Punchdrunk’s ‘The Burnt City’ is difficult to write about. This is not because my memory is fragmented by the dizzying darkness of the warehouse, lit up only by the electronic glow of Art Deco neon streetlights detailing the backstreets of Mycenae and Troy. Neither is it because of the vision-distorting funeral masks the mobile audience members must adorn, which transform us into a silent and haunting chorus; we guided our choral moral direction by selecting which character, which story to follow through the turns and twists of the interactive set.

It is a rather indescribable experience because the tantalising proximity and intimacy with these characters of antiquity, including Agamemnon, Cassandra, Clytemnestra, and Hecuba foster a feeling of ineffable secrecy. It is a feeling that leaves one hesitant to repeat these stories, as though I alone have been trusted with them, despite the fact that they are already well-known in the mythical canon. These stories offered a fresh, modern degree of poignancy: I cannot tell you these tales, though you already know them.

“I caught myself watching the murder of Agamemnon three times”

This is part of the reason that security locks up all phones before you enter the warehouse, bans all talking, and encourages you to ‘walk alone’ and abandon the people you came with. You become a lost soul, trapped behind a funeral mask and trapped in this space watching performances on loop; I caught myself watching the murder of Agamemnon three times, after circling back to Mycenae after a stint in Troy.

The performances are stunningly choreographed, both beautiful and brutal, and watching them on endless repeat transforms you into Sisyphus, leaving you confined to a liminal, purgatorial space. I turned to my boyfriend and whispered, through my mask, ”how will we know when this is finished?” With no linear progression and repeating performances, I felt afraid that I would be lost and trapped here forever, endlessly pushing my own boulder up the hill, only to have it roll back down again as I return, hopelessly, to the beginning.

“I back away, feeling like I have invaded her personal space, and shattered the wall between us”

As we rushed through corridors and up lengthy but grand staircases, we splintered off into different directions: as one audience member might choose to follow Agamemnon, the other following Iphigenia. The non-linear story endlessly bifurcates through the autonomous choices of the watcher; as we ran after characters with such purposeful and theatrical movement, with our identities hidden behind our masks, it became impossible to distinguish a cast member from an audience member.

It was a brilliant exercise for the possibilities of interactive theatre; for what happens when theatrical barriers entirely dissolve. At one point, I peered over Hecuba’s shoulder to read a note she was scrawling on the back of the menu. I am almost so close that I can hear her breathing; shamefully, I back away, feeling like I have invaded her personal space, and shattered the wall between us. She becomes impossibly human, as I trace the movements of her pencil, and watch every word come to life as she writes ‘Dear Priam.’

Coming in at three hours with no interval and constant movement through hazy darkness, it is certainly an intense performance but it is one that is worth every penny; if you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, there is a bar tucked away in Troy where we stopped for a gin and tonic and watched the live performances also on loop there. It was a welcome breath of air, yet not one that shattered the illusion so carefully constructed outside of the bar, as its décor and the personalities of the performers matched the intoxicating energy perfectly; it just gave it a bit of a hedonistic edge.

The Burnt City is playing at One Cartridge Place, London, until 4th December 2022