Episode 11: PANTO SEASON
[HE’S BEHIND YOU]
Gary, the account manager from Floor 2, is already well gone.
We were supposed to pop in for a quick pint, but one turned into three as we all attempted to delay the inevitable.
We know that Gary is drunk because he’s started talking about Christmas films, again.
“The thing is,” he says, “that there’s a difference between Christmas films and films you like to watch at Christmas.”
He pauses for a swallow.
“And just because a film has some tinsel in it, that doesn’t make it a Christmas film.”
He points at me.
“I bet you are one of those edgy types that picks a Shane Black movie and calls it your favourite Christmas movie.”
I’m wounded, but recover.
“Actually,” I lie, “It is Scrooged.”
This goes on for a while. We discuss the merits of Home Alone (a film about wishing and reuniting family, definitely Christmas) and Lord of The Rings (A film launched in cinemas at Christmas and one that features magic trees, elves and a bloke with a white beard).
We get nowhere. Someone brings up Gremlins and there is a brief moment of unity that seems like a good time to break this up and head to the office party.
[WALK TO WORK]
We pass a poster for this year’s panto. It’s Peter Pan.
The poster is garish and the performers are gurning hard. A glittery star effect has been overlaid. It describes itself as a “high flying panto adventure”, alluding to the most likely wire work that will enable Pan and “Tink” to fly.
Elaine C. Smith is Mrs Smee, a character I can’t quite remember from the story I know.
I don’t think anyone goes to the panto for the story.
Pantomime isn’t about story. It is about the event. You sit there and you watch a story you probably already know, acted mostly unconvincingly, to the soundtrack of children losing their cool over pratfalls.
It’s good fun. It’s a community experience. It is immersive by its very nature.
You all play the role of “Audience” and the people on stage play the role of “People on Stage”.
You have your lines and they have theirs.
Often, panto is held in the immersive environment of a theatre, or even a village hall. A space dedicated to the showing of things, or a space made special by having a thing shown in it.
And at the end, you are never sure what the moral is.
Would Dick Whittington make a good mayor for London? Would they have a decent public transport plan?
Does marrying a prince make everything else OK?
How many more years can the Krankies do this?
What is Gary Wilmot when he isn’t on stage?
[RECEPTIONIST]
When we get to work we notice the receptionist at the lobby desk has changed. It’s a shame because I’d bought Dave a packet of scampi fries from the pub.
This must be one of the Christmas hires. I don’t recognise them.
I place the bag on the desk, attempt a smile and say, “Happy Christmas”.
The receptionist says, “Thanks, buddy” in an accent that makes me feel like he is mocking me somehow.
[EGGNOG]
By the time we get to Floor 30 the party is already in full swing.
That awkward office party swing.
No one is being themselves here. They are being their office selves.
Smiles and sobriety.
Lacking the latter we over-do the former. Gary looks like he is demonstrating some sort of dominance.
We split up and performed the routine… be seen at all four corners of the room. Make some small talk with a few people at each stop. They’ll remember you being there, but if you sneak out no one will remember you leaving.
It goes smoothly. I have a lovely chat with one of the twins from account management about whether elves were ever real. I make a joke about being “your authentic elf” and shamble off.
We reconvene at the table with the Eggnog bowl on it.
Gary pours us all a plastic cup of the milk-egg-alcohol combination.
Eggnog, if you haven’t had it before, is like boozy pancake batter.
“Let’s head off after this”
“Seconded.”
It was at this point, when we were pretty much finished, that it started.
[IMMERSIVE]
You have to establish the premise early on with immersive theatre. That way the audience can start settling in to their roles.
The whole company bursts through the door to the elevator and immediately starts marshalling everyone into the main space, by the water feature.
Who builds a water feature on the 30th floor of an office building?
Some of our colleagues are really getting into it. Screaming and waving their hands around. This is what happens when you promote confident, out-going theatre kids to mid-level managerial roles. The sort that go to the cinema and sing along loudly with the musical numbers.
We would have been happy with a modest Christmas bonus, but no, instead we are all getting to experience this treat.
The main character, a bearded man, stands on the raised steps that will clearly mark the ‘stage’.
He opens a small journal and begins the prologue.
“Look,” says Gary, “He’s still on book, what sort of amateur production is this?”
“Stop being a Grinch.”
In a voice that is less international terrorist and more terrible Severus Snape impression, the actor calls for our boss.
It is clear that upper management are going to be the main characters in this charade and we are going to dutifully perform our role as extras.
Just another day at the office.
[EXTRAS]
“Shouldn’t we be being paid? If this is a performance and we are in it, I think I’d like to be paid.”
“I’m not sure that milling around a lot and attacking the buffet counts as work.”
There had been a lot of milling around. Some of the actors just stood there, clutching their prop guns, trying to look mean.
How mean can you look in a sport jacket with the sleeves rolled up?
I caught myself giving them “big face”.
You know, it is what you do when, as an audience member, you realise that a performer is making eye contact with you. You want to be reassuring, smile back, give them encouragement, so you give them “big face”.
On the other side of the divide, if you are a performer and you notice the audience giving you “big face” the chances are it isn’t going that great.
If you wanted to go to the toilet you had to be escorted. I get it, it is all part of the experience, but I can’t help feel that this is an access issue. Gary jokes about taking a piss in one of the office planters and after a few moments I question if he is joking.
“Sure.”
A small group has gathered with us by the nog.
We are plotting an escape plan. Very Great Escape.
“That’s a film that is shown at Christmas, but is not a Christmas film”.
Thanks Gary.
The problem is, if we all leave, someone will notice and that won’t go down well. Besides, what are we going to do? Hang out in the lobby until it is all over?
Another issue with immersive theatre. Would your character really just stand up, say “fuck this” and walk out?
I’m starting to think that mine might.
[MERCH]
At last a little excitement!
The elevator doors open to reveal one of the performers playing dead in an office chair. He’s wearing a Santa hat and on his grey sweatshirt is the slogan, “Now I have a machine gun. Ho Ho Ho”.
Well, that’s the post show merch, isn’t it?
Whilst we are all being held captive here, you can just here the sound of trestle tables being set up in the lobby with scripts, signed by the company, Santa hats and grey sweatshirts with sharpied on slogans.
The performer is wheeled off stage and the ‘leader’ re-appears.
He picks someone out of the audience. As predicted it is one of the management team. Holly from Human Resources.
They whisk her off to an office, presumably to let her in on the next act.
Those boundaries are certainly being blurred.
I really feel immersed.
[TECHNICAL]
It hasn’t been a smooth ride for the performers.
On several occasions you can clearly see them talking with what we presume is a stage manager via walkie talkies.
The tall blond actor, the one that looks like he’d be a great fit for playing Vigo The Carpathian in an immersive Ghostbusters 2 production, looks genuinely stressed.
If I had to call it, I would say it is trouble in the audio-visual department.
Occasionally we hear “gunfire” off stage, but since little is happening here we can only assume that it is being triggered at the wrong time.
Gary says he saw a nerdy looking bloke as we passed through reception. He was carrying a laptop, almost certainly loaded with Qlab.
“They certainly didn’t bring him along for his charming personality.”
I get the feeling that the performers are having a better time than the audience when it comes to this immersive theatre. That somehow we are just props for their power fantasies.
I’m reminded of when my niece, at four years old, invited me to a tea party with several of her soft toys and got upset when I wouldn’t really eat the playdoh ‘scones’.
[IMMERSION]
We are now officially out of eggnog and, aside from the ones in my pocket, mince pies.
This has been a total washout. I hope they don’t repeat it next year.
You can’t just demand participation from your audience. Nor does situating them in the performance necessarily mean they are immersed.
Likewise, you can experience immersion just through being present. Anyone who has jumped at a horror film or flinched in an action sequence has experienced it.
When it comes to theatre, immersion isn’t a physical property. It is a psychological one. Furthermore it requires a certain amount of desire to be immersed. If you don’t want to take part, the whole contract falls apart. No amount of props and scenery can compensate for genuine engagement.
We tend to think of immersion like getting into a bath. Once you are in the bath, in the water, you are immersed. But that isn’t true with make believe. You not only have to convince the audience that there is a bath, you have to give them the motivation for getting into it in the first place.
You can’t force them into the bath at gunpoint.
I’m thinking about this as I’m being forced into a stairwell at ‘gunpoint’.
Apparently we are heading to the roof.
“Ah, this will be the big finale,” slurs Gary.
I’ve never heard the word “finale” pronounced with a “w” before. Certainly not at the end of the word.
“Fireworks. Everyone loves fireworks. They make everything better.”
[STAGE LEFT]
Not everyone likes fireworks.
A cursory glance at your local facebook group this time of year will tell you that. It’s a catalogue of upset pet owners and people upset at upset pet owners. Accusations of exceptionalism and general Grinching.
Likewise, you’ll see arguments over what is and isn’t a Christmas film. Something you would think was trivial banter but then devolves into diatribes of “they are not even letting us call it Christmas anymore”.
We finally duck out, slipping into an elevator as everyone else marches up the stairs to the roof.
Gary, swaying gently to his own rhythm, experiences something like a moment of clarity.
“Here’s the thing though. Christmas, as we experience it, is made up. It is a performance. All of it. It is set dressing and dance moves. It is scripted lines and weird costumes. It’s a performance many of us take part in.
And if you accept that as a premise, then it means, through the magic of Christmas, any film you want can be a Christmas film, just as long as you wish it to be.”
The elevator doors to the lobby open and he steps out, shouting loudly to the receptionist, “You, boy, what day is it?”
There is no one at reception.
I collect the bag of scampi fries from the desk an,d as we walk across the empty lobby, we hear the fireworks on the roof of the building.
Merry Christmas.
