#punchdrunk

Post-canon Lord Macduff, anyone?

Walk with me, let me mindspike you. Parallel between Lady Macbeth frantically trying to wash the blood off her hands, and post-canon Lord Macduff desperately trying to scrub the blood off the sheets and floor until his own hands start to bleed.

Anyways. The murder scene in the mirror in the Macduffs’ residence in Sleep No More, am I right?

April 16, 2011. My friend Tammy had told me she'd seen an incredible production of Macbeth that she was certain I would love. I walked into the McKittrick Hotel that Saturday night with no idea that I was entering a place that would change my life forever.

What an extraordinary, fruitful place of creative energy it was. How wild, almost unbelievable, that such a place survived in New York City for nearly fourteen years. 

My first impression: You have to walk around and climb stairs and wear a mask? How can you do Shakespeare without dialog? Until I realized the dialog was in the dance, and the rave shocked my jaded sensibilities, and I was in a tiny room with a beautiful sobbing naked man, and then I went home and dreamed about it and knew I had to go back.

Then the parties. Halloween 2011 was the best event party I had ever been to - welcoming, engaging, fun. For fourteen years the McKittrick became my Halloweens, my New Years Eves, my May Fairs (I didn't even know that was a thing), that wonderful exhausting year of 2016 when they did Supercinema almost every month. The parties became more elaborate, the costumes, the set designs, the stories, the interactions, the performances. The Paisley Players, the epic ballroom extravaganzas, the tableaus in the walled garden...

Remixed (the first) remains the funniest thing I've ever seen in my life. November Rain at the banquet. The Imperial March in the maze. Diamonds are Forever, forever...

The Boy Witch party made me cry and cry. Two nights only and it was probably the best thing I've ever seen. The carousel on the ballroom stage, the fire, the lady in pink tights, the lost love. Every time I hear that version of Crazy in Love, I feel that emotion again.

At the Clue party, Maximilian led us through the floors, and we watched Neil Patrick Harris chop off his own head in the Macbeth bedroom.

Fourth of July 2012, after the show, a marching band played as we climbed six floors to the roof to reveal a beautiful secret garden where we watched the fireworks. Gallow Green was magical in the early days, with Paul Corning's gardener watering plants and occasionally leading people away, and Annabella planting herbs and making potions with us.

One day after the show, Lulu put a stamp on my hand and told me to go to the elevator. I took it up and a character led me into the Heath for the first time. We'd go there for drinks or dinner, watch Elizabeth Lindsey glide through the space like watching a portal into a film noir, follow instructions on secret notes and hope to win the lottery. (Once I did; Ginger took me, blindfolded, to High Street, and I still have the memories of discombobulated absurdity - and a spoon with my name engraved on it.)

Then they put a cozy little Scottish lodge on the roof, with bunk beds and blankets and heaters, and a forest out back with a canoe? in a tent. We'd huddle around the fire pit, or sprawl on the bed. All the books were pre-1939. At some point there was a room full of board games. My friend Matty would sit at the desk writing his dissertation and people thought he was a character.

I watched Rosemary's Baby on the rooftop, curated by Amy Poehler, and Vertigo in the ballroom, shivering in the air conditioner.

Calloway started doing these "salons" in the Manderley after the show, with songs and narratives and recurring characters and Hans dying every time. Then one day the email said something about "McKittrick Follies," and I showed up and characters were singing and telling stories and everyone was drinking and talking into the night.  

I can't believe we were so spoiled by that boundless creative energy for so long. For months? years? we had a weekly Follies, then... biweekly? Sunday afternoons we'd sit on the beds in the Lodge drinking mulled wine before going down to the Follies; then Wednesdays I'd work late and walk into the Manderley at 10pm, or go home and walk up the High Line to come back, listening to the show crowd's excited chatter as they exited, entering to music and humor and drinks that flowed and flowed and flowed. So much extraordinary talent, all concentrated in this one place and sparkling off of each other, creating and creating and creating.

Ginger was so funny. Lily's voice was beautiful. Mallory was the bawdiest thing. Nick's Maximilian was a true original. Conor and Austin were so awkward and snarky. JWW has the most dear, sweet, unique style. I can't list everyone; I can't believe we were blessed with so much. 

There were so many incredible singers and musicians over the years. Kat Cunning. Lisa McQuade. Julia Haltigan. Stephanie Amoroso. Onalea Gilbertson. Every iteration of the Manderley band was full of wildly talented musicians. I was lucky enough to see Cibo Matto in the Heath, and Leslie Odom Jr in the Manderley. The place was absolutely punching above its weight in terms of talent.

I learned to drink in the Manderley bar. When I first went, the only drink I knew how to order was a Sex on the Beach. I had my first gin gimlet at the Manderley Bar. The Professor, Brandon Tyler Harris, asked me what gin I liked, and I didn't know, so I tried them all and discovered that it's Hendricks. Then I switched to smoky mezcal margaritas, and drank them for years, occasionally starting trends. Later it was scotch sours, smoky Laphroaig, heaven in a glass. At the Heath they'd had my all time favorite drink, long gone; something with Scotch, orgeat, and a cabernet float... I'm at the age now where I've largely had to stop drinking; the era of alcohol in my life will always be tied up in the McKittrick.

If it weren't for Sleep No More, I wouldn't have gone to London and made many of my dearest friends; would never have experienced Shanghai the way I did, with local friends to guide me.

Lily Ockwell brought me on the Manderley stage on my birthday. The lights were very bright. Could she have imagined how utterly terrified I was? In a good way.

At my 100th show, Kit/Ginger bought me a drink as soon as I walked in.

Gus from front of house overheard me talking about an upcoming trip to Shanghai and invited himself along. We had so much fun, we took a trip to Costa Rica the next year.

After my cat Lucifer died, London gave me the biggest hug as soon as he saw me.

At Austin Goodwin's Juilliard graduation performance, the whole evening was so beautiful. All these extraordinary young people who'd worked so hard, accomplished so much, brimming with possibility for their futures. I wanted so much to be one of the families, full of pride and love for someone I'd helped nurture. When I wrote a tumblr post wrestling with the decision to have a child, Austin sent me a message telling me he thought I'd make a good mother. It is one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me, and helped me make one of the hardest decisions I've ever made.

Once on new years eve, Anabella gave me a Tarot card - Ten of Pentacles. I knew when I got that card that it was about my desire to have my own family, a child of my own. I put it on my fridge as inspiration and it's still there next to pictures of my kid.

I met my best friend on High Street, looking in the window of the tailor shop, watching Paul Zivkovich as a clown. This is the friend who is now in my will to take care of my child if I die.

I say I'm not creative, but the McKittrick brought out the creativity I do have. So many words in this blog. Several interviews for academic papers or articles. A box full of costumes in my closet: Andrea Alden in the Infidelity Ballet scene; Medusa out of a bunch of plastic snakes I painted and attached to a headdress; Vampire Willow; a Baz Luhrman Capulet; Mrs White. I see photos and find myself wearing costumes I don't even remember.

In early 2020, I hadn't been going to Sleep No More for a while, but when covid got scary, suddenly that's where I had to be. I was there until the day I showed up and the doors were closed.

I genuinely wonder, will I ever be as good at anything in my adult life as I was at following the Macbeth loop? I knew just where to stand, to view a perfect wide shot, to see a close up at a respectful distance. I loved to follow Macbeth down the corridor into the rave, a shadow halo'd in red, arms out against the tin walls. And to follow him out, running full speed, enraged and out of control as the music swelled and he went into the speakeasy to kill Banquo; there was no room for anything but adrenaline and utter absorption in the moment. To follow the Macbeths down the stairs as they screamed and shoved and kissed chocolate blood all over each others' faces. To stand still in the bedroom as they danced and fought around the room, the audience swarming around them, everything moving around me from close up to wide shot to close up. 

Will anything bring as much peace as a Porter loop? I could always go there when I was sad. The hotel lobby was my favorite space. So dark it was almost black; figures emerging through the shroud of darkness. The tiny office, the papers and pencils. The sweet silliness of that character, the eternal hope. The overwhelming sadness. To be the one not chosen. Trapped, unable to change anyone's fate, watching and witnessing.

I used to think, there's a lot of downtime in this loop between the big moments like the cabaret, but in the end I realized, there is no downtime. Every moment is beautiful. I'd go there just to see the ominous deer loom over him as he reset the dining room, or to see those white sheets moving through the darkness like abstract art.

Zach McNally's Porter was my first 1:1, in 2012. I remember watching the tears down his face during the cabaret and thinking, wait, this character is as important as the Boy Witch. On Saturday, I watched him fade away into the shadows for the last time.

At the very last show, Andrew Robinson's Porter cried along with the audience as we watched him trace his hand. At the end, he cut his toast into a tiny heart and gave it to Danvers. She burst into tears, cut it in half, and they ate it together.

Boy Witch ended for me when my favorites left; it was all memories, echoes of the past. I'll never forget Conor, who always saw me, no matter how far away I stood, and always created some little moment to make my night special. 

(I used to rarely watch the shower scene, and once he ran up to me in the bar and told me, you paid for your ticket, you can watch what you want to watch.)

Oddly, at my second-to-last show, I followed Macduff. Never a favorite, but the choreography is so good. Steven Bangerter looks and moves so much like Rob McNeill, and his sweetness balances out the character. How extraordinary to see the echoes of Rob, who was in the 2003 London production, so clearly and vividly, 21 years and who knows how many performers later. (I did not see the original production, but there are photos, and the first time I saw Rob in the Drowned Man I thought, wow, he moves like Macduff.)

I was noticing new things up until the end. Macbeth, upside down in the ballroom at the reset; the hanged man Tarot card. Macduff, lifting Sexy Witch in the ballroom and spinning her around, like Rob McNeill once did to me as we danced to the finale stage at the end of a Drowned Man.

After the second Remixed, I worked up the nerve to speak to Stephen Dobbie, asked him about the song choices, raved about how great they were. I'd forgotten that the November Rain video actually has a banquet scene in it.

One time I sat across from Felix Barrett at dinner and accidentally changed the ending of the show. I complained that the matron just closes the door to the pagoda and black masks hurry you away; he made a note on his phone and within days it was better.

Once, I had a long conversation with Maxine in the Manderley. (And a few brief ones in London.) Sunday night when I said goodbye, she gave me a hug and said, you've been here all these years.

I don't know why it matters that I met these people. I'm not trying to break into the arts. Maybe I just have so much admiration for the people who've succeeded, in a world that makes it so difficult. Actually if I could have been anyone in the building, it would have been Carrie Boyd; color-coded spreadsheets are my jam. What an unsung superstar. Her salon was the best.

Once after a roundtable, I found a note in my bag from Ilana. "Thank you for your heart and mind." I'd say the same to her.

I don't even know what else to write. Fourteen years of memories. After I post this, I'll think, oh I should have mentioned that other thing too. How can you sum up something that meant so much?

The McKittrick was at the center of my experience of New York City; of my mid-adulthood. I will mourn it at the same time as I marvel that it ever happened, that I found it as early as I did, and that it could possibly have lasted so long.