masque of the red death

The Havanan party on Friday was all black tux and cocktail gowns, at least until the Cubans hit the floor and things became very salsa, with added limbo and lots of pink feathery fans. By one o' clock there was a certain amount of wreckage from a party that was hot, hot, hot.

So transport that thought to the next evening's party and this time start after the first party has already ended. Into a huge dark house, through a side door and immediately into a black curtained area where I was asked to wear a white face mask along with my companions. Then somewhere so dark that we soon became separated and facing the experiences of the night alone or with strangers.

Up dimly lit stairs, along impossible corridors with no signage and then pushing gingerly and randomly at any available door, not even sure whether I was somewhere I was meant to be.

And into a small shop; deserted, strange artifacts sprawled across the table. Birds feet, musty jars of who knows what, a sense of foreboding. And another room, a wine cellar filled with ancient dusty bottles. I lifted one, they were real, although again the area appeared deserted. A third room with a tailor in it. He beckoned to provide me a cloak. I gestured to the hats on the wall. He gave me a hooded cloak and I realised my transformation was now to a white, beak faced shadow, as I took off towards another part of the venue. Others following me in were now startled by my appearance and I think considered me part of the action. I realized that I was - and that we all were.

Then to a den, where opium could have been smoked, but at present was making tea the middle eastern way. I was offered a drink. Just as a lover of the proprietor appeared and some emotional moments passed. There were others around me now. Similarly attired, although I had no idea where my companions had gone.

This is the Masque of the Red Death, an installation based theatre piece in London and it should be the talk of the town. The entire and huge Battersea Arts Centre has been converted into a twisting, dark, opulent, gothic installation, with tiny rooms with maybe one player, hidden alcoves featuring lovers trysts, epic stairways, huge halls, ghosts, doctors, murderers and generally the stuff of Edgar Allen Poe.

Part way along, I found the backstage area of a play and could see a music hall vaudeville in progress. Then I was in the changing rooms, then I was in a forest of twisted trees. I found the club where drinking, singing and revelry occurred and sat for a while, being briefly the focus of a singer's attention.

In another I was clutched at by actors trying to prove that there was another world parallel to the one where they argued about literature whilst drinking soup.

Around a corner, to an area behind a stairwell, where, almost hidden, a white faced woman was whispering intensely to another caped figure. And then alone to an attic where something terrible had rent the walls in two, with pictures askew and signs of an argument. There was a banquet with writhing dancers and another woman dragged down a marble stairway by a raffish vagabond.

Maybe this was sensory bombardment, maybe the deep musical tones creaking through much of the venue did add to the feeling of suspense. Discernable threads of Poe's story were present, but it didn't matter about the sequencing.

I loved it, my fellow intrepid spirits loved it. We didn't meet until we had been all Ushered along another dark corridor into another intense area where a finale generated huge applause from the several hundred of us that had made each a unique journey through this place.

And blam, before there was time to think, the band kicked in and the place evolved into a night club, with gothic walls, with tented soft cushioned areas and with many of the characters from the earlier evening now part of the immediately lively dance floor.

If you live in London and like performing arts, go to this total sensory experience - Friday or Saturday to get the full party as well. I'll give this fifteen out of ten.

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