You're on a busy street in downtown Los Angeles. The evenings have just begun to cool after weeks, months of summer heat. All around you are noises, traffic, neon. A woman walks by with two enormous pit bulls straining on their leashes; across the street, a man is yelling, and you can't tell whether the person he's arguing with is on the street or in his head. You're carrying your orange jack o'lantern purse and a toddler in a stroller rolls by, pointing at your bag and gleefully repeating the Spanish word for "pumpkin" to his mother. You smile.
Finally, the line starts to move. You're ushered into the lavish lobby of the Los Angeles Theater, perhaps the most opulent and eerie of the old movie palaces that haunt Broadway. You are enamored of the chandeliers dripping crystal, of the impossibly high, ornately carved ceilings, of the red velvet stairs that waterfall down from the floor above and end at your feet. If this theatre were to ask, you think, you would be its Jack Torrance.
The lighting casts the room into candy-colored swaths of purple, blue, and red, like you're in a giallo, and ahead of you another staircase leads down into shadow. Ambient noise pulsates, menacing. People clad in Art Deco-era finery are tableau-still on the stairs and in the middle of the room. Suddenly, the noise swells, fills the grand space, and everyone puts their hands to their ears, grimacing and shrieking, as though there is something in the sound that might drive them to madness, or has already.
And then, down the staircase. Into shadow. Into the candlelit catacombs, and beyond.
You find yourself at a cocktail party, and excuse yourself to use the restroom, but the powder room with its floor-to-ceiling silver mirrors disorients you, and there is a dark figure standing stone-still at the end of the row of stalls. On your way back to the party, you follow a red glow to a low-ceilinged room painted to look like the inside of a circus tent, and before you can return to the party you witness strange men do strange things, as strange men often do.
Telephones ring. You answer one, and a voice whispers and growls, makes animal noises. A shoe shine glides toward you, then away, and you're not sure if he's threatening you or completely unaware of your presence. From behind etched glass, faces loom and leer. And all the while that sound drones, swells, retreats, repeats.
You're in the theater itself now, facing the stage. Creatures, cloaked and masked, thread their way between the rows, up and down the aisles, contorting their bodies, staring, screaming. At last, the show begins. A woman croons a languidly Lynchian version of "Summertime" as dancers twirl; it's beautiful but there is something wrong here too, some decay creeping in, curling the edges.
That's what the real fun begins. That's when you meet the Angel.
+++
I wasn't sure what to expect with Angel of Light, but I love the Los Angeles Theater, so I took a chance. I'm so glad I did, because I absolutely adored this show. It's one of the best immersive productions I've ever seen.
First, this is a show that values stillness. I'm not a fan of most jump scares -- they can be effective, but usually they're overdone and cheap, used to mask a weak story; the truffle oil of horror ("Throw a little of this on top and it'll cover up anything!") -- and I've always felt that someone just standing there, staring at you would be so much more unnerving than the more aggressive moves. Clearly, someone at Angel of Light agrees.
Second, this is a show that utilizes its incredible setting with so much style, grace, and respect for its history and beauty. Some haunts try to shoehorn a square peg of a story into the round hole of its setting, without asking questions like, "Why would this take place at a cemetery, or inside of a Victorian home?" Not this one. If you want to know what it might feel like to live the last 30 minutes or so of The Shining -- well, not the murderous dad in a blizzard bit; just the glamorous Art Deco party ghosts bit -- Angel of Light is the only ticket in town.
Go. Enter the Light. They're waiting.
+++
Angel of Light will be at the Los Angeles Theater (615 S. Broadway, DTLA) through October 31, 2023.
