Allegedly it was a musical. I was promised it would be immersive, but that turned out to be a mistake for submersive; possibly that just means it was put on in a rather small room. For twenty increasingly fever-dreamish minutes before it started, the cast came onto the stage one by one and stood scribbling or sat fanning themselves or repeatedly fainting on a chaise longue while soporofic noise played very loudly on a loop. There was a portentous voice-over. Scene-changes were announced by grating white noise. At one point, a man sang while writhing under a white sheet until another man flung open a door and sang a song about a silver car that could manoeuvre surprisingly well in a hotel and to escape whose power was of no avail. As this review says, ‘lucid delivery of narrative is emphatically not what this style of theatre is about’. Apparently there’s a sequel. I’m confused. I thought everyone died at the end.
It’s on for another week at the New Wimbledon Theatre, anyway. It’s certainly memorable.