Review: Punchdrunk’s The Burnt City

WARNING: contains some spoilers in regard to the content of certain scenes.

Some years ago I saw an open-air promenade production of Dracula at Newstead Abbey. I can’t remember the company, but this setting and a slight autumnal chillness made this an excellent environment for the horror classic.

In one key scene, the Count, played in full Nosferatu mode, encounters his vampire brides, staked through the heart by Van Helsing. He gently picks one of them up and then falls to his knees, emitting a loud guttural howl of pain that fills the night sky. As the last gasp of anguish leaves his lips, out jumps a stage manger from the crowd, complete with clipboard and mic headset, shouting, “Thank you very much ladies and gentlemen. If you could now make your way down the path please to the next scene”.

As we trooped past a distraught Drac, any emotional investment we had in this story and characters had been completely wrecked by the bull-dozer effect of the stage manager shepherding us away.

I was kind of reminded of this whilst watching the latest immersive production by Punchdrunk Theatre this week in London. Whilst there was nothing in this show that was so badly done as our eager stage manager described above, the important beats, resonance and afterglow of storytelling were largely absent to me, in a production where there appeared to be a necessity by many to simply move on to the next big scene.

Established in 2000, Punchdrunk create huge theatrical worlds in which audience members are free to wander round and engage in the space around them in different ways. It is said that every audience member will have a different experience. As a director of site-specific and promenade work, I have always been keen to see a Punchdrunk show, as through the immersive lens, they are clearly trying to push the boundaries of what one expects from a theatrical show.

Their latest work, taking place in an enormous building in Woolwich is The Burnt City, which according to their website is based around the fall of Troy. As my friend Dominic, later pointed out, a good working knowledge of The Iliad would be useful.

There were five of us in our group. On entry at 6.30pm, we put on our facemasks, and our phones are sealed in small bags which we then carry around. As we enter further into the space, we are then given an additional mask. This resembles a slightly smaller plague doctor’s type mask. The immediate effect is that we, the audience, have become these ghost-like, other-wordly figures that will observe events as they unfold before us.

We’re told not to try to stay together, but to experience this event as individuals. As we go further in, any attempt to remain as a group is useless.

A series of spaces, separated by what appears to be thick canvas, takes us further in. It resembles an archaeological dig for the remains of Troy. It is dark. The music ominous. I occasionally see another masked audience figure just disappearing out of the space and into the gloom. A feeling of dread, excitement and terror is quickly upon me. You genuinely do not know what will be around the corner. This is my favourite part of the entire evening. The isolation and anticipation is quite thrilling.

I keep wandering through rooms and spaces, that are beautifully designed and lit. Punchdrunk’s meticulous aesthetic is well-known and there are books, papers, and objects that we can handle that may reveal parts of the story. However, it is so dark that to try and read any of this is impossible.

I descend down some stairs. There are now performers. Incredible dancers, performing sensuous dances within a few feet of us. However, I have no idea who they are portraying.

And it is hot. Very hot. I’m wearing two masks and the sweat is dripping off me. In one room, I find myself near a pipe emitting cold air. I sashay over and place myself directly in front of it. Even at one point opening up my shirt at the back to let this cold air wash over my skin. To be honest, I could have stood there all night.

I find the bar, but it isn’t open for the first hour of the show and so move on, trying to remember where it is for later.

I’m now in a big courtyard type area. There are a large number of masked audience members there. More dancing and then a military character strides on (Agamemnon?). A scene unfolds, the climax of which a young half naked woman is murdered and then strung upside down by her feet. It is a shocking scene. Agamemnon leaves, quickly followed by a large number of the audience. It is at this point that the emotional resonance of the storytelling is lost. For me, the scene hasn’t finished. There are people mourning this dead woman. She is lowered and caressed and gently taken away. These final moments are played with delicacy, but there are only a few of us to witness it. The majority have gone off I imagine to seek the next big scene with Agamemnon. For me, we should all have been made to look at the aftermath and the sorrow.

I know that this is the whole point of the show. It is a literal Choose Your Own Adventure and in this instance I have chosen to stay behind, but the rest of the evening was marked by people literally chasing characters from scene to scene.  I found this a constant interruption and so my preferred desire to simply take in the atmosphere and regard The Burnt City as one giant arts installation meant that I literally had no idea who anyone was or the actual story.

This was reinforced by the post-show post-mortem in the pub. Did you see the eye-gouging? Nope. Shower scene murder? Nope. I guessed I missed quite a lot.

I’m now back in the huge, cavernous space. Agamemnon and I presume Clytemnestra are swaying together. A tap on my shoulder and my wife has found me. “Do you know where the bar is?” she pleads. She’s as hot and thirsty as I am. Luckily, I manage to locate it again and it’s open. Masks can now be removed and a cold can of cider becomes a flannel substitute to cool myself down.

With its exotic type cabaret acts, the bar is fun. I enjoyed the rendition of The Flying Lizard’s interpretation of Money. Just don’t ask me what is has to do with the fall of Troy.

Half an hour later, I’m masked up again for the final push. There’s even more chasing after characters, which I try to ignore and just try to take everything in. Eventually we’re all guided back to the courtyard type area for some kind of denouement. I think I’ve missed most of it but manage to see, over the heads of my fellow plague-doctors, a women standing alone, with what looks like snow falling from above. We are then guided out through the bar, to the exit. Masks off, phones retrieved and out into the fresh air. It’s 9pm.

Would I see another Punchdrunk show? Not sure. Would I recommend a Punchdrunk show? Absolutely.

Whilst I have concerns about the flow and resonance of the storytelling, you need to enter not expecting a full chronological narrative. It’s interesting to note that despite the fact that you can get close to the performers, I felt a distance from the story they are trying to tell.

For me Punchdrunk is about revelling in the atmosphere, savouring the visuals, appreciating the performers, and enjoying those early moments of individual exploration.

I clearly have my issues about immersive theatre, and yet nearly three days later, I’m still trying to think it through and process it. I can’t say that about many shows I see these days.