TM<\/sup><\/em>. And when I go to use the restroom, it is shrouded in darkness, illuminated by only a strange yellow lamp. Odd – but this is a horror movie festival.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
Staircase after staircase, I climb. A canopy of converse high-tops, severed arms, and bloody legs welcome me – and as I continue, I enter onto a gorgeous rooftop full of comfortable crew deck chairs, an Umami Burger stand, gourmet popcorn vendors, a cash bar, and a red triangle in the corner.<\/p>\n
Sleepaway Camp<\/em>, an ’80s classic, has just started, but the laughter and cheers of the audience don\u2019t detract me from heading straight to the triangle. A woman with short hair, large eyes, and a larger black sweater grabs me by the hands and sits me down. One by one, this woman takes participants by the hand and leads them to a ladder at the edge of the roof – and then returns to grab each of us, one by one, and move us one seat forward.<\/p>\nWhen it is my turn, I am grabbed by both hands and led to the edge of the roof. I am given my safeword, Together<\/em>, and told to climb down the ladder, one foot at a time.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n
Down, Down, Down<\/em><\/strong><\/h3>\nI climb down to a lower deck and a woman dressed in all white is waiting for me.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s very, very, very important that we wash your eyes.\u201d<\/p>\n
She puts her hands together, and I follow. We begin to grab them together, like washing our hands. Our hands heat up with the friction – and then she tells me to place them over my eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cClear what you\u2019ve seen. Wash your eyes. Wash your eyes.\u201d<\/p>\n
We then put our hands down. She moves closer and begins to push on my shoulder. She pushes in different directions, testing its mobility, and then moves to my arm. She lifts my wrist and allows it to fall back to its side. She repeats a similar process with my other arm. She retreats to a small table and comes back with a tape measure. She measures from my neck to my shoulder, my shoulder to my elbow, and my elbow to my wrist. She repeats some of the measurements, and when she seems pleased, she places the tape measure down and opens a door. A green light emanates from within.<\/p>\n
\u201cWelcome home. Go\u2026 down.\u201d<\/p>\n
She says this with a hint of foreboding. And as I step through the door, I see why. The stairwell circles down, down, down. It\u2019s dark with only small bleeds of light, and a deep, low bass reverberates from below.<\/p>\nPhoto: Cimcie Nichols<\/figcaption><\/figure>\nThe Bowels of The Montalb\u00e1n<\/em><\/strong><\/h3>\nA plangent hum reverberates against the walls, resonating in my chest, and the air grows heavy. As I descend, deeper and deeper, staircase after staircase, the low reverberance grows in intensity. I begin to wonder if I should try any of these doors, but theatrical velvet ropes separate me and the side rooms. When I get three floors down, I notice a well-dressed man standing by one of the ropes. He unclips it and motions for me to follow.<\/p>\n
Together, hand in hand, we walk down a dark hallway. At its end, we enter a dressing room. Vanities line one wall; each one framed by a set of large bulbs – but they’re not lit; it’s not time for the performance yet. On the vanity rests various make-ups, brushes, and lipsticks. The red of the lipsticks match the red bulb illuminating the room.<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t you take a seat?\u201d<\/p>\n
I sit in front of the large make-up mirror and stare at myself.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you nervous tonight?\u201d<\/p>\n
I tell him no, I\u2019m excited. He doesn\u2019t seem to care about my answer much, as he\u2019s busy preparing.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet me begin with a brief rhetorical question.\u201d He could very well be talking to himself. \u201cHow can you explain the nature of the universe and the relation of the individual to it? Is it myth? Cultural myth? Maybe repetitions of a theme? Or maybe, repentance of film. Mass mediated contemporary myths – our horror films.\u201d<\/p>\n
The hum continues like some beast in the room with us, growling and at times\u00a0 obscuring the older man\u2019s words. I try to listen, but maybe I am nervous. I find my brain focusing on the sound sometimes and not his poetic words. His rhetoric continues, looping over the growling beast, both fighting for the same airspace.<\/p>\n
\u201cLike Plato said, everything is a projection, extruded from something – some malformed shape. Repressed and oppressed. And then projected out and onto the other – and the other becomes the monstrous other that transgresses boundaries.\u201d<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t fully understand his words, but the way he speaks is poetically beautiful. Rhythmic; spoken art. He sits down across from me, really looking at me. I look into his eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cMasks obscure the face. Make-up too.\u201d He picks up a small, triangular sponge and squeezes from a tube of white make-up. He begins to rub it against my forehead and cheeks. \u201cIt prevents us from knowing the interior.\u201d The brush is cold, and I find myself losing track of the man\u2019s words again. He covers my face in white. He then grabs a second triangle and squeezes from a tube of blue – only to cover my nose.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd everything can be considered performance.\u201d<\/p>\n
He begins to list all the various aspects in which we act in life, as he grabs a tube of bright red lipstick and presses it against my lips. The top – then the bottom.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd then it\u2019s done.\u201d Is he referring to the performance, or my make-up?<\/p>\n
He pulls me from my seat and leads me back down the hallway, releasing me back into the staircase with the reverberating plangent hum. With my mask on, I\u2019m curious in what manner I\u2019ll be performing tonight. Guess I\u2019ll find out – one more flight to go.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Dirty Dancing<\/em><\/strong><\/h3>\nI reach the bottom, and enter a large cavernous expanse filled with nothing but darkness. While I can\u2019t fully see, I can feel how large the room is. The air just moves differently in a space this big.<\/p>\n
But a room this large also poses a problem: Where do I go? I look around, and luckily there\u2019s only one light I can see: a small room off to the side, lit with a warm glow. I enter what looks to be a small backstage dressing room. It\u2019s devoid of anyone; but there\u2019s a message spelled out in red tape:<\/p>\n
Turn Around<\/em>.<\/p>\nI comply and the doorway, half expecting someone to be standing there – but instead, the doorway perfectly frames a new light at the end of the expanse. And over the hum, a new sound: the gentle notes of a grand piano. They\u2019re slow, and sad – but played expertly.<\/p>\n
I move slowly, carefully, toward the light at the end of this cavernous hall – expecting to be grabbed at any moment. But it doesn\u2019t happen; instead, the light is extinguished, and I am left alone in the darkness. The music stops and I hear footsteps approaching. Fingers entwine with mine, a hand around my waist, and we begin to dance, wrapped together in darkness.<\/p>\n
We spin around, a clumsy cacophony of feet and arms. Then we stop and spin the opposite direction, releasing the tension of the first spin. Our positions switch often, two dancers unsure of who should lead. He leans forward and pulls me onto his back – the strength of this is impressive alone. He carries me around, a large child on his back and then spins me again for good measure. He dips me and I notice just how massively tall the ceilings are – they must extend all four stories.<\/p>\n
We dance back toward the large grand piano, and soon find ourselves moving in synchrony toward a black curtain. We push through, covered in even more darkness. Just two bodies moving, with more order, finesse, and grace. We spin and turn – finding our footing without sight to deter us.<\/p>\n
But a new voice stops us.<\/p>\n
\u201cAh yes sir, now it is your turn!\u201d<\/p>\n
This voice is commanding, full bodied, with an announcer-like quality. The dancer disappears back into the darkness from whence he came, and the announcer grabs me by the shoulders.<\/p>\n
\u201cI say, my dear good friend – right this way, make your entrance via stage right.\u201d<\/p>\n
We emerge out of the darkness, and now I see a small gap in the curtains, leading directly onto a stage.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is time for your performance.\u201d And with that, he pushes me through the curtain.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Stage Fright<\/em><\/strong><\/h3>\nI emerge on the other side. On stage. In front of an entire theater. Hundreds and hundreds of seats. There\u2019s even a balcony with a hundred or two more. But luckily, my performance did not sell out. I only notice two people in the audience – no wait, three – there\u2019s someone on the balcony watching, too.<\/p>\n
\u201cNow, I must introduce you. Right over here, dear sir.\u201d<\/p>\n
The announcer\u2019s voice sounds even more commanding as it now has the entirety of a theater to fill. He leads me over to the podium at the very center of the stage. I take my place and notice a script on the podium. At least I have lines.<\/em><\/p>\n\u201cFrom the very top!\u201d The announcer\u2019s voice booms, so even the people in the back can hear.<\/p>\n
But before I can get a word out, the audience jumps to their feet and begins to boo – loudly, vehemently.<\/p>\n
I feel my face turning a bit red as a level of discomfort washes over me. Maybe it\u2019s the make-up, or maybe the half-empty theater, but I overcome the self-consciousness and start to read:<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks, man. Y\u2019all are all right now. I hope y\u2019all are all right now!\u201d What am I saying?<\/em><\/p>\nMy announcer interrupts: \u201cFind the poetry! Find the passion, I always say!\u201d<\/p>\n
I continue, trying to read this gibberish with some poetry: \u201cI\u2019ll be around later in the afternoon and then we\u2019ll meet up a little later and I\u2019ll get back there a little later and at least we\u2019ll get together tomorrow night. I\u2019ll let y\u2019all be cool\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
The audience jumps to their feet and cheers, clapping loudly for my performance. I feel a little proud – even though the words are completely meaningless and devoid of purpose. But that\u2019s performance, right? Just find the poetry, find the passion – right?<\/p>\n
The announcer shakes my hand. \u201cWith so many performances being performed. They are being reproduced instantaneously by you being you.\u201d His voice still authoritative, powerful. I squint over the bright house lights, trying to make out my audience – but they look just like shadows.<\/p>\n
Slapping me on the back, the announcer is not done with me yet. \u201cNow once again from the top. This time, a little more pre-verbal.\u201d<\/p>\n
I look down at the script, but the words have changed into something even more meaningless:<\/p>\n
\u201cCopy copy copy, copy, copy copy. Copy copy. Copy copy copy, copy copy. Copy, copy, copy. Copy, copy – copy copy copy; copy copy. Copy copy, copy copy. Copy copy copy, copy, copy copy. Copy copy. Copy copy copy, copy copy. Copy, copy, copy. Copy, copy – copy copy copy; copy copy. Copy copy, copy copy. Copy, copy – copy copy copy; copy copy. Copy copy copy; copy copy copy; copy copy.\u201d<\/p>\n
My announcer urges me to go faster, more emphasis. I speed up, reading with gusto. Faster and faster. The word “copy” begins to feel foreign to my tongue. Semantic satiation <\/em>renders the word absurd. I almost laugh at the ridiculousness, but I just focus on the words. Copy\u2026 copy\u2026 copy. <\/em><\/p>\n\u201cAnd\u2026 finish! Curtain! All the Tony Awards for you in 2020, good sir.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Cheers and Jeers<\/em><\/strong><\/h3>\nI step down from the stage and take my seat in the audience. A young girl sits next to me, hair as black as the darkness that came before.<\/p>\n
\u201cWelcome to the audience,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
Her voice is not warm and welcoming as her words imply – but rather almost robotic, programmed. She looks up at the empty stage, and continues: \u201cWe are also performers as the audience. You get to decide what happens with the people on stage. Or not.\u201d<\/p>\n
She asks me my seat number. 101.<\/em> \u201cRemember that, where you are going is very dark and you may need to find your way back.\u201d She then asks me about my eye-sight. You will need that too.<\/em> \u201cIf your sight has issues, use an eye chart to find a new seat number.\u201d Hmm, the eye chart from the start – clever.<\/p>\nOn the stage, the participant who was seated before me on the roof steps onto the stage. The MC grabs her, much like he did with me and directs her to the podium. She begins to read from her script.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo now we get to decide, do we boo<\/em> or do we cheer<\/em>?\u201d We boo<\/em>, I respond.<\/p>\n\u201cThen we boo.\u201d – and without hesitation, the black-haired girl jumps from her seat and begins to boo with disdain and abhorrence. I follow, and the poor girl on stage looks nervous.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is just the space that is currently <\/em>a stage. But since they are there and we are here – we are also performers for them, which is in essence, theater.\u201d<\/p>\nThe blurred line of audience and actor – even with a proscenium, where\u2019s the distinction? \u201cIf we film this, it lives forever. The audience increases exponentially. Which means, the only real world is the audience.\u201d Her words yearn to be discussed in depth, analyzed, probed – but there\u2019s no time.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s time to boo or cheer for the actress on stage. I choose boo again, only to see how my acting influences the stage. We stand in unison and elicit the most guttural boo<\/em> we can harness.<\/p>\nThe girl pauses, shifting uncomfortably on stage again. I almost feel bad\u2026 almost.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is where we part ways.\u201d She hands me a piece of paper with three holes in it. The same Alone Inc, VisionTM<\/sup><\/em> label rests in the bottom corner. I stand and exit through the back of the theater, ready to test my eyesight.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n