There was Hair in the ‘60s, where actors would walk through the audience-at times-naked, and the Theater of the Oppressed, an interactive theater movement out of Brazil that gunned for social change. Slowly, though, in the second half of the 20th century, experimental and immersive theater emerged. They performed for their friends and with their friends, in all sorts of places, and began to make their own rules. In the face of a desolate job market, a new crop of young actors, directors and producers bypassed traditional-and insanely competitive-job opportunities to create their own scrappy league of productions. When the recession hit in the late-2000s, it created a demand for lower-budget, creatively produced shows. A sense of serious order was called to the theater, and that wall became all but impermeable. Around the same time, the German composer Richard Wagner learned that dimming the lights was the best way to get the audience to focus their attention towards the stage. This valuation of theater as a status symbol began to build up that fourth wall, which was solidified in the 1800s with the advent of theatrical realism. The queen, for instance, didn’t have the best view, but everyone had the best view of her. Everyone else saw them, too it was the first time that “being seen” was of value at the theater. The highest rows went to the highest classes, and afforded the clearest views of the stage. These “groundlings” had a tendency to get rowdy the upper classes, seated above them, might dump a glass of wine on their heads if things got out of hand. The lowliest spectators packed in, at the foot of the stage, often swigging mead. These would be Shakespeare’s stages, and they catered to the rich and the poor alike. The Greeks performed comedies as part of Dionysian festivals, serious multi-day affairs dedicated as an offering to the god of wine booing was prevalent.Ĭenturies later, during the Protestant Reformation, an Elizabethan ban on vagabonds forced traveling acting companies to settle down, and the first permanent (and for-profit) theaters were established. Historically, alcohol has always played an important role in theater. Unlike the requisite cheap chardonnay served at Broadway shows, the drinks here make booze an integral part of the audience’s experience. The Manderley was designed alongside Sleep No More as a strategic complement rather than an afterthought or tacked-on cash cow. If at any point another drink is needed to fuel the frenzy or calm the nerves, the bar is open. Guests are encouraged to interact with performers, move about as desired, and create their own experiences. After a stiff drink, guests are whisked into an elevator, handed a pointy-mouthed mask–marking their new roles as part actor, part prop-and deposited into a clusterfuck of drama and hysteria. Before seeing the first performer, guests are ushered into the hotel’s Manderley Bar, where red velvet walls, sultry live jazz and absinthe-happy bartenders set the stage, recalibrating and transforming the audience’s reality.

The pioneer in this field was Sleep No More, the sexy, immersive acid trip of a Macbeth performance spanning five floors of the fictional McKittrick Hotel in Manhattan’s Chelsea neighborhood. Anyway, Shakespeare didn’t write exclusively to one class-his texts included literary references and dick jokes alike.ĭrunk Shakespeare is just one of a number of interactive theater performances where alcohol acts as a central character, loosening up the audience and breaking down the fourth wall, that barrier between audience and actor.

All it took was a few beers, a different kind of stage and some simulated sex. The theater nerds have finally gotten through to the jocks, art kids and everyone else in the cafeteria. The idea of performing Shakespeare under the influence may make traditionalists cringe, but this play-meets-bar game is bringing the bard’s stories to an entirely new audience, one more likely found at happy hour than a Broadway show. It’s equal parts Coyote Ugly, modernized Macbeth, frat party and improv show. Five nights a week, five members perform, one of them knocking back five shots before the witches enter and the drama begins. Banquo, meanwhile, is completely shit-canned, having consumed one shot each of tequila, vodka, triple sec and whiskey-in rapid succession-as well as two shots of gin, a can of Guinness (shotgunned) and a few sips of “witches’ brew,” crowd-sourced from various onlookers’ glasses. Here on the second floor, Macbeth’s shirt is ripped and soaked with Guinness and the porter has stripped down to his skivvies. Downstairs, dudes in suits are watching sports and eating nachos. It’s a Thursday night in Manhattan’s theater district and I’m at Quinn’s NYC Bar and Grill, watching Shakespeare.

Sleep no more mask glasses