I’ve been bowled over by theatre. Literally. It was last Thursday, but I still have the bruises to prove it.
The Battersea Arts Centre is staging Punchdrunk’s latest production based on the short stories of Edgar Allan Poe, The Masque of the Red Death. It is a sell out, and no doubt a godsend for the troubled arts centre which has fought hard to remain afloat through a funding crisis. My first thoughts were that perhaps their surly box office staff might go some way to explaining their financial woes. But not even this can keep the crowds away from Punchdrunk. After eventually sorting our tickets out, we were directed to proceed to the side entrance, escorted by a finely dressed actor, and the ‘indoor promenade’ began.
Punchdrunk are much famed in the UK for their innovative work in creating experimental and interactive shows as well as for their elaborately decorated performance spaces. Masque of the Red Death is no exception, and must consume close to 50 rooms in the BAC, from tiny shoeboxes in the attic, to creepy damp spaces in the basement, staircases, corridors and large Victorian halls.
The set really is the star of the show.
The scale of the BAC and the atmosphere Punchdrunk managed to create inside it is quite simply amazing. After a brief introduction by an actor (instructions: no speaking, wear your mask at all times) you are free to roam around and make of it what you will.
Actors wander through, playing often script less and silent parts in Poe’s stories, which are hard to decipher. Nothing is off limits. Some rooms remain empty while others are frantic with action. The central marble staircase is the epicentre of most of the disparate action. Around it, a pharmacy, an opium den, a puppet maker’s studio, grand dining rooms and dishevelled bedrooms are all meticulously presented in old world bohemian style. It must have cost a bomb, and taken a lot of people a lot of time (Punchdrunk worked with architects, among others), which goes some way to explaining why the tickets are going at £30, even on a weeknight.
That said, unattended corridors draped in curtains, and illuminated only by candles, made me uneasy – the whole thing could easily go up in smoke. Without being a spoilsport, actors and audience roaming around without limits also means it’s a health and safety nightmare waiting to happen. My lingering memory of the show, my bruises, were caused when an actor literally knocked me to the ground as he ran across a room, and I landed, with a crash, on top of a coffee table laden with silver teapots, pipes and trays.
I wasn’t hurt, but my crash revealed an interesting behavioural by-product of a mobile audience disguised by masks – not a single person in the crowded room helped me up. In general, the masks gave the audience the anonymity to observe, but also permission to forget their manners.
Aspects of the ‘performance’ were diffuse and confusing, particularly given the absence of any discernable narrative. After following the loose action throughout the building for about an hour and a half, it began to feel like we were being held hostage – you couldn’t leave, or find a way out without asking a rare attendant. When we finally found someone to ask, she said ‘you’ll miss the finale’. Clearly, we’d missed the point.
But we were glad we didn’t leave. Waiting for the finale gave us time to hover outside a mysterious door, and be granted entry to a secret puppet show. Then we retired to the luxurious Palais Royale – definitely the highlight of the whole night. Being privy to the backstage area (which is part of the show), before you find the entrance to the den itself, starts you on another mission around the centre to find out how to get in. When you find it, you are rewarded with witty cabaret singers, mime artists, vaudeville style acts and the chance to take off your mask, have a chat, and have a drink.
And then there was the finale: which I won’t spoil.
It was impressive, moody and brilliant, but I have no idea what it all meant. The idea was fabulous, but how could any performative aspect compete with the environment they’d created?
I went expecting to be irritated by experimental theatre, and left quite thrilled that something like this can exist – it’s a fantasy, a dreamland in reality. Go – but go late, and keep out of the path of running actors.
The Masque of the Red Death runs until 12 April 2008 at the Battersea Arts Centre in London.
