The Masque of the Red Death
We've seen a fair amount of theatre over the Christmas/New Year period but none as outstanding, as sense-blowing, as mind-fuckingly total as Punchdrunk's extraordinary The Masque of the Red Death. Having spent three hours last night wholly immersed in their perfectly realised alternative Poeniverse, it's still with me, the dreamlike, often disturbing imagery taking a while to fade.
I'm finding it very difficult to describe. Terms like "promenade performance" and even "immersive theatre" don't seem to do justice to the sheer amount of work that's gone into the creation of Masque's pervasive reality which sucks one in and sensorily/sensually pummels one. The nearest thing I could think of by way of comparison was actually being inside a computer adventure game - if that computer game were so full of dense, almost fractally compressed detail that one could happily spend hours exploring the first room.
As choctaw_ridge says, we spent a while humming and hawing over "evening dress optional" before deciding it was worth the relatively minimal hassle of full Highland dress (the Scots equivalent of black tie) on atmospheric grounds. I'm very glad we did. When we go again (and it's when, not if) I'm tempted to glam up even further, perhaps with jabot and/or glengarry. I didn't envy a couple of the female audience members their stilettos, though: there's a lot of walking involved and stairs aplenty (assuming one chooses to wander; some seemed content just to sit by the central staircase or in the Palais audience). My dress brogues made a distinctive clacking noise over the barely-audible whispers, scrabblings and pendulum-swishings that, particularly early on when I was the only person in the crypts, made me feel like I was announcing my presence to any ruffian, somnambulist or freshly-exhumed madwoman waiting to jump out at me. Unnerving.
I'd read a little about Masque in advance (while resisting the urge to consume every blogged gobbet - although, actually, I don't think even that would've spoiled things too much) so knew we'd be warned not to talk within (most of) the setting and handed Venetian masks at the outset and that these would be tough on spectacle-wearers. I'd toyed with the idea of a handheld monocle, lorgnettes or old-fashioned spectacles that hook firmly over one's ears and might stay in place over a mask but hadn't got my act together in time, so I ended up pocketing my glasses for much of the evening. This probably added to the sense of being lost in dim half-light (the lighting is absolutely incredible) but meant I had to peer really closely to examine the fine detail of a diary here, a love-note there. On at least two occasions, I started when what appeared to be a pool of shadow turned out to be a motionless human being.
The masks (a sort of adulterated plague doctor) allowed one to reach one's mouth and scratch one's nose but gradually gathered sweat - which, if anything, intensified the feeling of sickly claustrophobia. They also had an isolating effect in terms of audience, allowing one sufficient distance that one's experience felt largely private (although the array of expressionless, beaked faces did, during one of the larger set pieces, cause an incongruous mental flashback to the clone-like seagulls in Finding Nemo...). They acted like a Potteresque cloak of invisibility, turning one into a meandering ghost unseen/unacknowledged by most (not all) of the unmasked actors. After a while, this emboldened me in situations I'd otherwise find excrutiatingly awkward, such as being alone in a smallish room with a Victorian woman undressing for bed: there was an eerily voyeuristic edge watching Madeleine Usher swap trailing gown for equally trailing nightdress; at one point, she murmured "away with you", seemingly to herself, and I almost left the room. Next moment came a sharp knock and Dupin entered, so I stayed for the ensuing bout of mesmerism/hypnosis.
The advice to strike out alone is good (and the black-masked ushers actively attempt to split up groups) as every individual experience of the night's events is then unique - and comparing notes in the bar of the Palais Royale (or later, in Prospero's ballroom) is a particular delight. C found the dauntingly handsome tailor first and acquired a flicky black velvet cloak before I did. On the other hand, I discovered the BAC's (real and remarkably crowd-friendly) Black Cat, and found my way into the theatre-within-a-theatre's dressing rooms during one of the vaudeville performances. It's definitely worth trying and retrying doors, as not all locked rooms remain locked throughout the evening.
For some reason, audience members are admitted in two groupings, 7.15 and 7.45. We were first in the queue for the first entry and I think I'd recommend it. For me, one of the most spine-tingling elements was creeping in and out of rooms alone, as if I were the only living soul there, and that's probably easier earlier in the evening.
I understand that the larger set pieces (generally those involving the Ushers and set around the beautiful marble staircase, jaw-dropping petrified forest, crypt and suite of rooms comprising the doomed mansion) happen twice per evening, giving one a chance to catch bits one missed earlier. I actually missed a good few of these nonetheless because my instinct was to leave when too many white masks arrived on a scene and I started to feel crowded. I didn't feel short-changed, though, because there are a host of smaller, less showy pieces going on simultaneously, and pursuing the ostensibly secondary characters is as rewarding as chasing an Usher, sometimes more so. There's apparently a changing roster of mini performance pieces going on within the larger tapestry, and some of these are little gems.
There were also plenty of times I loitered in a room investigating and admiring the completeness of the 19th Century furnishings and overall set detail. And what detail! Miles of exquisitely worn brocade! Screeds of copperplate notes and postcards! A veritable zoo of taxidermy! Skulls and pews and crinolines and parasols and pallid embalmed things in jars and whole cellarfuls of bitter wine. I could've whiled away hours in the library, for example (even if I hadn't been unable to get out), albeit holding books rather close to my beaked face. The sounds were genuinely evocative (rather than hammy) and the smells (lavender, cloves, incense, dust) built up gradually to an almost swoony intensity. Apparently around a hundred people worked to build Masque's overpowering decadence, supervised by a Head of Detail. It shows.
So. A few almost-random personal highlights from an evening that never flagged:
- the eerie "away with you" moment in Madeleine's boudoir when I genuinely wondered, "is she talking to me as an actor talking to a punter, a character talking to a ghost, or talking to herself?"
- finding myself alone in a sparsely decorated cellar nook, only to jump when a scullery maid entered bearing a wizened twig with dry leaves. She arranged this in a vase, sighingly made the bed and tried to settle to sleep upon it. What started out as an indistinct heartbeat-like ticking was revealed as a stuck gramophone needle which became gradually louder in time with her restless, rhythmic tossing and turning. A man entered (a groom or other manservant) and their half-angry, half-erotic encounter became a sensual, violent dance for me alone (until another couple of silent white beaks entered).
- the Tell-Tale Heart scene in the attic/belfry, particularly the chilling door-opening moment. You'll know it when it happens.
- spending a relaxing five minutes by the flickering fireside, stroking an amazingly unafraid Pluto.
- the wonderful Palais Royale, both sipping champagne (£4.50 a glass) in the audience of the Les Enfants du Paradis-inspired comic turn, relieved to temporarily remove my mask (although slightly alarmed to be picked twice for the mind-reading act - probably the kilt) and backstage in the wings, peering from behind a stageside curtain, eavesdropping on the musicians and receiving a completely different view of The Dance of the Seven Veils from those seated stage-front.
- a respectable-looking matron suddenly acrobatically sliding and cartwheeling over a third-floor stair bannister.
- being locked in the library for a fleshless evocation of The Conqueror Worm.
- wanting to permanently move into the redly opulent opium den.
I reread a bit of Poe in preparation (and crammed a lot more of him on Wikipedia) but you really don't need to. Aside from the Red Death himself, it was fun spotting elements of The Fall of the House of Usher, Berenice, The Cask of Amontillado, Ligeia, The Black Cat and so on (I missed the Dr Tarr and Professor Fether set piece and will look out for it next time) but hardly necessary to one's predominantly sensory enjoyment of the whole. There's no single narrative; themes and characters interweave to create a sort of generally (wonderfully) Gothic soup, and even the repetition of some of the main scenes becomes more like a pleasing refrain than an annoying loop.
Masque's run was extended to April 12th and I'd urge everyone to go see it if it weren't for the fact that the website indicates it's already sold out again. Worth 'phoning the box office, though, or even periodically checking eBay. Or shagging an usher (or an Usher) for his/her ticket allocation.
Do what you have to do, just bloody see it.