Punchdrunk, so a lot of what I saw I can only understand retroactively. I can say that the content does appear to be further along than The Drowned Man was even to the end of its previews. I have watched some fairly sedate loops, and even those had very little “dead space” in them.
The show is certainly full of familiar style of contemporary dance with the set being danced and crawled on just as much as you’d expect it to be. It’s not silent at all: in terms of dialogue to silence ratio Burnt City sits closer to The Drowned Man than Sleep No More. While I would generally see this as a plus, it does, weirdly, jar with its Weimar Years Fritz Lang inspirations. Sadly, the ways in which Lang/Metropolis motifs were incorporated left me wanting more: or wanting something, really, beyond set-dressing. From the experience of seeing other Punchdrunk shows, their cinematic inspirations tend to include themes and characters specific to those films; what what I have seen, it did not happen at all in the Burnt City.
In terms of the space, there are two large areas: Troy and Mycenae, separated from each other by a single corridor. Both exist mostly on two floors - or a ground floor and a mezzanine. Each of the “cities” has its own distinctive flavour, which is lovely. That said, the space does not feel very lived in, and don’t think there are enough resident characters in it, which is a great shame. It feels slightly barren, although of course I don’t know whether this is by design or not. I still wish the show was - or at least appeared to be - more populated.
The sound and light appear to be unfinished as of yet- or at least I hope that they are. A number of areas seem too bright, covered in wash of light, lacking character. It’s particularly puzzling considering that, again, Fritz Lang is the visual inspiration here. Music is literally reused from The Drowned Man at times, and the levels seem to yet be adjusted. There are several light and sound boards operated from the space, and some things that require stage management to perform, which would not be an unusual sight in, say, Secret Cinema, but does diminish the feeling that this is Punchdrunk’s world, operated autonomously through magic. Again, I hope this is only here during previews.
As for the cast, it’s a mix of familiar and new faces. Rob McNeill, Paul Zivkovich and Sam Booth are in it. So are Jane Leaney and Sarah Dowling, as well as Miranda MacLetten, Kate McGarr, Anna Finkel, Luke Murphy, just to name a few. Those newcomers to Punchdrunk seemed to be quite brilliant, and comfortable performing among the onlookers, although the first night they did not get nearly as much attention as their older colleagues.
—
The last night of The Drowned Man is the first time in months when I feel giddy and hyped up. We sit in the queue, passing around tinnies. Someone comes around with a carton of strawberries. There is no FOMO, no competition, no jealousy. Fans seamlessly get around the set, using all possible routes to the next scene, courteously shuffling around to make sure not to be in anyone’s way. It’s the first time, possibly ever, when the avid viewers feel like a united, monolithic community.
I have long decided that first night of the Burnt City would be either a reunion or a feeding frenzy. It can’t possibly be both.
—
Three. The flow.
In many ways, it is both. It is different from the early days of TDM, mostly because a lot of early audience here knows how this works and are very avid followers, but that is not really a problem. It irritated me personally because I do not like crowds and spending any amount of time following some of the performers without ending in one was not possible; that is a “me” thing however. It was certainly nice to see so many friendly faces in the queue and around the space.
The problem with the flow actually lies in two things. First is that the absence of a host character leads to very sparse introduction to audience’s role and behaviour rules. The voice over sets up the world alright, but you really miss the “this is who you are and this is what you need to do” part of the spiel. This means that first-timers behave atrociously. And, honestly, I don’t blame them. How are they to know to keep quiet and keep masks on, and explore with an open mind? They weren’t explicitly told what to do! Black masks and some performers try to mitigate this, but it is ultimately the introduction’s job to make sure that the audience approaches show in a way which is not disruptive. I sincerely hope that a host character (a curator perhaps?) is added to the show at a later date.
The second is with the space itself: effect of travelling between large very lit open-air areas and dark, narrow, winding corridors is interesting in terms of sensory input, but it does lead to some extreme funneling. The corridors themselves are lovely to travel by when you are alone, but if there are even two characters there, it creates honest to god crowd torrents. The flow of the space itself feels organic, which is something I would expect from Punchdrunk, but the flow in the space when there are people around is forced onto you. On several occasions the way to go was not chosen by me as I was carried by the river of people. Never mind the pandemic stuff - it just feels uncomfortable bordering on unsafe. Even if you look at this from the perspective of Punchdrunk philosophy: if this is all about choosing your show and your narrative, kind of strange that the space makes it so the crowd makes this choice for you.
The finale falls to a similar problem. I actually enjoyed the content of it quite a bit, but it does have huge sight-lines issues. Only the first part of it takes place in a raised space, the rest is on the ground. Which is where the majority of the audience is. This is probably completely fine if you are watching it from the mezzanine, but if you are stuck on the ground floor, you are a) packed like a sardine when the cast clears space for the finale, b) can only see glimpses of the finale itself, if you are lucky. The egress afterwards is once more a funnel - but this time a huge one. The most disconcerting thing is that - because there is only one narrow route from the finale space to the show bar - you are actually just shuffling in the crowd for an exceedingly long time. Again, never mind the pandemic and the inherent lack of safety the crowd presents even in the best of worlds: this is just anti-climactic.
Considering how much work Punchdrunk usually put into flow in their shows, into winding up before and winding down after, I found it bizarre that this one fell short. I hope all of this is fixed to a degree before the show opens proper.
—
“So, what did you think?”, asks a friend at the bar afterwards.
“It… was certainly a show that Punchdrunk did”, I reply, part diplomacy, part hesitation.
“Yes, but did you love it?…”
—
Four. Expectations.
I don’t want to spend any more words on this strange disconnect between what Punchdrunk do and what they say they do. If you want that, give my previous post a read, it details my feeling on the immersive scene and Punchdrunk’s role in it as, quote-unquote, innovators. Beyond that, there is a gap for me between expectations and reality when it comes to this show. Partially, this has to do with the material itself. When I hear, “this is Greek classics through the prism of Metropolis and retro-futuristic dystopias”, this show is not at all what I imagine. Partially, it comes from a feeling that I have seen a lot of this before: those ideas, those people, to an extent even those stories.
It is not one’s obligation to innovate anything. I have said this before: Punchdrunk have developed a format that works very very well. But, to quote @latetothewrapparty, they feel like Cirque du Soleil now. They do the same thing, but differently, with more sets, more money, more audience. You might not mind. You might love that thing, just the way it is. That’s completely fine.
I am just not sure I do any more.
—
I am adamant that, no, I did not love it. The friend laughs, knowingly, “Wait until you see it another fifty-sixty times”.
—
Five. Cassandra.
Making predictions on this show’s staying power is not something I am terribly confident doing. It looks like the show has sold very well until May, but not after that. Ticket sales will largely depend on the press, which I think will probably be very good. Whether it will keep selling past this year is anyone’s guess. They do have the space on a very long lease, and the show itself is largely subsidised, so I imagine the Burnt City will be here for a while regardless. I do think that Punchdrunk will run into problems with the local council, because the venue is nested in a highly populated and hugely gentrified neighbourhood; although I don’t think the complaints will ultimately hinder their work.
I will, naturally, see it again, if only because LFTWP and me already have some tickets booked. And maybe it will make me feel like it’s ten years ago at some point down the line. Perhaps, I will, as they say, feel the magic.
I am running out of wistful show lyrics to put in the title
I have been in the city for 72 hours. I have spent some of those hours inside the Hotel.
First of all, we went to see Woman in Black. It is good. It’s worth an evening for sure. The space fits this play extraordinarily well, and the play really doesn’t need any more than some fantastic performances and a hint of a location for the text to sing. The acting in this one is absolutely excellent, and I would struggle to find anything at fault with the production. It’s marvelously suspenseful but the terror doesn’t cling to you through the night. This is definitely a recommendation for me.
As for Sleep No More... I had a night I could not connect with at all and a night I connected with so well reality faded away once more, paling in comparison, and there was that familiar pang in my heart at a realization that I would be away for months. I love my city, my community, all my amazing jobs. I would not give them up for the world. Except that sometimes I feel an incomprehensible desire to give them up for a piece of fiction. Well. For this particular piece of fiction.
Anyway.
Things I saw and loved once more, described in a semi-recapped manner in present tense with a lot of hyperbole. It’s sort of irritating. Here we go.
For the first time in a very long while I make a spontaneous decision to follow Lady Macduff. I think it’s Kelly Todd although I could be wrong, and at any rate she has this beautiful haunted look on her face which I find myself drawn to. I forgot how tight her embrace is. For years, when I saw Moonlight Becomes You, I would be looking at the man and his mirror. I forgot that Lady Macduff has mirrors of her own: of the way she recognized ghosts in them - recognized you as a creature that does not belong to her world. I watch her loosing herself and despair at the brutality of her death. It’s so, so nice to see something old as new. I should do that more often.
***
I see a few scenes with Quinn Dixon’s Boy. I just cannot resist following him, if only for a while. He is brilliant as ever; my breath hitches when he launches in front of the bright light radiating from behind the woods. This solo really grew on me lately and I grin like a lunatic as my eyes follow it, memorizing its shapes. I watch the prophecy (it’s so blissfuly quiet; there is about ten of us there) and then cabaret. Boy Witch spins me around and kisses my hand, and I think, “enough now”.
I see some of Jenna Saccurato’s Sexy who is fantastic as ever, and spend some time with Bald Witch too. I giggle at her rolling her eyes at Banquo with a mixture of exasperation and disdain. She’s got attitude. The three of them make a beautiful team.
***
Calloway and Kit are a delight. I spend good twenty minutes deep in conversation with the two. The following night I greet Calloway cheerfully. He responds with a “hmpf”. I laugh; what else did I expect, really.
***
When I encounter the Porter, his legs are dangling up in the air, so I stop and wait patiently for his face to emerge from the mess of long limbs. When it does, it’s unmistakably Jason Cianciulli .
I beam: well thank goodness I get a chance to catch him his trip, and with a character I have not yet seen before, too.
Over the years, my favorite Porters were sad and suicidal. Jason is angry. He is aggravated. He is fed up. I still adore his performance to bits.
He stalks Boy Witch into the phone booth. The other man hooks a hand behind Porter’s neck. He brings him to to his knees. Porter traces Boy’s lips with his thumb and the Boy honest to god bites down.
The hand is offered to me. There are things happening behind closed doors that surprise me. There is a physical manipulation I don’t remember seeing: at least not in a long while. The scene doesn’t send me spiraling into angst and despair, but it does make me feel alive with wonder.
Agnes shows up. Their duet is stunning. Jason is a fantastic dancer - this has been long established of course; gravity is not a hinderance for this performer - and I absolutely love how elegantly he moves there. There is that anger, too. Porter dangles keys in front of the woman; throws them at the counter. With one smooth movement he angles the desk light towards the phone and throws the receiver off the hook. He leaves it at that, sneaking towards the phone booth.
He writes the note to Hecate. He does so at the visitors side of the counter which makes the lamp illuminate the piece of paper so damn well I can read its content even from the few feet away. He folds the piece of paper into a boat. Then he gets a copper ring out of his pocket and threads it through the origami piece.
What a fun little decision. Is it a desperate attempt to please? Is it a “fuck you” to the woman in red? Is it both?
I made an assumption a while ago that there are performers who clearly learn their character loops as scripts. And then there are performers who learn their characters as characters and make choices around that. Everything I ever saw this particular performer do is full of choices. Some of them I love and some I don’t but every single one of them makes me feel giddy with excitement.
He does an elaborate version of Moonlight Becomes You dance. He goes from sinking into his imaginary lover’s embrace to floating in the air and there is such grace to his movements.
He hides in his office again. He scribbles a few things onto the piece of paper and I squint: what? What is this? I realize seconds later that he is making the usual hand diagram, but he’s making it backwards, starting with the forest, with two lines for the ring, with “the boy” and “the girl”, making the picture grow out of that, adding more annotations, more details and, finally, the hand.
Boy Witch offers a hand to a friend of mine and leads her to the cabaret. Porter makes his way to the corner of the space, heartbroken. I sit down on the arm of the chair on the other side, and he slides up onto the surface of the counter stretching his legs. I turn my attention to Boy Witch, lipsinking soulfully, his face illuminated by the spotlight. When I look back at the Porter, his hands are busy with something. Intrigued, I keep watching until he puts one of his hands palm down on the counter next to me, leaving something small there before he slides off. I pick up the object to examine it: it’s a tiny boat made out of the Boy Witch’s playing card. I look at the Porter, as he is preparing to welcome his once lover, then back to the little piece of origami in my hand. I keep this small gift safe for the rest of the night.
His movements are smooth when he finds Agnes’ money. Throughout her visit, he is less purposefully anotganistic towards the woman, but there is an air of disdain about him. When he finds the money, the trickster side of the character comes out, and there is joy in that, too.
This Porter is methodical at clearing the space while Tuxedo Junction bleeds into Boulder Bluff: almost violently so. That is, until he remembers that he has a gift for dance and flips over the sofa, and the counter, and then leaps to the pigeon holes from from there. It looks as effortless as it does bird-like.
Despite how reserved he is - much more reserved that I am used to seeing Porters I like - there is so much in that hour that stuns me. I am not surprised, this still is a performer I am happy to follow every time I see him in the building, but this loop acts as an affirmation of sorts. Jason is just so incredibly good at what he does.
***
Making my way upstairs, I detour to the grave yard to catch Fulton (fairly sure it‘s Isaies Santamaria Perez). I watch him kneeling at the gravestone, moving his lips and his hands in a way that seems unfamiliar. I feel compelled to stay. I am certain that decision is correct when he collapses at the entrance to the back room of his Funeral Parlour, clutching the Bible to his chest, laughing with joy and relieve. He thinks he did it. He thinks he has succeeded. Oh my dear fellow, how wrong you are.
There is less magic about this Fulton than I am used to seeing, but I don’t mind that at all. He moves around in a fashion that feels fresh. He hangs on the statue Virgin Mary, embracing it with both arms for reassurance before going to see the witches rite.
A moment of happiness comes to me when he sees Taxidermist in the middle of the square and hooks his arms around him, lifting his legs. The ceiling walk doesn’t happen every time and I love seeing it when he does.
He stretches his arm towards me and makes sure that I am safe. It’s soft and lovely, and I immediately go to Agnes’ flat afterwards because there is no way I am leaving now.
He is very much a tailor: enigmatic and professional. He doesn’t creep on Agnes, his intentions towards her read almost as pure, which is both unusual and sweet.
***
I peel off when I encounter Taxi (David Lee Parker) stalking around, and go to follow the other man.
That one is quiet. Stern. There is little about him which is truly frightening, but he moves around Town freely and I end up asking two questions silently: wait what are doing? Where are you going? I love that. I love being surprised.
He ends up offering me his hand at some point, and brings me to see some miraculous things, sqeezing my shoulders tightly, almost uncomfortably, as the creatures of the night scream. That, too, is a joy.
***
The impending doom of contract renewal period worries me. I have started following this show again less than eighteen months ago, and there are quite a few people in it now who bring smile to my face every time I see them. I know - I know - of course I know - that there will always be fantastic performers to follow. I still worry though.
That said, I had a good couple of nights, and the Hotel felt like home. New York in general feels like home away from home with every visit.
As ever, I shall be back. I don’t think I am capable of not being back at this point.
Notes from my recent visits to Sleep No More. The entry is very long. I swear this is the gushiest thing I have written since TDM closed, and the gushiest thing I have written about this show since I don’t know, when.
In this entry I talk about people I saw and loved, as always structuring it loop by loop thematically rather than in chronological order. That said, the style of my writing ended up being quite recap-y in many ways, trying to capture moment and impressions of some of the fantastic performances I have seen this visit. Stylistically, I made a choice to write all of it in present tense; hopefully, it’s not too jarring.
There may be some thoughts on the show in general as I go along. Some of them might invite a conversation. If you read this and have an opinion on anything I am mentioning here, please leave a comment or message me. I like to be proved wrong, I also like to hear some of the insight from fans who are regular these days, and having a conversation in general would be great. Gentle reminder that I took three years away from this show between 2015 and 2018 so in many ways I am not as familiar with it as I once was.
Okay, now the logistic are out of the way, here we go:
Boy Witches
I... follow Boy Witches now. Apparently. Not just that: I apparently care about Boy Witch’s emotional journey. Apparently, Boy Witches can absolutely make my trip. That is surprising and new to me, and it is absolutely due to the current cast. It’s sort of incredible to see some of the best Boy Witches I have ever seen in the show all at the same time.
*
It starts on the first night for me. I am back at the Hotel after six months away and understandably a bit nervous when making my way downstairs. The first thing that happens when I look at the illuminated ballroom is: my eyes meet the ones of a Boy Witch.
Quinn Dixon is somebody I really enjoyed following last autumn. He is full of mischief, and I can barely summon the will to look around the room to suss out who else is here before sprinting after him and Sexy Witch up the stairs and into the lobby.
He is magnificent. His loop changed since last year: there are fewer unusual and heartbreaking tactile interactions, but I still love following his journey. His movements are fluid, almost inhumanly so, wild and gleeful, and he hurls himself to the floor while clutching the card in his teeth in the middle of the High Street with such gusto that it makes me gasp with surprise. The luggage room, reset and pool table solos are all spectacular; and the narrative arc of his loop spirals downwards from utter glee to complete despair beautifully. It is remarkable to see just how much of an emotional journey watching Boy Witch can be. He takes my hands and brings me to watch cabaret. My eyes tingle as the lost boy allows himself to be human for a brief second. He takes my hands again, and we hide in the phone booth. I watch him dance with an acquaintance of mine before the ballroom scene. He is soft there, gentle.
It’s one of those loops that I don’t want to let go of, forcing myself to inch away from the ballroom and leave in hope of finding something - someone - that would top this experience.
*
I come to the show another night specifically in hope to see a certain Boy Witch. I know, who am I and what have I done with...
From the moment I see Jason Cianciulli walk into the middle of the dance floor I can tell that he is going to be remarkable. Poise is there, and so is jeux de vivre as he flings Malcolm around. I race upstairs after him, and end up being the only person to arrive to the luggage room. He sits and drinks. Looks at me, offers his hand. I hesitate to take it. “Come on”, he mouths encouragingly. I come closer and reach out, and he snatches his hand away playfully right before our fingertips touch, rolling over the counter and into the tight space behind him. He flies past me, caressing my mask. I cannot honestly think of a word that describes him effortlessly defying gravity other than “flying”. I should not be surprised that he is a fantastic dancer, I have seen his Macduff after all, but somehow... I still am.
Now. Pool table solo. I am not sure if I ever saw this dance and did not want to describe it as pretty. Because it’s not. It’s raw and unnatural and broken in more ways than one. It’s almost frightening that way. Boy Witch throws himself around the space with violence, landing with thuds that should by all means be painful. I wince when he launches himself at the wall and then when he does it again to the floor. It’s incredible, how unsettling he makes this solo look.
Even the rave feels unusual. I watch it three times from three different angles that night, every time finding a small thing that surprises me: something that reads as dangerous where I got used to seeing familiar.
His performance reads as curiously dark to me, supernatural in a way which is a little scary. Beyond all the fun and games, beyond Boy Witch knowing that he can make you turn on your heels and follow him with just one glance, I can see very clearly that he is being controlled and used, and is aware that this is the case. The cabaret makes my eyes water, heartbreak of it creeping on me completely unexpectedly. The shower scene makes a deeply uncomfortable experience, too, even more so than with the other Boys I have followed over the years.
His interactions are fantastically fresh and incredibly well fleshed out. He picks an audience member to put a pendant around his neck - something I am not sure I had seen before. Light streams over Boy Witch and the white mask, reflects off the crystal, and it’s honestly breathtaking. He picks the same audience member to do cabaret and the 1:1. I have noticed in the past that he has a very good grasp of the audience around him, finding his followers in space even when they are not in the obvious spot. I enjoy watching that because I think those three moments make a lot of narrative sense when the same mask is chosen for them.
As he pauses in the woods before the banquet, he catches my eye, backs up against the trees so that the light washes over him again, extends his hand. I march through the room to take it, no hesitation now. Ha places it on his shoulder, takes my other hand and we dance a little, as he smiles joyfully, spinning me around. He lifts my mask, almost as if confirming something to himself and leads me to the corner of the stage. There, we pause and he looks at me again, as he traces a circle on the back of my hand with his thumb, filling the shape with five lines.
It’s a pentagram.
I squint, and he grows serious, drops my hand, throws one last glance over his shoulder as he walks to join his sisters in the middle. I read this as “We’ve got you now.”
He is not wrong there. I want to watch this loop again. But then, that pentagram was such a perfect ending to this hour, I feel like it would spoil a excellent full stop. I walk away and return later in the show to see some of the scenes once more.
As you may have gathered, Jason is probably my favourite performer in the show at the moment. This is the third character of his I have seen, and every one of them kind of blew my mind. I am gutted to have missed his Banquo but hopefully it’s something to look forward to whenever I’m here next.
*
I follow Brandon Coleman as Boy Witch a couple of days later. I do so because the whole time I was following his Speakeasy the night before I was thinking, “this is the most Boy Witch-y Speakeasy I have ever seen” not knowing (because the cast list is a mystery to me) that he does play that part.
He is a complete opposite to the others. His is such a light portrayal. He is flamboyant, happy, sexy, playful. His Boy Witch is fluffy and fun, and everything I want from the show that afternoon. His pool table solo is pretty. Even his performance in the rave is pretty.
He spreads his attention around. He picks a different person for every interaction, switching between followers and strangers. He sees everybody around him, giving audience eye contact in town, at the lobby, during the rave (!!!), and white masks flock to him like moths to a flame.
He plays around with me during the luggage solo as well, offering his hand, but it’s almost gleeful here: as soon as I as much as flinch towards him he turns away, then turns back to me with a cheeky larger-than-life grin on his face. I laugh. He walks me into the wall during that dance, intimacy of the gesture unapologetic. He holds my shoulders and smells my neck like his Speakeasy did; it almost feels like a callback. He does it to at least one other mask next to me, clearly relishing the power he can have over the audience.
He asks me to dance with him later. There is nothing to it; he is just having fun, swinging me around, easily manipulating me, changing pace, coming around me and moving us hip to hip. He brings me to the edge of the ballroom and kisses my hand thank you, grinning wildly as he jumps into the middle.
That entire hour is hedonistic and fun, and I love it.
***
Porter
The only thing that could top my Boy Witches is the following: I book an impromptu double. I decide to see the afternoon show really, really last minute, which means I have to pay a fortune for my whim, and that is just never healthy. The Hotel can be tricky, especially when you have expectations, or attach a value to a visit. It’s even trickier when your time here is so sparse.
I walk in with the sense of apprehension.
I look at the ball room: Nate Carter is Boy Witch, but I think I am Boy Witched out. Malcolm looks interesting. Maybe Banquo? I am undecided so I rush up to the lobby. And stop in my tracks.
It can’t be.
It is.
Paul Zivkovich.
Standing in the shadows.
I have always heard how amazing his Porter was. I mean, of course I have. But the first time I went to the show he just left for the Drowned Man so I never had a chance to actually see him in this part. Until now, that is.
It’s really interesting, seeing a performance that originated a lot of things I like about Porters. The certain physicality, the “phone booth freak out”, hiding a ring in a boat in an elaborate little scene in the office… things I saw others use over the years, all coming together as part of the same performance.
Where do I even start with this loop. Fantastic phone booth duet. Just incredible. I am alone when he collapses so he takes my hand. That... I forgot how impactful this 1:1 can be. He indicates for me to keep this scene between us. I am visibly shaking; it takes me a couple of minutes to pull myself together, and then Moonlight Becomes You happens and I just sob.
He does not do the mirror dance. Instead, he floats. He hugs a pillow. He desperately seeks an imaginary lover’s embrace. He almost punches the mirror, hating his reflection.
He tries to stop it all, never quite finding strength to do so. He flails in the phone booth violently after being forced to kick-start the events, hitting his head hard on the roof. He collects himself to fight Macbeth, clutching his small fists, courage evaporating as soon as the despot appears in the Lobby. This Porter is scared of heights and runs on his tiptoes and is neurotic in all the possible ways, and every time he is alone with himself, he drinks and cries and obviously hopes for a different life. His reaction to Cabaret is captivatingly heartbreaking; it has a remarkable clarity to it.
And at the end - well, the end for my journey with him - a switch flicks and his Porter is joyful. He leaps up the bookshelves, all fear suddenly gone. He makes a snow angel on the carpet, and dances beautifully, frivolously, across the Lobby.
I leave before I get a chance to see him cry again; with the memory of happy Porter.
Paul Zivkovich is honestly incredible. I thought his Porter would remind me of his Fool but he doesn’t, being a complete, stunning, unique portrayal. His performance is so full of inner life.
Paul Zivkovich is incredible. But then again, we knew this already.
***
Hecate
How could I resist following Virginia Logan.
It happens like this: I find myself at the rave and stay on the outskirts, closer to Hecate, watching. At one point she catches me looking at her and winks, slowly, deliberately.
She waits for Agnes. She makes the girl sit, she makes her drink. She lets her own shot drip back into the glass from the corner of her mouth. She takes visible pleasure showing Agnes the locket and collecting the tears into her vial. She is magnificent in every way.
I am her messenger that loop.
Hecate sees me holding the boat in front of my chest, and gestures for me to pass it on. She inspects the object with clear disdain and discards it like it’s the biggest disappointment. She looks me in the eye as she consumes large chunks of raw flesh, getting increasingly distressed over the taste before staring to choke almost violently, struggling for breath.
She brings me around close to her. Takes my hand in hers. Stares at me longingly, as she slips the ring onto my finger. She keeps eye contact, still holding my hand through the drones and continues to look, unblinkingly, in my eye as the words start coming out of her mouth. We go to the stage.
The world has disappeared at some point. Now, it all consists of a woman in a red dress tearfully, brokenly sharing the disappointments of her past life. She dries her eyes, throws herself on the piano almost as if she cannot bear look at any of us. Her shoulders heave dramatically, but when she turns back to the audience she is laughing, cackling under the unnatural red light. Whatever that sliver of human emotion was, it is gone entirely. I love how unhinged she is in that moment. She takes my hand again, “Wait right here.”
There is blood dripping down her arm and sea spray on my face. My heart is racing when I pushed out, and she gives me one last devastating smile before closing the door. I laugh to myself. Oh boy that was incredible.
She is insane, unhinged, and larger than life. Still, I can’t find a way describe this other than through the prism of myself, staring up at her. She really makes you feel like you are her familiar.
I don’t follow another Hecate this trip.
***
Taxidermist
There is a moment in one of the shows when I am waiting for Speakeasy to emerge from the Funeral Parlour when I see Taxi stopping in the middle of the street. He looks at Agnes, indicating that she may pass through. He does the gesture almost impatiently, accentuating it with a disgruntled noise.
This is when I know.
After I had already lost all faith in this loop ever making he giddy with joy again, Ben McHugh is there and he looks exactly like the kind of Bargarran I love: existing somewhere between hilarious and terrifying with a pinch of completely batshit crazy.
He rearranges instruments, sure. He also strokes the fur of his animals, reacts very vividly to the events around him, creeps Lady Macduff out, dominates the hell out of Fulton. He does a very different fifth floor scene, not performing the second part of the dance and doing a strange rite there instead. He brings me to see the rave, squeezing my shoulders, but I refuse to stay, descending to the third floor after him. He whistles when entering the Macduff’s flat, then knocks. “Anyone home?” He seems to ask silently. No, save for a few white masks the abode is empty. He enters the bedroom and heads straight for the bed, stretching out there, hands behind his head. He smells the pillow. He smells Lady Macduff’s nightgown. He moves to the nursery, laying the torn teddy on his lap ever so tenderly. He shushes the toy, stares in the mirror while sowing the bone into the stuffing and counts till three before tearing the thread. Only then he notices the desolation in front of him, but, instead of reconsidering his life choices, he shows the wrecked bedroom to the teddy, looking into its face, nodding knowingly. Then, he tucks the toy into his apron and lounges again on the sofa in the hallway, casually drinking the owner’s whiskey.
I return to see his scene at the Macduff’s again the following day. It’s my last visit, and I have not seen a Taxi this exciting in literally years. He does it differently that time. He is less vocal. He covers teddy’s eyes to spare it the bloody scene perfectly on the downbeat of the drone. He actually meets nurses this time around, keeping the established Bargarran/Sanatorium connection that seemed to have developed very strongly in this show over the last few years. The Nurse takes his toy. It is clearly an interaction brought purely by the fact that characters chance to sometimes meet in space. I am happy that even rigidly structured Sleep No More, after years of running, after clearly clamping down on whatever a performers can do with their characters - even now moments like this can develop; even now you can see the same scene on two consecutive days and notice it working out differently.
*
I spent a loop with Peter Farrow’s Taxidermist, too. He is quietly intimidating, measured, but almost without cheek.
What made me smile is when I follow him downstairs into the banquet scene, he takes my hand and muscles us through the crowd, getting me the front row view. I am afraid that he will leave me at the end, but he takes my hand again, walking us upstairs. He kisses my cheek and I thank him sincerely. Few residences spend this much time with a single white mask at the finale, and it is incredibly generous to do so.
This makes me remember even more just how much I miss the walkdown/finale/walkout triple whammy the Town of Gallow Green residents always used to do. It makes me also wonder what the reasoning is behind what the performer does for the finale. I saw those who bring masks downstairs and leave them there. The majority, I think, pick audience in the first row to watch the finale with them. Some don’t even do that, only offering a walk-out. I tried to figure out the logic behind it, but it just seems… random?
I don’t think I will ever stop missing this interaction. One-on-ones I can take or leave, but watching the finale with the character used to be my absolutely favourite type of interaction both here and in TDM, and it makes me feel forlorn that a creative decision seemed to have been made to stop those from happening.
On the bright side, I am incredibly grateful to Peter Farrow for doing it. It really is extremely generous of him.
***
Speakeasies
Brandon Coleman as Speakeasy is fun, devilishly handsome, with a lovely spark to him, so I park next to him for a loop. His card game is sweet and flirty. He gasps when I touch the card and makes a face when I pick it anyway. It’s the wrong one. Ah, oh well. He offers me a shot of tea and winces when I drink it. I put the glass down in front of me but he shakes his head, pointing at the circle of salt, where the glass belongs. I correct my mistake, and he gives me a “that’s better” kind of look. The game continues in a similar fashion, light and playful. He kisses both hands of the white mask who wins.
I note his devotion to Hecate, and whistling he does when moving through town. I also note the way he toys with the queen of hearts when he senses Sexy Witch in town before the rave. He really does feel more like a witch than like a familiar, and I absolutely love that.
*
I follow Speakeasy again when it’s Jamal Abrams. His card game surprises me greatly, as he focuses on a single mask throughout, letting a second person have a go, before returning to his chosen audience member and giving them as many attempts as they need before picking the right card. It so happens that the white mask he choses needs five or six attempts, and his reaction to that is utterly hilarious. He makes faces, he gestures widely, he sarcastically flails his fists in the air when she finally picks the right card when it’s the only remaining one in front of her. He makes me laugh so much I stick with him until the next card game.
I play that one. The mask receiving their only go picks the correct card. Speakeasy stares at her disbelievingly, checking her hands and neck for the witch mark. She earns her drink - he makes her down it. I look up. Ah come on, I think, it’s the last loop, I know you have spares in there. He seems to have read my thoughts. He checks my hands and arms, too, finding there no sign of me being special or magical in any way, but decides that I deserve a reward for effort, making me reach out for the shot and toying with me before caving in and letting me have it.
He plays with audience like this several time throughout. His funeral parlour dance feels different. He drops by Paisley’s to get fist full of candy and swings through town like he owns it. His, too, is a great loop.
***
Banquo
I tell this to my partner: if you are watching the ballroom scene and see Banquo who is chatting, laughing, working hard to impress the Bald Witch, and is full of life, don’t even hesitate before following him.
Jack Blackmon is like this.
He is expressive through every fibre of his being and fantastic that way. I enjoy the dances too: the luggage solo is great, the bird solo seems almost balletic in its elegance, but there are other things that make me love this performance. There is flirty playfulness with Sexy Witch. There is a look on his face when Macduff chases him: the look of hurt and betrayal. There is him, trying to convince Macbeth to wash up and stop this madness, not believing that his friend is turning into a monster. There is him, finally pushing back and then begging for the fight to stop, both physically and verbally. I find the fight deeply moving that way and end up seeing it twice, just to note all the little expressions that make it feel special.
He sees you, the white mask, and tries to get away from the shadow in his looping world.
He knows for a fact that he will die when he meets you in person.
His loop makes a beautifully painful watch, as you see it chip away at his carefree confidence bit by bit.
My bar for Banquo in terms of acting is high: my bar for Banquo is in fact Jeff Lyon. It is a very very rare treat to see someone reach that idealised version I have of the character.
***
Sexy Witch
How amazing is Kayla Farrish! She is incredible. She moves beautifully, of course, but she also has this way of interacting with audience around her that is devoid of any coyness or shyness. There is openness to the way she approaches those around her which feels rather unique. I also adore how very vocal she is at all times, how unapologetically full of glee, too.
She squeezes my shoulders playfully when I follow her into town. She beckons me to follow her, just wiggling her finger at me, without any other verbal or physical clues. She reaches out her hand to hold at the Funeral Parlour, and squeezes back. She all but cackles as Fulton discovers that she is alive.
She is vibrant and ballsy, so seeing her then completely break after the rave is devastating. Hers is a performance of stunningly jittery movements to mental discombobulation. A friend of mine noted a few days ago that if you watch the Replica Bar dance and feel okay afterwards, there was something wrong with the Replica Bar dance. I don’t remember last time I felt less okay watching Sexy Witch break apart.
She picks her shoes and heads out, collapsing on the floor in the corridor. She catches her breath, looks up, stretches her hand out. I help her up. You can do this, I think. I follow her into the banquet.
I am so happy I have witnessed the brilliance of his woman.
***
Matron
I arrive just as she is finishing up with an audience member, and I remember that there is a 1:1 slot straight after this which ends at the same time dead Duncan is discovered, so I am surprised that instead of bringing somebody else in, Matron opens the window of her hut so that we can watch her nervously looking out, whispering to herself. I do just that, transfixed by her as audience members come and go. I stay until the light pours out of the hut, and Nurse is in of the other wide of the maze. There is such longing, such deep sadness in this Matron; and her tale is an absolute masterclass in pace and storytelling.
It was Camara McLaughlin, and she was stunning.
***
J Fulton
I haven’t really followed Cunning this trip. For the record: I am somebody who usually follows Cunning every goddamn show. The only one I saw most of the loop of was Quinn Dixon. I... did not know it was a thing. He is lovely. He made his Fulton clumsy, changing physicality in the way I enjoy. I like how his relationship with Taxidermist develops through his loop: from friendly neighbours to secret adversaries to outright hostility. He is happy to help him. He acknowledges Bargarran and forces a smile when walking from the graveyard. He lashes out in the confrontation. If I see him again I might stick with him once more I think.
***
Agnes
It’s Ingrid Kapteyn, which is a very definition of blast from the past. Her performance is beautifully detailed in every way. I love the increasing despair of her loop. I love the steadfast approach she has to handling Porter. I love that I don’t even remember her writing in Malcolm’s office and picking up the phone here, “How did you know it was me?” It’s always such a joy to stumble onto the unexpected. Another unexpected comes later in the loop when I cannot for the life of me remember what her scene is during the Rave, or where to find her. I discover that in the best way possible.
***
I love it when the show is noisy: Macduff yelling “Banquo!” before chasing him; Boy Witch growling “Get out”; Bald Witch whispering to you; actually hearing the phone conversations. I love the Macbeths speaking in broken words to each other. It always feels so weird when character talk in gibberish, and I really cherished the fact that there was so much speech in this show when I saw it.
***
The Hotel threw so much my way this time around that it’s kind of unbelievable. On top of the shows there were people, making new acquaintances, catching up with old friends I have not seen in many many years. There was a great party.
I wanted to book repeat visits as soon as Nightingale Sang in Barkley Square started playing every single time. In some cases, I did just that. In others, I realised that I live on another continent and found that fact devastating.
Well since I’m here and I know not a lot of US fans are Keyholders...
Punchdrunk has just announced that they priced up their Keyholder scheme significantly. Valet, the lower level one, gone up from £30 to £50 which is manageable. Bow, the next one up, gone up from £250 to five-hundred-flipping-pound-sterling-are-you-kidding-me. The top one is ten grand. That’s annually. For all of them.
The UK fandom is understandingly somewhere between hurt and upset to raging via lauging histerically.
Sad to note that the company I love is learning upsetting business practices.
As drinkthehalo put it, “You are coming to the show to see a Boy Witch? Who are you and what have you done with ...?”
I have been to the show twice since arriving in town. I have followed none of the characters I usually do. I spent very little time on the forth floor, and more time with Boy Witches than I had during my last two visits combined.
But then again, there is an entire weekend ahead of me.
Over the last twelve months the compulsion to fly over and come to this show has returned full swing. Oh dear.
(Sorry for rambling on the tag. There will be a proper post of all the great things and people seen this visit at the end of it this time around.)
Every time I’m back in New York and back at Sleep No More I have this fear: what if I go down to the Ballroom and my heart is empty? What if this world no longer makes it feel?
Today, I went down to the Ballroom, and Quinn Dixon was Boy Witch, and... this show still got it.
There are other things. There are smells and sounds, and scenes, and eyes meeting across space followed by outstretched hands. There are things I have not seen in years and things I see every time I’m in the building.
And my heart? My heart still beats faster for McKittrick Hotel.
I have been thinking long and hard about whether I want to write this update.
There was a reason I stopped posting here. This Tumblr was created originally to help me connect with Sleep No More community in New York, and then moved on to being a place for The Drowned Man notes. None of those are relevant any more, due to the fact that I have not been in New York in a long while, never got around to flying to Shanghai, and Temple Studios closed its doors over four years ago.
It is true that since the first time I walked through the red heavy curtains of The McKittrick Hotel, immersive theatre became something I developed a keen interest in, love for, and obsession over. There have been dozens of beautiful, fantastic, inventive productions I have seen over the years, interspersed with some mediocre ones, derivative ones, and those that just did not particularly work.
*cough* Kaberoi *cough*
Sorry, I had something stuck in my throat… for a while now.
That said, this place was never about reviews; not at all. This place was about sharing love.
I guess what I am clumsily and ineffectively attempting to say is, I am only here for today, and I am here to write a love note to the first immersive show in four years I am absolutely besotted with.
Secret Cinema Presents Blade Runner.
(Actually, I should say, Secret Cinema Presents Blade Runner -The Final Cut, as it is the version they are screening, and it is also a way of distinguishing it from the previous production they did based on the same film back in 2010. But SCPBRTFC is a little bit of a mouthful.)
Secret Cinema is a company that is familiar to anyone who’s into London immersive scene. It was established over a decade ago, starting with small and pretty obscure projects, and graduating to massive not-so-secret ones, and cultivating a bit of a following along the way.
If you are completely unfamiliar with their work: their basic show structure currently includes RPG-style class systems, which has lately been incorporated into tiering of tickets as well. After you receive your “character” for the evening, you head to an inevitably secret location, where you get a chance to explore the world of a movie for approximately two hours, before being ushered into a screening that is peppered with live-action elements. The format and style of the theatrical part varies widely from project to project. It is always highly interactive, but while some of the projects are more linear, others are completely open narrative; and while some repeat the events of the movie, others show preceding events, or seem to be entirely unrelated to the plot of the film itself.
At the moment this company has four basic types of productions, where “Secret Cinema Presents” is dedicated to a film they announce in advance (those are often franchise movies, or ones with cult followings), and “Secret Cinema: Tell No One” builds a world that is actually secret, or as secret as marketing makes it. The second style has died down a bit lately, which is a real shame. They also create small scale and one-off “Secret Cinema X Presents” and “Secret Cinema X: Tell No One” projects from time to time.
There has been some criticism - as there often is with such things - that this company plunged from “artistic” to “commercial” in recent years. I would not know. I first encountered their work after moving to London, in 2014.
Since then I have seen some of their productions that were truly great, one extremely poor one, and a few that fell somewhere between “slightly bland” and “I was so bored I just got horribly drunk”.
This is actually where it gets a bit tricky.
The thing is, I have noticed that there are a whole number of variables that influence one’s opinion and enjoyment of each individual production. First of all, your experience quite obviously depends on your feelings about the film itself. It also depends on what you are expecting from your evening. If you, like myself, are into strong in-universe narrative, Miller’s Crossing would have been right up your street. If spectacle is what you’re after, Star Wars: Empire Strikes Back would’ve left you speechless. Want to party like an animal and improvise non-stop? Moulin Rouge was perfect for that. If actual screening is what you are most excited about, well, you would definitely have loved Doctor Strangelove or 28 Days Later.
Me?
Give me a story to belong to, and some characters to love, and you will have my heart.
Which is where Blade Runner comes in.
***
Set in a world of gloomy cyber-punky LA with perpetual acid rain, Blade Runner invites its audiences into an alternative year 2019. Rick Deckard is still a sprightly detective, David Holden is still in one piece, and the four renegade replicants have just arrived to Sector Four. The narrative and characters are heavily inspired not only by Ridley Scott’s film, but borrow elements from 2049, as well as Phillip K. Dick’s source novel, playing out as an alternate universe prequel, with a large cast of people and replicants imagined just for the purpose of this production.
The central narrative revolves around a brewing uprising of the underclass, but beyond that there are a multitude of subplots and stories that happen around the audience and with their participation. The underlying complexity of all those storylines interwoven with one another is simply astounding.
This is actually what sucked me into wanting to come back time and time again: every time I got involved with a character’s story, there was something about it that punched me in the gut.
You know that feeling when you follow a character’s story, and then something is revealed about them that makes you feel betrayed?
Secret Cinema’s Blade Runner has that.
You know that feeling when you are spending time with a character, doing something that is prescribed by a little sub-plot that is given you, and then you realise that your place within this character’s narrative is that of a villain, and the circumstances of that revelation leaves you heartbroken?
(You do if you ever saw The Drowned Man and followed Romola.)
And, yes, Secret Cinema’s Blade Runner has that as well. That, and so much more.
I can happily run around performing tasks given to me, following character’s leads, and generally being entirely over-active, but without the connection to bigger events of the immersive world, the experience would feel - and, indeed, did feel in some of this company’s previous projects - superficial. Here, it never does. It truly does feel like you do not just see the story, you make the story happen.
That is the very thing that I found struck such a chord with me. It’s this perfect, magical mix of non-reality and tangibility - a paradox of something feeling utterly real and actual while at the same time being a product of a perfectly crafted fantasy.
The cast is incredible. I have rarely seen a bunch of performers so flexible when it comes to bringing audience into the story. All of the little set-pieces are great, of course, and quality of acting overall is fantastic, but what I found most impressive was this cast’s ability to smoothly navigate not only themselves, but the multitude of audience members around them through this production’s narrative. Every single performer manages to juggle audience members on multiple tracks, while being completely intuitive about timings. It is clear that those performers have a lot of artistic freedom in terms of playing their moments, and they take full advantage of it.
What I also love about the Blade Runner is that its world keeps functioning even during the screening, so, should you choose to, you can just roam around, grab a dinner and a drink, while glancing at the multiple screens integrated into the set and showing Blade Runner all at the same time. I would not necessarily want to see a film as many times as I do an immersive show, so being able to just hang around, and soak up the atmosphere made me love this production even more. Not to mention that there is a little set-piece happening in town during the screening, which can have elements of interaction as well, which I find very – extra.
To me, the rest is immaterial. It is clear that the art design, and sound are great, and so are costumes. That said, I have seen Secret Cinema productions with a more impressive screening, or with a more detailed set, or with a slightly more organic integration of various character classes into the narrative, or just based on a cinematic universe I wear nostalgia goggles for. None gave me a world that had a greater emotional impact on me.
***
Here comes a moment of self-reflection.
It really took me by surprise that I am so ready to jump back in the same head-space I was in when The Drowned Man was around, because I am mostly looking back at that time wondering what the hell was I even thinking. Don’t get me wrong, I am so, so grateful to both Sleep No More and The Drowned Man communities for introducing me not only to fantastic, crazy, talented people, some of whom are still my closest friends, but also my lovely husband, who has a Tumblr as well but is not entirely confident with me linking it in this post. I am very aware that for every moment of cringey obsessiveness I also received a moment of closeness and affection. There is, however, so much shit I have been pretty much repressing since then, and I am not too keen to reprise that, thank you very much.
But then again, maybe…
Maybe it is actually completely normal for somebody who has always had such a visceral reaction to worlds jumping out of the pages of books or television screens, to every now and then lose oneself in a world constructed in a warehouse.
I keep telling myself that anyway.
The show closes on July 8th.
I am going to be back there a couple of times before that happens.
It’s good. Really good. Like, Drowned Man levels of good.
Like, knock you on your ass, holy crap that was amazing, go home completely buzzing and mind-blown good.
Anyone who thinks Secret Cinema has sold out or isn’t what it used to be needs to wake up and smell the Japanese lager. I’ve seen ten or eleven of their productions, and this is so much more accomplished and ambitious than anything they’ve ever done before. The earlier shows were smaller and more intimate, perhaps, but the craft and artistic ambition was nowhere near what it is now. Early audience journeys were linear, less interactive, and while the characters and worlds were recreated with loving care, it felt more like an homage than an original work, more like a cover version than a piece of art in its own right.
That said, when a company experiments and grows like Secret Cinema does it’s a little unfair to compare their latest production with their early work because part of the contrast is just natural incremental improvement. Rather than play it safe, they modify the form and tinker with it each production, sometimes with mixed results, but always with a view to evolve and improve. And now when compared to the early days, Blade Runner feels like the finest example of their form of theatre so far, and it definitely qualifies as theatre, and as art.
The show isn’t just a facsimile of the film but has taken the world of the book, the movie, and the sequel, and used them as a jumping off point for something new. There are thirty-odd characters, each with their own story-lines and journeys who you can follow through the night. There are nine player classes, some more similar than others, but even within the same class your journey and evening can be radically different depending on timings, interactions, and just random whims of the characters.
The level of interactivity and improvisation go well beyond anything I’ve seen before in immersive theatre. I feel a little unfair bringing up Punchdrunk because the two forms are so different and so beautiful in their different ways, but there’s a little quote which is appropriate, I think. In the Temple Studios cast interviews, a performer was asked about what qualities she thought made a great Punchdrunk performer, and she answered:
“I think you have to love the audience. I think you have to really enjoy taking people on a journey, and really want to craft something special for them, because those performers who do that are the performers who will slyly look you in the eye and give you a wink when you’re not expecting it, or will brush past you and caress your hand, or just do those little things which aren’t set, aren’t expected, yet can completely change the course of your evening.”
While the world of Blade Runner is quite a different beast, the love the performers have for the audience is the same. They want to take you on a journey too, but their touches aren’t small and subtle. The performer won’t wink at you or brush past. They’ll co-opt you in a scheme to plant drugs as part of a sting, force you to betray characters you’ve befriended and empathise with, set you against other audience members, make you integral to the narrative of the show, then improvise scenes around you so that by the end of the night you feel like you’ve been instrumental making it all happen. And the performers won’t do this to you alone, but to dozens of audience members simultaneously, juggling people on parallel quests and missions, all while hitting their set pieces and narrative points along the way without breaking a sweat.
Honestly, the only thing that does disappoint me is that more people aren’t shouting about how damn good this is. One of the things I loved so much about The Drowned Man was the community who produced such beautiful writing and art inspired by the show, and I would love to see the things that Blade Runner would inspire.
If you enjoy immersive theatre then this is a must-see. The world is as beautiful and compelling and rich as Punchdrunk’s finest, and it’s a crime that more people aren’t talking about it.
Get your asses in there and get your mind blown. Then come out back out and share the joy.
(I am reblogging this back because I deleted this post while feeling self-conscious about it, and am now regretting that decision. Plus, I like LTTWP’s comment.)
Since returning from New York, I have found myself in a limbo, which I cannot escape, so I am going to at least try and rationalise it.
Back in 2013, I have posted a little essay similarly trying to rationalise the intense feeling of Nostalgia I felt after discovering - and then being torn apart from - Sleep No More. In it, I clumsily shared the sense of connection to McKittrick as comparable to the one I would have with a home of my childhood. That place, I summarised, was my fortress where I would allow myself to just exist, invisible and visible at the same time.
Now I feel like turning that entire concept around, and, keeping with the idea of Nostalgia, moving away with the Arcadian notion of homesickness and towards the concept’s relation to ego.
In his 1999 essay Spectral History: Narrative, Nostalgia, and the Time of the I Steven Galt Crowel of Rice University quotes Goethe’s description of Nostalgia as “an experience that brought something spectral into the present”. That something, he speculates, is the sense of past self, ego that we can no longer connect to our own because our sense of self is unyieldingly temporal. Or, as David Lowenthal phrases it, we are yearning for “the condition of having been, with a concomitant integration and completeness lacking in any present.”
After all, nostalgia is not factual - it is not about specific happenings, but our perception of them. As much as one could say that they are nostalgic for a specific time, it is much more than memories that we long to bring back - it is the very same self that lives in those memories. Our ego is splintered, always, burning down and rising up again every moment of every day, and as much as we mourn the death of the old ego, we cannot bring it back in any over way but as a spectral vision, which is as corrosive as it is sweet.
This is the very limbo I am finding myself in right now: I am stuck wishing, yearning to go back into that condition of having been, desperately trying to conjure the dead self through echoes of it: notes, written scribbles, chats with friends. Sleep No More and The Drowned Man are both there - not as themselves, but as something that gave me meaning, and brought heartbreak, and made me happy. Both of those places provided a perfect atmosphere for my festering paranoia, as well a hideout and a safe space; they were so very unreal and so overwhelmingly important.
I do not wish to go back to 2013 and 2014; there was much more happening over those two years factually than me being a Punchdrunkiard, and those were, arguably, things that affected my life in a more tangible way: moving and moving again, meeting Death for the first time, finding a home, finding friends, losing friends, finding love, getting to do something I always wanted to. And yet... my own self, the one I am calling upon now, perceives herself so thoroughly through the prism of the two warehouses on two continents that she becomes indistinguishable from them.
Just like David Bowie was “walking the dead” as he strolled around Berlin of his youth in Where Are We Now, I am doing the same while carefully decoding pages upon pages of my own diaries, trying to match the hand that wrote those letters.
I think I have always known what this affliction was.
Stephen Fry wrote a letter to himself which he recounted in Moab Is My Washpot. He wrote, as a sixteen year old boy, “This is who I am. Each day that passes I grow away from my true self.“
The letter itself is full of anger and raw teenage angst, of course, and yet I cannot help but relate to that one line on a very visceral level. This is indeed what I am, and every day that passes I shall grow away from this true self: a self that I shall perhaps struggle to capture and resurrect another five years into I the future.
Perhaps, this is why I have been journaling starting from my early adolescence. There are physical copies of my mind across the countries. Perhaps, I have always known that I was struggling to reconcile my ego here and now from all of the other egos scattered throughout the time/space continuum. It took reading Spectral History to finally recognise this feeling as integral to nostalgia.
This is the limbo I am in. I exist in constant attempt to bring back something - somebody - that no longer exists. I am doing so through reading and rereading recaps, and notes, and conversations with friends, and remembering moments that made me feel so much without being able to actually reconnect with the person who felt it. It is almost as if a part of me is hoping that if I stir the memories enough they will come back to life.
This will be one part a collection of things I appreciated about the McKittrick this trip, one part musing about the show in general, and one part emotional outpour because I have not slept in a week, and it’s as good an excuse as any. It’s hefty. You can either take it or leave it.
It has been too long. Last time I was in the city in October 2015, or, in relative terms, about a lifetime ago. And I was sort of alright with this separation. I am lucky to see some of my NYC friends who visit London, and, well, life was happening pretty intensely. I certainly did not expect to fall back head over heels for Sleep No More.
Don’t get me wrong - I always adored this place. Truly. With my whole heart. This wonderful, magical, inspiring place. But then again, visiting for the first time since every single performer I used to regularly follow has left, and only a handful of familiar faces scattered around the building, felt extremely weird. There were certainly some mental adjustments that had to be made. Some new emotional hooks, new red strings that would connect this building to my heart. And then, when that happened, when the McKittrick Hotel started to make my head swim all over again - it was time to hop on the plane back to London.
Such is life.
As for the show itself - I was trying to find a pattern in how things are different, but in the end, your mileage still vastly varies on who you are watching.
Generally, I found the experience somewhat less interactive than it used to be. It’s not universal, there certainly are people who have a lot of fun playing with the white masks, but there is definitely more randomisation of interactions among audience, as well as a more rigid structure for those. For example, my favourite thing in the show ever - and a constant source of joy in the past, considering my following patterns - was a joined walk-in and walk-out by fourth floor residents. This seems to be mostly gone. I am fairly needy as a follower, so I am a little sad about that change.
I also remember a definite trend for characters who were magicked, or drugged, or, you know, dead, to start seeing masks, and possibly react to revelation that there are other entities in their looping universe with a certain level of distress. It even used to be a common theme across Sleep No More and The Drowned Man. This seems to be all but gone, too, and I find it a little bit bizarre, if I’m honest. I always thought that this pulsation that happened when we would drift in and out of view of a tortured character very powerful, and, to me, absence of that pulsation significantly lessens some the emotional impact certain moments can have.
Finally, I noticed that Sleep No More is really quiet these days. Not fully, not all the time, but on the whole I definitely found that there is much less noise. There was one ballroom scene - my last night, November 2nd late show - with laughter, and rhubarb, and even occasional words, and you have no idea how much I loved that. I don’t know if I ever was so engrossed in the ballroom scene three times in a single show.
There’s also a side note that the way the show is priced at the moment is ludicrous, which might be why it was not selling out for the entire Halloween week, those of us there were completely spoilt for alone time throughout entire scenes. The busiest show I saw was maybe half-full, and it was... glorious.
As for the rest, some things I loved and some I did not. There are a few additions that happened in the last three years which I thought great, and some cast members whom I found awesome. So, keeping in tradition of cast appreciation posts, here is the one where I talk about some people Iiked across several shows last week.
==========
I am picky about my Fultons. If they don’t engross me in the first five minutes, I am likely to not stick around. It took watching Jason Cianciulli for about 10 seconds to make a firm decision to stay for an hour. His is a truly wonderful characterisation: methodical to the point of compulsiveness, and deeply, deeply repressed. Everything his Cunning Man did was incredibly precise, and I loved that. One of my favourite moments was watching him choosing candy for Agnes, making sure it fits the bouquet, and then practice presenting the flowers to her, only to be rejected, and then cry over the loss of the girl. It’s rare that the aftermath of that scene is quite this devastating to see. Another thing I loved about his loop, is him being briefly lured to the dark side during the rave in a really spectacular manor. I don’t remember ever seeing that before, although as we have established, I have not been around for a few years. Overall, he has definitely become one of my favourite Fultons - ever. I do hope that he’s still around next time I visit, I would love to see if and how his performance evolves over time.
Evan Fisk was the second Cunning Man I spent significant amount of time with. He is - reserved. Which is a shame, because he also has some fun-slash-creepy moments around his fascination with Agnes, and I would possibly like to see more of that. There was nonetheless focus about him, and softness that I like in this character, so I really enjoyed watching his loop.
Both Speakeasies I followed lured me with their Funeral Parlour shenanigans. Brian Castillo’s take on that moment was too damn elaborate to not go and see what else he’s up to. I found that he plays a very dance-y version of the character, especially during the card game, and he seemingly had a lot of fun during his loop, which is always a joy to see in Speakeasy. Also, possibly the first time in this building when I was explicitly asked to speak in 1:1. That was exciting.
Jeff Docimo’s Speakeasy is one of those now rare residents of the Hotel who is all about messing around with audience. Needless to say that I loved the hell out of following him. His card game had me in stitches, which may or may not be the reason he let me win it. This Speakeasy is a very vocal one, too, making comments, and singing along to radio, which I also loved. Naturally, Jeff Docimo is a phenomenal dancer, and he was very physical here, too; both his duets with Fulton and Sexy were breathtaking. His is also one of those Speakeasies who see themselves as the boss in town, and everybody around them should damn well know that. His passive aggressive attitude to both Taxidermist and Fulton (Brian Castillo and Evan Fisk on that particular evening), casually swiping bits of their set and paraphernalia to the floor before sauntering off, brought me much joy. And, since we are talking about 1:1 experiences, his was a perfect storm, and a thing to behold. I am so bloody happy I got to see him in this part, he is pretty much everything I ever want a Speakeasy Barman to be.
The one Taxidermist I loved this trip was once more Brian Castillo. Well, no, that’s a lie, because Erik Abbott-Main was there on my first evening back, but it’s not news that he is awesome, he’s been killing it for years. Brian Castillo was great though, a lot of really lovely moments there. His entire trip to Macduff’s apartment was brilliant, sitting on knife’s edge between utterly terrifying and almost caring, notably going from rocking the newly hexed teddy bear gently in his arms, to squeezing the stuffing out of the poor thing. That one scene can make or break Taxidermist for me, and he had it pitched perfectly.
Oh, and Taxi’s new(-ish) dance on the fifth floor is awesome! As much as I like watching him play with bones, clean the shop, have conversations with his taxidermy, and arrange instruments, it is great that they finally gave him something new to do, all while tying Sanatorium more into the Town narrative.
All in all, I am thrilled with how the Town ended up being this trip. Those three are my favorite characters, and it really was a little worrying to be back after pretty much everybody I loved in those roles has left. It was such an amazing experience to see performers unfamiliar to me managed to amaze me in such a short span of time.
I hadn’t spent an awful amount of my visit in the Lobby, and the only Porter I followed for the whole loop was Mitchell Winter’s. It was pleasant. He reminded me of Miguel Anaya a little: lots of poise, slightly effeminate, very fearful. He is a type of Porter who just wants to keep his head down as much as he can and get over his never ending nightmare, which is something I enjoy watching. What really surprised me was his Moonlight Becomes You mirror dance, as it did not resemble any versions thereof that I had seen in the past.
One of the things I wish I had done this trip is followed Banquo more. It’s hard; with such limited time, I’m not always up to seeing the same loop twice in the a row, and by the time I realised Amadi Washington was potentially everything I love about my Banquos in terms of characterization and dynamics, it was a bit too late to follow him properly. In the end, my only Banquo this trip was Evan Fisk, who is a truly fantastic dancer. Everything he did looked so - effortless. And he was good, he was, truly, but he was a quiet, earnest version of the character, while I prefer Banquos who are vocal, naive to a point of childishness, and full of pure anguish. The more this character can tear my heart to shreds, the more I like him. Which is also not a kind of Banquo Evan Fisk is. It’s always a matter of personal preference, and it was interesting to see an interpretation I would not normally go for. Oh, and he has a great 1 to 1 which delivered an experience so impactful I had to take some time off to have a little cry on the mezzanine.
Danvers is not somebody I like to follow, but I really enjoyed everything Jenna Saccurato was doing throughout my visits, so I gave it a go. I have no regrets about that decision: that woman has such poise, jealousy, and venom hiding just underneath reserved politeness. She is also a brilliant dancer, and her moments at Macduff’s flat were utterly mesmerizing. Her Danvers has so much personality, and such a clear-cut narrative; she was simply stunning.
It seems that the only Macduffs I ever follow are the ones who impress me with in their “resting role(s)”. Jason Cianciulli it was, then. Since it’s not a loop I am too familiar with, it was wonderful to rediscover this choreography. Being at least partially devised by Rob McNeill it’s, well, utterly insane, and being performed well (which it absolutely was in this case), it can be jaw-dropping. Narratively, Jason Cianciulli’s performance was also extremely compelling, both thoughtful and thought through. I really enjoyed watching the journey of the domestic scene with Lady Macduff, as well as all those little wonderful reactions during the ballroom dance. An impressively raw and ballsy post-candy freakout, too. That was my final loop this trip, and I would definitely call it ending on a high note.
Quinn Dixon’s Boy Witch completely won me over with how unusual his version of the character is from what I am used to seeing. There is a lot of mannerisms in his performance, especially in cabaret, and the entire character has this vain, rock-and-roll vibe to him. Even at moments of distress, he seemed to force himself to keep it together, in the end flipping between anguish and gleefulness. His pool table solo was gorgeous, with his long hair almost becoming a prop. Another thing I really enjoyed about him was the way he had of spreading his attention between followers and passers by: some of those moments superficially alluring, others heart-wrenching. All interactions I saw, as well as the ones I was one the receiving end of, were little gems. Favorite one? Downstairs after the shower scene, he grabbed my hand, and placed my palm over his chest so that I could feel his heart beating fast and strong. He smiled softly, almost assuredly, squeezed my hand, and trailed past me and into the banquet. That — that was beautiful.
Don’t you just hate it when no one stays to see what you know is an amazing scene, or a mind-blowing piece of choreography? So do I. On my first show back into town not a single soul stayed downstairs after the first ballroom, so I was compelled to keep Bald Witch company from then onwards, and, boy, what a treat it was. Marissa Maislen is unbelievable: strong, commanding, wildly compelling, slightly unhinged, really comfortable with audience... in other words, perfect. This is not new, of course, I remember loving her Bald during my last trip.
This trip marked the first time I spent something like half show in Sanatorium, which was actually lovely. I think it was Lindsey Matheis as Nurse that evening, and I really enjoyed watching her. She had a lovely caring air to her, something sad and sweet, and deeply disturbed. The way she clearly cared for Lady M was beautiful. So was her solo at the operating theatre. I love that piece of choreography, and when it’s done well, it’s unbelievable.
As many shows were during the week I was here, that particular one was pretty empty. It’s a truly wonderful experience to wander through the maze completely alone, and just as you make your way up to the hut, the window opens, and Matron looks at you longingly, suggesting she was waiting just for you all this time. Pure. Magic. It also did help that Ilana Gilovich as Matron was impossible not to love. She is one of the most generous performers I followed this trip, and it was an absolute pleasure spending time with her.
Having spent more than a loop across these two, I adored their joined ending. Last time I was upstairs, Matron’s story did not have a resolution, and it warmed my heart seeing her and Nurse being given one now; two mirror images, united at last. It’s definitely one of my favorite changes to the show over the last few years.
Finally, Men and Women in Bar are always a joy, but a massive shout out to JWW’s Dewey. We had heaps of fun cracking each other up.
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Sleep No More is very dear to my heart, not only because it gave the best possible pathway to escapism into the world that lives, breathes, and is real without all of the annoying things actual reality has. It’s not only because I did leave a piece of my heart here way back when, and there is part of the fandom still around whom I love very dearly. Sleep No More also introduced me to the world of immersive storytelling, which now is - and will probably forever be - one of my passions in life. It shone a little bit of light on what I wanted to do with myself. It set up a chain of events that changed my life: professionally, socially and certainly personally, seeing how me and my wonderful husband met while being fans of the Drowned Man.
Sleep No More is very dear to my heart indeed. I will probably never stop being a fan; and leaving it after falling into its mystical honey trap all over again is not something I am thrilled about.
Let’s never not see each other for so long, McKittrick. I think I actually need you in my life.
