Ten years ago Punchdrunk Theatre pioneered a unique brand of site-specific theatre, edging the audience and performers closer together to create meeting points where magic ignites. Rejecting the traditional stage spectator divide they invite the audience to immerse themselves in the production, dipping in and out of the plot as they please. In their most recent production, The Duchess of Malfi, (a collaboration with the English National Opera, with a liberetto taken from the seventeenth-century John Webster play), the formulae remained intact but the novelty was somewhat lost among the enormity of the setting.

Huddled outside the gates of London’s Great Eastern Quay in the Royal Albert Basin, we were ushered forward in small groups and greeted with a mug of iced Courvoisier. Prior to entering the vast derelict office space white costume masks were provided and the rules dished out: masks must remain on at all times, stewards are only to be approached in case of emergency, there is no correct route to follow and do not touch any props or sheet music.

Stumbling (quite literally) through the blacked out space proved to be genuinely terrifying, not through fear of the dark but the prospect of breaking an ankle. At points the room was so dark I could barley see my own hands, so resorted to feeling my way along the walls until eventually reunited with a white masked friend. To intensify the nerve fraying atmosphere were some inconspicuous cast members that popped up at many an unexpected moment, kick-starting the adrenalin for the evening.



A series of abandoned rooms punctuated the pitch black. Treatment tables with syringes, urine samples, bloody bandages and the stench of antiseptic or a forensic office with locks of hair made the exploration all the more eerie. Following a cello player rushing by I was eventually lured into the production. The orchestra assumed their places and sat motionless. The actors filtered into the room and suddenly the room came to life. The dancing, singing and pulsating music was mesmerizing, even if by this point I had completely lost track of the narrative. But, as with other Punchdrunk productions the disorientation and freedom of choice are all part of the experience.

The precision with which the moments of unity occurred were immaculate. At one point emerging from a hazy pathway of wirey trees, reminiscent of a Tim Burton set, I looked down through a window onto the full orchestra accompanying courtroom dancing. Isolated above, the music faintly audible through the glass, I felt as though I were suspended above reality.

It was only much later did I encounter the Duchess, writhing in a circle of television screens looping the image of a young boy, the scene’s relevance once again outwith my grasp. Wondering further, I was beaconed in behind a hidden doorway revealing a bar filled with cocktails and disorientated faces searching for lost friends. On reflection it seems that following a crowd or, the more reliable option, a musician is probably the best way to navigate the nine scenes.

The finale was grand, featuring the full cast of twenty singers and performers and the 69-strong symphony orchestra. For the first time in the evening the entire audience were gathered in one room and the atmosphere was palpable. Unfortunately there were too many moments earlier in the evening when the gaping emptiness of the industrial block served as a theatrical Bermuda triangle, swallowing with it any intimacy or opportunity to fully engage with the emotional intensity of Webster’s play.