[McKittrick Chronicles: Index of All Posts]
I’m realizing that all of my posts seem to begin with an identical refrain: “So, I was out of work again, and needing a new job….” Another day, another audition. Same old story.
Here, though, I want to get into the audition that sparked an adventure - of 13-ish years! - working on an Off-Broadway Juggernaut and Culty Phenomenon.
This will be Part I of several. There’s tons to unpack, and I want to treat it with respect and savor each memory. I already know the ending, and maybe you do, too, but I’ve no idea how to even get into it. “Just keep writing,” my mom says. “You should write a book someday,” she’s been saying for 50 years.
What I do know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, is that the work I’ll get into here has fed me beyond measure:
1. Literally, in the sense of its paying me money to buy food and,
2. Figuratively, in the sense of its pushing at the boundaries of how I conceive of theater at all…and the performative smorgasbord at which it invited me to feast with oodles of beautiful people - artists and craftspeople of all stripes, audiences and “fans,” and so, so many friends.
Sorry, I’ve buried the lede: the show I’m talking about is punchdrunk’s “Sleep No More,” which closed in New York City in 2025, after an extraordinary 15-year run, and is still playing in Shanghai and in Seoul.
For years, I’ve been bound by a Non-Disclosure Agreement. But I feel pretty okay to talk about it all now. I’m sure the lawyers will hunt me down if I’m wrong. If they sue me for all I’m worth, I’ll still have nothing - 0 x 0 = 0 - so it’s a Win-Win!
Let’s dive in together. As has been said many times before, “Fortune Favors the Bold!”
Late October, 2013
So, I was out of work again, and needing a new job.
I had just returned to New York after a three year jaunt to Los Angeles and was, essentially, needing an entire re-boot: a sublet while searching for a new apartment, re-connecting with family, friends, and work contacts, and returning to the never-ending slog of audition after audition after audition. After audition.
“Sleep No More” (SNM from here on in) had just turned 2 years old. Like many theatrically-inclined folks and Shakespeare buffs, I’d heard of it - but had never seen it for myself.
My understanding was vague and limited at best: apparently, it was Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” done up as some kind of epic “haunted house” deal - tons of different rooms to explore, desk drawers you could open that had, I don’t know, clues or something in them, and sexy performers who were sometimes naked. It was “Immersive,” I’d heard, a term that was novel then, and has since become so ubiquitous as to be meaningless. A budget flight to Cincinnati is now advertised as Immersive.
My dear friend Paul Corning Jr., an amazing writer and actor with whom I’d worked a bunch in LA, and who’d moved back to NYC a little bit before I did, had been doing some sort of work with SNM for a couple of months.
I’d asked him about it, but he was cagey - as if this information was Classified - and what he had said was sort of incomprehensible. Something about a gardener hidden in a shed on the roof of a place called “Gallow Green,” and something about a “one-on-one,” whatever that was.
In any case, he seemed happy to be doing it, I was happy for him having work, and I put it, jealously, out of my mind.
One afternoon, though, Paul and I met up in-person for a beer or five, and he told me that the folks at SNM were going to try something new in an underused part of their vast warehouse in Chelsea.
They were going to open a “Scottish-fusion” restaurant (Haggis Tikka Masala, maybe?) and they were hiring performers to create content for whatever this dining experience might turn out to be. Scotch-Egg Foo Young? The Churros of Inverness?
It was to be called “The Heath,” Paul said, and they were auditioning folks for the next few days…and he could get me an appointment.
Not to sound ungrateful, but all of this sounded a little bit cringe to me - I was an Old School Shakespeare guy! And what was this? “Immersive” dinner theater? What, would we be servers in kilts, playing bagpipes and delivering steaming hot plates of Neeps & Gnocchi? What the actual fuck?
Also, and sorry, but to be very honest, I was a touch annoyed by the reverence and secrecy with which Paul was talking about it all, as if it were some manner of Theatrical PsyOps.
Which, in the end, I suppose it was.
Still, I definitely needed the work, and what’s one more audition in a sea of auditions? Whatever else, no actual harm could come from taking the appointment. Right?
Two days later, on a sunny, breezy, autumn morning, I met Paul at the corner of 10th Avenue and 27th Street.
As we walked Westward together along 27th, Paul explained that this would be sort of a group improv audition, that there’d be maybe 30 of us, and that it might “take a while.” I was Game; I had no-where else to be. Like, literally.
On arrival, we joined a group of other would-be performers, I presumed, in front of the many unmarked black doors to a massive, if drab, six-story brick edifice. We were jittery, excited, nervous: SNM, in this moment, was a Super Hot Ticket in town and, however much or little we were acquainted with it, we all realized that this could be a pretty killer gig.
One of the smaller, more nondescript doors opened - rather than the big obvious one we’d all gathered in front of; the Building is a puzzle, even from the street - and three black-clad Stage Manager (SM) Types* emerged, with clipboards and walkie-talkies.
SIDE NOTE: I’m going to use some real names and some fake names throughout. I’ll tell you when they’re real and when they’re not. “Paul,” for instance, is real. Also, sometimes I’ll use no names or genders, and just use general descriptions for, I guess, vividness in anonymity.
*ANOTHER SIDE NOTE: For those unacquainted, there is such a thing as a Stage Manager Type. They are “Alphas” in a sense: extremely organized and efficient, taking no shit from anyone. Like performers, though, they were sprinkled liberally with “nerd dust” as young’uns. As such, they already know where everything is and how everything works. They anticipate needs and are unflappable - unless some Idiot Actor pushes them too far. They are indispensable, should you be foolish enough to undertake any kind of live performance, anywhere in the world. Find a good one, treat them right, pay them properly, and hang on to them for dear life.
The Chief SM - 30s, cheery but business-like, compact, dark auburn hair, round, smiley face, penetrating eyes - addressed us:
“Hey, guys. We’re so happy to have you with us here today. We,” indicating the other two SMs, both early 20s, one tall and stick-like, the other petite and weaselly, “will take you inside now. We ask that you stay together, and not wander off anywhere. If you need anything, ask one of us,” indicating the other two again. They waved their stick-arm and weasel paw at us. “Just please, don’t wander off.” Now brandishing their clipboard, “So. Come on over, give me your name, and we’ll get you upstairs.”
I stuck with Paul as we filed past the Chief SM, who smiled and checked our names off their list, and in through the door.
We started to climb a black steel staircase. Solid red brick walls. Smell of some kind of floral, industrial cleaner.
“Where are we going?” I whispered to Paul.
“No idea,” he replied, delighted.
“Don’t ‘wander off’? What’s that about?”
“Even less idea!” He was loving this.
The staircase looped around on itself, past landings with closed doors as we climbed. Finally, after three? four? landings, we arrived at an open door. Stick-person SM gestured us in.
We found ourselves in a vast, mostly empty room. Pale, hard-wood floor. Along two of its walls, a chaos of vintage, dark-wood bedroom furniture - bureaus, desks, lamps, crates - deliberately arranged in hectic piles. In one corner, an enormous bed with an elaborate headboard. Along the other two, floor-to-ceiling French Windows, curtained and closed.
In the middle of the room, perfectly aligned in the dead-center of four structural posts, atop a tiered platform - and beautifully lit - was a very large, cast-iron and white enamel-coated claw foot bathtub, faint reddish stains (blood?) along the rim.
“What the fuck is this?” I asked Paul.
“It’s the Macbeth’s bedroom,” he whispered, with some awe.
Before I could ask him what, exactly, he meant by that, the Chief SM and two minions returned. The Chief spoke to us:
“OK, everyone! Felix will be down in a few minutes. Feel free to stretch and warm up if you like. If you need the bathroom or anything else, ask one of us,” the two minions waved again. “And please, please, please; don’t wander off. Thanks, everyone!”
I looked around the room. As promised, there were about 30 of us. I, in my early 40s at the time, was oldest. The youngest looked to be about 19. Most somewhere in their 20s/30s. Mix of genders and ethnicities. Everyone fit as a fiddle and very aesthetically pleasing (excepting myself, of course). Based on some of the extreme, leg-over-head stretching going on, many were dancers.
I had a million questions for Paul. “Who is ‘Felix?’” “What happens in ‘the Macbeth’s bedroom?’” “Why can’t we ‘wander off?’” But he, too, was stretching, so I let him be and surveyed the room, honestly stunned by the intrigue and thoroughness of the set design, if this was, in fact, a set. I was starting to understand the word “Immersive.”
Just then, the Chief SM swept back in, a team of five new people in tow. “OK, everyone! Gather ‘round!” the Chief said.
We did what all performers do instinctively; we made a human circle around the new folks. One of them stepped forward.
“Right! Hi, everyone, thanks for being here,” his voice nasal, reedy, an English accent - not quite posh, more uni-educated working class. “I’m Felix.”
Felix Barrett. His real name. What to even say? He’s one of the few true genius visionaries I’ve ever met, let alone worked with. He’s a founder and the driving force of punchdrunk, the company behind SNM and other groundbreaking works of Immersive theater. He conceived, designed, directed, and, with Maxine Doyle, choreographed SNM.
He was in his mid 30s at the time, but there’s something ageless about him still - he could be 10 years younger or older. On the shorter side, maybe 5’6”, and slight. Long, ash-blonde hair in a bun piled messily on top of his head, full ash-blonde beard. Wearing an oversized, busily patterned cardigan, tight jeans, and clunky combat boots. Bright, twinkly, pale-blue eyes. Willy Wonka, if Wonka were a Hipster Elf.
“We’re here today to find some extraordinary people to join us, and I want you to know that you’re all extraordinary, however this sorts itself out,” he beamed. “We’ll run you through some games, then have a bit of a play, then see where we are. Right?”
“Right!” we all shouted.
“Good,” he smiled. “So, I’ll leave you with Katie, and come check in on you later.” He moved to the Chief SM, who spoke urgently into a walkie-talkie, and the two swept out, already on to the next thing, whatever that might be.
I glanced over at Paul, who looked as if he’d just watched a talking unicorn prance out of the room. I suppose that, because Paul had already spent some time inside the SNM Multiverse, he knew that Felix had G.O.A.T. status among the Company. I didn’t know what to make of him.
Katie (not her real name) then stepped forward. 30s, poised and elegant, tall, strong, full-figured, chestnut hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, dressed in many flowy black elements, English accent - hers’ a touch more posh than Felix’s. She took a moment. Looked each of us in the eyes.
“So,” she began, plummily. “Let’s get into it then, shall we?”
DIGRESSION: related, I promise.
At the time of this audition, I had 15 years of experience under my belt working in physical-based, ensemble theater - most of it in Shakespeare plays that toured the U.S. and then played Off-Broadway. I had a pretty decent skill set and facility with saying “Yes,” and then taking a wild leap of faith. Admittedly, I’d had more success in the “clowny” end of the pool but, then, clowns love to be in unfamiliar places. Especially pools.
Point is, when an exercise or game starts with, “Ok, just start walking around the room,” I’m jazzed. I looove to start at a neutral base-line, and then discover how to get somewhere crazy. I was overjoyed when the first thing Katie asked us to do was “just walk around the room, and start noticing things.” Clown Formula #1.
I’d participated in thousands of exercises that begin this way, I’d taught hundreds of undergrads and MFA students, starting with this exercise, I’d expanded and riffed on this exercise at least 90 bazillionzy times. This was a sweet spot.
Also, I’ve found that, in an audition situation, I have the most success when I don’t care whether or not I get the job. By which I don’t mean “ehhhh, who gives a fuck?” Rather, I mean, “whoa this is so much fun,” and sort of forget that a job is even a part of it. In this case, I wasn’t even clear on what the job actually was, so that was easy.
Katie was wonderfully fun and, what I learned from her that was new to me, was using the concept of a performer’s “Internal Light” to articulate a principle:
“Internal Light,” as I understood it, is sort of a fancy metaphor for “please pay attention to me!”
All humans, performers or otherwise, fundamentally understand this. The shouty person at the party has that light turned on full blast, and is spitting beer-foam into their light. The person checking their phone by the bathroom has their light turned down very low, and is oblivious to the blue shadows their phone is casting onto their face. The person deep in conversation with one or two other trusted people on the couches is at a sharply focused medium-high, and is bouncing their light off of their partners. You get the idea.
What I looooooved about this, as Katie demo-ed and taught, was that is isn’t merely an ON/OFF scenario. It could be focused. In other words, you could fade up the light in just your Left Hand as you reach for something. You could blast the light out from between your Shoulder Blades as you stride away, knowing the person behind you will see it and want to follow. You could look someone directly in the eyes with your own Eye Lights on bright, and then fade them out, and “disappear” from that person. That one is sort of heart-breaking.
We did all of this with Katie for what felt like minutes, but was actually more like an hour and a half. It was a blast.
“Alright, thanks, everyone,” Katie said. “Let’s take a wee break and we’ll carry on with something else. Well, well done, everybody!”
I checked in with Paul, who was now hanging with a gorgeous buxom woman; a fellow-auditionee. She was maybe 30 - but I wouldn’t dare guess incorrectly - with jet-black hair in a tight bob, blood-red lipstick, milky-white skin, and explosive energy coursing through her.
“Hey,” I said. Paul said, “This is Ginger. She and I have been doing some work here together.”
Ginger Kearns. Her real name. A force of nature. Actor, improviser, singer, screenwriter, teacher, I could go on and on. Little did I know how significant a role she would play for another decade or so in my own life.
We exchanged pleasantries, but then:
Felix swept back into the room to have a quick huddle with Chief SM and Katie. Everyone adjusted themselves and their behavior to observe them. They seemed to be discussing us auditionees, subtly gesturing towards one or another of us, writing things down.
I’ve learned not to read too much into tea leaves like this - they could have been discussing anything! - Except that they weren’t.
As Felix and Chief SM hurried off again, Katie stepped forward and said:
“Right, well done, everybody. I’m going to read some names. If you hear yours, take a 15 minute break and we’ll meet back here. If you don’t, thank you very much, it was a pleasure to meet every last one of you, and we hope you’ll come back to the next call. Thanks everyone!”
Such is the brutal truth of this game. You win some, you lose some, and nobody has the time - or the ability - to make you feel any better about it. We all began the charade of pretending not to care, and writing the story of how the job “wasn’t even the right fit for me, literally, and I have Vinyasana in Brooklyn at 4,” in case our name wasn’t called.
I won’t drag it out: Katie ran down the list of names - me, Paul, and Ginger were among them - and then from 30, now we were 10.
Of course I felt a bit of pride - as somebody consistently chosen last for sports teams in Junior High School, it’s nice to make the cut when the stakes are higher, if they were. Of course I felt a sympathetic twinge for those not chosen - but not as deeply as I felt pleasure for myself. Still, that never lasts long because…what on earth was coming next??
Chief SM, predictably, reminded again us not to wander off, and so we all sat and stewed, wondering what awaited us.
Some continued their vaguely pornographic stretching, some mingled gracelessly, playing the constant “do you know so-and-so?” and “so what are you working on now?” games. Some checked their phones, pretending they had something important to attend to.
Paul and Ginger gossiped about SNM-work things I knew nothing about.
I sat, taking in this mysterious room; wondering about the blood on the bathtub and smelling that floral, industrial cleaning product.
Then, a disturbance in the Force. Chief SM had returned, and was now conferring intensely with Katie. They consulted notes and glanced around, gesturing towards the 10 of us who remained, and whispered instructions to the minion SMs.
Stick-person SM and Weasel-person SM were on the move, finally opening up the curtained French Windows and…
Beyond this vast space was another vast space. And this new one was a literal Crumbling Brick-Walled Graveyard. No joke. Actual toppling brick walls! Actual cobblestones on the floor! Actual gravestones! What the fuck was this???
Katie stepped forward. “Ok, everyone,” she began cheerily, “we’ll get started again in just a bit. In the meantime, please go into the space and find a gravestone that you relate to.”
Sometimes I wish I was joking.
“You’ll be selling us your gravestone, so take a few moments to have a think about that, and then Felix and I will pop ‘round so you can sell it to us. Most important thing is to have fun. Alright, everybody, bye-bye for now!” And off she went.
I looked over to Paul and Ginger, but they had zipped off, racing through the Graveyard, seeking out a Stone to Commune With.
I stepped into the Graveyard myself, pebbles and grit crunching under my feet. My fellow performers had all found “gravestones they related to,” and were rehearsing their sales pitches. Some were improvising elaborate dances around their stone. Some were speaking urgently to their stones. Everyone seemed to have a plan.
Me? I had nothing. Frankly, I was disappointed by this exercise. It felt sort of…Corporate. Crass.
“Sell me this stapler,” says the smug, white-collar recruiter.
But I’d come this far, and I had to do something.
I wandered the Graveyard. My fellows had all picked the largest and most theatrical looking graves. I turned a corner in the room to a part of the Graveyard I hadn’t noticed previously. Smaller, with two unremarkable plots. One of them had a smallish, white stone sculpture of a shrouded, weeping angel.
That one, I thought.
I started thinking about how amazing it would be to do the graveyard scene from “Hamlet” in a place like this.
Then, I thought, well, since everyone else seems to be playing Hamlet in their sales pitch, why don’t I try playing the Gravedigger in mine? Go super low status, play a guy who’s kind and gentle, but always gets the short end of the stick. The salesman who’s heart isn’t really in it.
Felix and company arrived.
“Who are you?” he asked me, his twinkly eyes telling me that he was up for a play.
“I’m Herman. Who are you?”
“I’m Felix, and I’m shopping for a gravestone. Do you have one?
“No, no. But I do have this shitty angel statue,” I said, gesturing sadly. “They never give me anything good to sell.”
“Oh, no, I’m so sorry,” he said. “Why not?”
And we were off. Not to sound immodest, but we committed to the bit, we were pretty funny, and we kept his cohort laughing.
After a few minutes, he stopped it. “Right, so that’s lovely. But it’s not what we need. You’re giving us Mr. Bean and we want James Bond. Can you do that?”
“I think so!”
“I think so, too,” he said. “We’ll be back in a few minutes,” and off they went.
It was the kind of note I love: abstract, but clear. Playable. Long and short, now I understood what they were after, and I gave it to them the best that I could.
Sales pitches complete, we all gathered again in the Macbeth’s Bedroom. There was one last task for us.
“Right,” Felix said, as we human-circled him again. “So, just to finish things off, we’ll go ‘round the circle one by one, and each of you tell us a little story. It can be anything,” he reassured us, “just make it true, and try to keep it concise.” He indicated towards an athletic young woman to his right. “Off you go,” he said, “and don’t think about it too much.”
And it began. People telling stories, a wide variety. Some were anecdotal - the constant and bizarre humiliations of life in New York City; some were childhood memories - Ginger told a whopper about growing up in remote, rural Canada; some thrilling, some anodyne.
Given the logistics of the circle, Paul would be the last human to tell a story and I would be second-to-last.
As it got closer to being my turn, I confess, it became harder to listen to the others as I racked my brain, thinking of a story to tell. Paul is a friend and we have a history. What could I say that might lift us together? What story could I tell that we could team up on?
Suddenly, I had it, and it was my turn:
“Once,” I said, “I lived in Los Angeles and was the lead singer of a Satyr Rock Band.”
A few cautious giggles, a few blank stares.
“Satyrs? Half-man, half-goat?” Some recognition. “Yeah, so this was a rock band comprised of Satyrs. I was ‘Silenus,’ the Father of the Satyrs. Paul here was my son, ‘Maron,’ the bassist. We did a lot of bleating and rocked the fuck out. Right, Paul?”
He got where I was going. “Yeah, and we played a show telling the story of Odysseus and his men being held prisoner by the Cyclops!” We bleated and sang a little snippet of song.
Now they were interested.
RELATED DIGRESSION 2:
This story was true. I’ll nutshell it here and tell the whole story some other time.
“CYCLOPS: A Rock Opera” is a show that Paul and I and a bunch of other Satyrs created and performed over the course of a couple of years. The seed of the idea came from an exhibition of Greek Art we saw at the Getty Villa; in particular, the Pronomos Vase which depicted actors with Satyr masks at the “cast party” after a show they’d performed. Notably, Dionysus himself was at the party.
In short, we adapted and expanded Percy Bysshe Shelley’s translation of the only complete Greek Satyr Play (think “satire”), “Cyclops” by Euripedes, to survive antiquity. We improvised lots, put it to song, and played it as funk and prog and Calypso and emo. It was glam, gritty, funny, disgusting, and an absolute blast.
Somehow, it was popular - extending its original run at a dingy theater near a donut shop in Koreatown before transferring to the Carrie Hamilton Theater at Pasadena Playhouse. Then it came to NYC as a part of New York Musical Theatre Festival, where it won a few awards. Then it played in various forms in a bunch of other places. Its production in LA was jury-nominated for the Pulitzer Prize in Drama.
About this, Paul and I had lots to talk about! We got deep into remembrance, our love for each other was honest and clear, and our auditioners and fellow auditionees seemed to vibe with us.
DIGRESSION WITHIN A DIGRESSION:
Are you a theater kid? You prob are, if you’re reading this. Do you know “Rashomon?” It’s a 1915 short story by Ryunosuke Akutagawa, loosely adapted into a 1950 film by Akira Kurosawa, and a 1959 Broadway adaptation by Fay and Michael Kanin - and it’s been taught, certainly to USA theater kids, and plenty of others around the world, ever since.
In essence, the notion of the story is that a public event experienced by many can be recounted later by individuals in radically different, often contradictory ways, shaped profoundly by each new teller’s own personal biases. I suppose it gets at the idea that Truth, when recounted through someone else’s eyes, can sometimes feel “less-than-Truthy” to you. And that can lead to…emotions, among other things.
I don’t bring this up because January 6. I bring this up because there is now a whole other account of the “CYCLOPS: A Rock Opera” production I mentioned above unfolding right here on Substack.
It’s charmingly written, and I’m sure you can find it, if you look.
“Right,” Felix said. “Thank you all so much for being here. We want to get started quickly on this, so expect to hear from us soon. Cheers!”
Without fanfare, he and Katie swept out of the room.
Chief SM took the floor. “Thanks everyone! That’s all we need. Just please check in with me to make sure we have your contact info, and then we,” Stick and Weasel SMs waved a final wave - was there any circumstance under which they wouldn’t wave??? - “will bring you downstairs.”
And that was it! I shook Ginger’s hand, telling her how lovely it was to meet her (and it was!), I hugged Paul, and we just laughed a bit - what else was there to say? - and then I was out. Back onto 27th Street, as if none of it had ever happened at all.
I lit a cigarette and started walking and didn’t stop until I got to a Starbucks on 8th Avenue between 22nd and 23rd Streets. I ordered a hot chocolate with whipped cream and drizzled caramel, something homey and comforting. I sat, sipped, and thought through all of this.
Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi! Is this Louis?” It was Chief SM’s voice.
“It is!”
“Great!” Chief SM identified themself and said, “It was so good to meet you. We’d love you to join us on this project. Are you available tomorrow evening?”
“Umm,” I started, not wanting to seem too, too eager, “Yeah! I’m totally free!!!”
“Ok, great,” Chief SM said. “Come back to the Building tomorrow around 6:30 and give your name to security. We’d like you to see the show. There’ll be a ticket waiting for you.”
“Wow, yeah! Thanks!”
“Also,” they continued, “since tomorrow is Halloween we’ll be doing a party after the show, and we’d love to invite you to that, too.”
“Oh, Ok!” I had no idea what to say. “Yeah, Happy Halloween,” I said.
An awkward pause.
“Ok,” Chief SM said. “So, we’ll see you tomorrow night. Welcome aboard.”
We hung up. I ordered another hot chocolate. The Stick-like barista handed it to me. I took off the lid and licked at the whipped cream.
“Now what?” I wondered.
[← McKittrick Chronicles Index - Part 2 →]
I’m having so much fun doing these, and I think I’ll keep doing them weekly! Thanks for reading, thanks for subscribing, thanks for sharing, and please reach out and tell me how I can do better!
Perfect description of Stage Managers!
I can’t wait to see where this goes