The venue is small enough that if you hold the door open too long, you’ll be scolded for letting the AC out. The entertainment is big enough, that you’ll ponder the messages, deliberate and deconstruct the plot, and hum the catchiest songs for days after you leave.
Warmly greeted, you take your playbill and seek a comfy vantage point in the intimate space. You’re anticipating a story. A story that begins before any actor appears on stage.
As you take your seat, you feel you’ve wandered into an immersive art installation. As with every Ochre production, the walls have become canvas for some of Dallas’ most talented muralists. A deep indigo fog-shrouded forest leads into a stifling Victorian drawing room presaging some perverse activity. (You don’t know it, but these same walls only recently evoked the effervescent color and brilliant Mediterranean light of Picasso’s Malaga home.)
The peculiar furniture and props that are already on stage compel questions. Why is there a shower-curtained footed bathtub stage left? What do the weapons mounted on the wall suggest? Who sits in a chair that tall? You recognize that’s a bed (but later it folds out to become a car).
The lights go down. In the darkness, you hear the players shuffling onto the stage. When the lights go up you notice a special “character” stage-right: a small orchestra.