“Our aim throughout the devising process was to provide the audience with an interactive and immersive experience exploring different aspects and ideas of the afterlife.”
Uh-oh. A couple of weeks ago I volunteered myself to Phil Kirby, Culture Vultures editor-at-large, to review “anything. Literally anything. Whatever you’ve got for me.” The invite to review a show called Into The Dark at Stage@Leeds duly dispatched via Twitter, and accepted, I set about doing a little research into what my Friday evening was going to consist of. And found this sentence.
See, I love a bit of conceptual abstraction as much as the next person. Probably a bit more than the next person. So the idea of a meditative theatre production exploring life and death is fine by me. No, it’s the mere mention of those two words “interactive” and “immersive” that get my guard not so much “going up” as “constructing an elaborate watchtower”. For me, great art should rarely be interactive. Not of me, anyway. I may be a decent and willing observer of art, but I’m a crap artist. You’re the artist: you make the art.
So here I am, queuing at the stage@leeds cloakroom waiting to “leave all my possessions behind before starting my journey”. I’m weighing up what the consequences would be if I were to turn tail and run away. But then I’m front of the queue, and my possessions have a little yellow ticket attached to them, and I’m committed.
Next, I’m sitting in a dark studio space. Four rows of chairs are set up like an airport waiting room, and an actress is moving amongst us with a clipboard, asking questions and – yep – interacting. I sit and stare at my feet, willing them to read the signals and leave me alone. Another member of the cast appears and taps the clipboarded one on the shoulder – it’s time to start. I exhale, relieved at thus far having escaped theatrical immersion.
As the clipboarded one walks past, she glances at my name badge: “Rachel. Come with me please.”
Oh cripes.
I’m ushered – on my own – through dark corridors and more foreboding doors by cast members who tell me they’ve been expecting me, enquire about my journey. At the last door, there’s noone to show me through. I take a deep breath and head inside, fearing the interactive worst.
It’s a large, dark studio theatre space with black walls, ceiling and floor. In the centre of the room, a white cell of sorts. The cell has doors on one side, windows on another, clear plastic strip doors on the far side. Dotted around the black spaces outside, a dozen or so cast members in various poses. Sitting cross-legged, standing, perched on chairs. They’re all staring into middle distance, transfixed and a little zombie-like. Some turn to look at me as I walk past.
I’m not sure how long I’m left to my own devices in there. What I do know is that by the time more audience members start to filter in, I’m standing, staring into middle distance. Transfixed, and a little zombie-like.
Oh, bugger. I think I’m immersed…
What follows over the next hour or so defies any useful description, really. A blow-by-blow account would be dull and not do the whole thing justice. Because actually, in spite of my fears, I really did enjoy it. If “enjoy” is the right word. The use of space, sound, and lighting is cleverly judged to put the audience in the hands of the cast. We’re so many puppets on strings, with no comfort zone left to cling onto in this strangely lit and soundtracked studio. You’re never quite sure who’s going to whisk you off next, or what’s going to happen when you get there.
The divisions between cast and audience are quickly eroded as we’re all given strange tasks to perform and roles to play. The only difference is that the cast members are calling the shots, and know what’s going to happen next. It’s a deeply odd and uncomfortable setup that leaves you no choice but to be open to whatever possibilities lie in store, all the while feeling very vulnerable.
We’re all at some stage led into the white box, part of a larger group, and it’s in here that there’s most fun to be had. We’re one minute guests at a wedding (with two audience members the unsuspecting and bemused bride and groom), the next we’re medical interns learning about epidurals as a woman screams through labour on a table in front of us. We’re naughty schoolkids caught out having a paper fight, suppressing our giggles as we jump back to our positions facing the wall with hands on heads.
It all leads up nicely to the final section, in which we’re all sat cross-legged amongst endless white paper boats, evoking the passage to the afterlife. A spotlight shines and a lone microphone appears from the ceiling. A cast member stands, steps forward into the light and fishes a strip of paper from a bowl. She ponders, steps to the microphone, unsure:
“Erm. I think it would be the last photo taken with my mum. It was such a sad time, but looking at the photo you’d never tell, we look so happy. That would be the one I’d take with me.”
One by one, cast members and audience members alike follow suit, stepping up to the spotlight and giving us their hesitant answers to questions that we work backwards to deduce are all about life, death, regret and revision. Some of the answers are funny, some poignant, all moving. From staring at the floor in the “waiting room” at the beginning through stubborn cynicism, I’m now staring at my feet with a tear pricking my eye.
We’re one by one tapped on the shoulder and told it’s “our time now” – our cue to leave and step back out to retrieve our possessions. We’re a quiet and bemused cloakroom queue, noone quite sure what’s just happened or how to react.
So, yes. I was immersed in a theatre piece, I interacted, and I liked it. Some elements were more effective than others, but even those bits that didn’t work so well added to the unease and vulnerability of the whole piece. The lighting, sound and clever use of space made the whole thing gel, and I even noted with surprise that I was kicking myself for not having gone up to the microphone to answer a question before my time was called.
Into The Dark was the second in a series of 4 performance projects (the next is Architects of the Invisible, followed by Antigone) which are devised and staged by level 3 students as part of their degree programme. The module works as a platform for students to share their learning and emerging ideas about theatre with a public audience. It’s really interesting stuff and, whatever your reservations, I’d recommend having a look at what they’ve got up their sleeves for the next two projects. You might be surprised.
Image courtesy of David Shearing