Whhopi Goldberg in White Rabbit, Red Rabbit (Photo by Bruce Glikas)

I’m seeing Brian Dennehy in a play tonight. I know next to nothing about it. Apparently, neither does Brian.

The play in question is Nassim Soleimanpour’s White Rabbit Red Rabbit, which began a once-a-week New York run earlier this month after a number of international productions. I’ve chosen to write about it before seeing it because that seems entirely consistent with the play’s promotion – as well as its direction to the actors who take it on – which is to say that one is supposed to go into it with no preparation and no preconceived notions.

Critics have been warned not to give away too much. Even skimming The New York Times review and finding the portion that talked about this moratorium started to say more than I cared to know about the play. I feared that a close reading would spoil things, perhaps in the way that a friend ruined the big surprise in the film The Crying Game for me simply by remarking on the strange absence of pronouns in a major review.

There’s something slightly perverse about a play that asks you to attend simply on faith and not to reveal its secrets, because most any arts marketer will tell you that word of mouth is essential for sales. WRRR gets past that by deploying stars in a small Off-Broadway house (Nathan Lane and Whoopi Goldberg have already taken up the challenge). It would seem a premise that could sustain itself for some time playing only once a week for 200 people, especially in a city the size of New York, but the show is currently announced for a limited run.

Audiences have certainly been admonished in the past not to give away endings, perhaps most famously with The Mousetrap (I’ve never seen it, and I still don’t know who done it). Deathtrap relies on its twists and turns being a surprise, though the revival with Simon Russell Beale demonstrated that as social attitudes have changed, one of the play’s Act I stunners doesn’t have the impact it did 40 years ago.

Yet the idea of a show where you shouldn’t, or even can’t, talk about most what you’ve seen seems to be a very contrarian approach to finding an audience – though it seems to be working. While stars are the draw for WRRR, the mysterious You Me Bum Bum Train has only the enthusiastically cryptic praise of those who’ve managed to get in. I failed to do so in a dispiriting battle with the show’s website, so I’m one of the many who was denied the opportunity to see what would have apparently been one of the great theatrical experiences of my lifetime. That makes me wish I’d seen it all the more (and resentful of its online ticketing process).

While not as secretive about its content, Sleep No More manages to keep an air of mystery about it nonetheless. Having run for almost five years now in New York, it has never bought advertising, relying entirely on word of mouth. But just try describing it to anyone. Yes, it’s rooted in Macbeth and Rebecca, to name two primary touchpoints, but the physical experience of dashing up and down stairs and through multiple rooms at a show without dialogue means that few can sum it up, or have even seen the same show. When I saw it at the start of its run, my guest, familiar with Punchdrunk’s work, said it would be foolish to try to stay together throughout. When we met up at the end, she asked whether I had seen the naked goat head dance. I had not, but just that phrase remains tantalizing to this day.

During my time in marketing and PR, it was a dream that audiences would simply hear about a play, think it sounded interesting, and just buy a ticket, alleviating the need for advertising, media, promotions and the like. Of course, the reality was that people needed a great deal of cajoling to get them into the theatre and by and large, I would say that still holds true. But if the mysteries of White Rabbit Red Rabbit, The Mousetrap, You Me Bum Bum Train and Sleep No More teach us anything, it’s that audiences like to learn the answers to secrets – and keep them, happily in the know while others stand on the outside looking in. It may not be a new concept, but perhaps it deserves a new name, especially for shows where audiences are actively encouraged not to discuss them in any detail: unmarketing. Think about it. Then tell no one.

Here Lies Love at The Public Theater (photo by Joan Marcus)

For some people, the words “interactive theatre” strike fear into their hearts, and they’ll do anything to avoid it. The prospect of being accosted by an actor, of having the spotlight turned on them, of potentially being embarrassed in front of others for the sake of everyone else’s amusement is something they equate with impromptu public speaking or a trip to the dentist. They certainly don’t want to pay for the opportunity to have this occur.

I have no such fear. I gave in to the participation at Sleep No More with only slight resistance (I was ultimately rewarded with a soft kiss on my neck from one actress, the only person to access that area in such a manner since I met the woman who is now my wife more than a dozen years ago). I threw myself into Queen of the Night with more enthusiasm. I dream of being brought up on stage by Bill Irwin and David Shiner, or by Penn & Teller, to be their prop or their stooge, as they see fit. I lean forward eagerly when those teams start scanning the audience. Perhaps I’ve never been selected because, after many visits, I look too eager.

But this should not suggest that I am an exhibitionist, least of all in every circumstance. As a result, my own particular bugaboos initially kept me from even considering two current shows, until I reminded myself of my commitment to not just see work that has the most obvious appeal for me, but to challenge myself more. That’s what pushed me into seeing Here Lies Love and Drunk Shakespeare, two radically different shows that few would likely ever group together. But they each featured elements that trigger my anxiety, my awkwardness, my flight reflex, so for me they’re of a piece.

Even with all the acclaim for its original engagement at The Public Theater, the words that leapt out at me in connection with HLL were “disco” and “dancing,” which both separately and together hold no appeal whatsoever. I lived through the original disco era without ever enjoying the music (I was moving out of prog rock and into British power pop at the time), and while I wouldn’t have undertaken to steamroll disco records (someone really did this as a stunt), I didn’t care to own or hear the music at all, unavoidable as it was. As for dancing, I have no natural gifts in this area whatsoever and few things make me so self-conscious as the act of attempting to move in some relationship to music, be it a formal waltz, a Broadway showstopper, or rock and roll. I’ll nod my head or tap my feet in rhythm, but that’s my limit.

The complete, rotating cast of Drunk Shakespeare (photo by Della Bass)

With Drunk Shakespeare, the first word in the title was more than off-putting, despite my affection for the latter. Though I have sampled alcohol on a few occasions over the years, I never cared for it; I was probably priggishly moralistic about it in my youth (though the only two times I was ever drunk were as a teen), but my ongoing avoidance of liquor is really rooted in nothing more than not caring for the taste and having no interest in developing it (this applies to vegetables as well, FYI). As a result, I have spent many an evening watching friends get gently tipsy or utterly blotto, while my consciousness remained unaltered. So a show in which an actor aggressively drinks but still performs his or her role, in an environment which encourages the audience to imbibe along with them, seemed like paying for the opportunity to watch strangers get smashed, which wasn’t much fun even when I watched my friends do it.

I ultimately saw Here Lies Love because of the overwhelming critical enthusiasm that prompted its return to The Public this spring; I needed to find out what had everyone so excited. I decided to see Drunk Shakespeare because it is drawn from the work of the company Three Day Hangover, the leadership trio of which includes a woman who interned at The O’Neill when I ran it, as well as her husband. I had skipped their last production because of my prejudices and I didn’t feel good about it, because I felt I was being unsupportive of the woman who had been a diligent worker years earlier and who I was pleased to reconnect with recently.

Now this is where you’ll expect me to say that in both cases, the shows were revelations which upended my previous biases. But I’m afraid I can’t. When exhorted to dance along at HLL, I hugged the perimeter of the endlessly reconfigured staging areas and moved only when a shifting platform required me to do so, even as others joined in with abandon. At Drunk Shakespeare I attempted to sip some Jameson’s Irish Whiskey, once the favored spirit of my college drama troupe, but found I could barely get it past my lips, let alone consume enough to have any impact on my blood alcohol level. No fun at a party then, no fun at a party now.

That said, there was a key difference. I have long ago stopped wondering what within me makes dancing such torture, or caring when people quiz me in amazement about my abstemiousness. There’s no real peer pressure on these issues anymore and if one or both are limitations in the perception of others, then so be it. I never wanted to be John Travolta and realize I can’t possibly be Gene Kelly; I’ll never appreciate a fine wine or enjoy a round of beers at the end of the day. I don’t need to move to love music; a truly great hot cocoa gives me all the spirit lifting I need, sans spirits.

Selfie with cast members of Drunk Shakespeare

As a result, though I stood outside the action of Here Lies Love and Drunk Shakespeare, much as I had stood literally at the fringes and figuratively outside so many social events over so many years, I could enjoy them – and the people enjoying them – without condescension or alienation. I could appreciate the shows even without being fully immersed, but also without feeling like the odd man out, the way drinking and dancing had made me feel for so long. I guess it’s a sign of comfort in my own skin that I didn’t feel for many years, as well as an affirmation that things I might instinctively avoid because of long-held fears, I can now enjoy, opening me up to new experiences in the theatre and, perhaps, outside of it as well.

So shake that thang, boogiers of all ages at Here Lies Love. Drink up, college dudes and bachelorette parties who enjoy The Bard and Jagermeister at Drunk Shakespeare. I can’t fully join with you, but I’m glad you’re having fun with theatre.

P.S. Three Day Hangover is about to begin performances of Twelfth Night, or Sir Toby Belch’s Lonely Heart Club Cabaret, featuring karaoke with a live band. Have I mentioned that I happily sing in public, often a bit too loudly, even when I probably shouldn’t? I can’t wait to go. They’ve been warned and, now, so have you.

When theatre professionals turn catty about work they’ve seen and disliked, they arrogantly and foolishly compare it to the work of amdram troupes (who are deserving of appreciation, not derision). But when they really want to draw a condescending laugh out of their peers, they invoke the institution of dinner theatre, imagining diners noisily chewing their way through shows. Who remembers the parody in the film Soapdish, which had Kevin Kline performing Death of a Salesman amid clattering tableware?

While dinner theatre may never garner respect under that name, the genuine merging of food and theatre is making inroads in the US at scales both grand and intimate. And in doing so, it fulfills two popular concepts that are much discussed in the arts these days – engagement and immersion.

In the past few weeks, I’ve experienced the spectrum of theatrical dining: a homely table laden with both store-bought and homemade desserts to accompany the faux village ceremony at the heart of Dog and Pony Theatre Company’s Beertown (a Washington DC import at NYC’s 59 E 59 Theatre). Then there was a Russian sampler at Natasha, Pierre and The Great Comet (at a tent in Times Square’s theatre district). At Queen of the Night (in the long-empty subterranean Diamond Horseshoe nightclub) there was a complete banquet with speciality cocktails and heaping platters of lobsters and beef. In each case, the food was completely integral to the show, rather than adjunct; this wasn’t just a quick bite during a lunchtime play or, God forbid, meatloaf juxtaposed with Miller.

What could be more immersive than eating? How can one possibly remain at a detached distance while sharing a table with other audience members, or when you’re exhorted to pile up a plate of goodies before taking your seat? Communal dining breaks down one’s reserve – even more so when alcohol is part of the repast. At Great Comet, selling drinks is not only a part of the experience, it’s part of the economic structure of the production; while a drunk audience might get out of hand at the sensual Queen. There’s even a theatre company named Three-Day Hangover that specialises in producing Shakespeare in bars, not simply in rooms above the pub, and encourages consumption via drinking games, just the thing for the much-desired “next generation of theatregoers,” provided they’re not abstainers.

Considering that “dinner and a show” is part of the lexicon for many arts attendees, it shouldn’t be a surprise that the two might be wrapped up in a single experience – and ticket. Going back to the 1980s, Tamara The Living Movie, a long-running hit in Los Angeles (with a briefer New York stay) fed audiences members rather lavishly at intermission, a respite from chasing actors playing out multiple storylines across myriad rooms years before Punchdrunk. Today, Sleep No More may not have fully integrated drinking and dining with its mashup of Hitchcock and Shakespeare, but bars and a restaurant echoing the design of the show share space at the retrofitted McKittrick Hotel in Manhattan’s Chelsea neighbourhood.

This is not to suggest that every show can be made immersive by adding a meal. The much-discussed clafoutis in God of Carnage would prove a messy distraction if passed out to each and every audience member, and it’s quite possible that a good show could be brought down by mediocre food. Even theatres that have dining rooms wholly separate from their performances have learned the pitfalls of becoming restaurateurs, as the art and business requires a different skill set from that needed for the stage.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that of the examples here, none have been produced in spaces purpose-built as theatres; finding such spaces in New York or London places an added production challenge on any show.

We seek to lure audiences away from their satellite TV, their Netflix subscription and their video games, on ever-larger TVs, all of which they can enjoy over take-out food or with sustenance they prepare. Perhaps looking at theatre as a package deal rather than an a la carte offering can make sense, engaging not only minds but mouths.