Paradise, by definition, is perfection, heaven, a state of unending bliss. Any attempt to improve it, by munching on some snake's apple or tarting it up with a modifier like "grand," is asking for trouble. It's human nature, of course, to mess with perfection, and a new immersive theater experience in Bushwick explores the various ways mortals, when confronted with the sublime, find themselves unable to accept it. In a vaguely haunted resort called The Grand Paradise, the Western craving for vacation exultation brings with it a searing riptide of danger, followed by whirlpools of tedium.
The sprawling, inscrutable show, which runs about two-and-a-half hours, is the hippie love child of Third Rail Projects, the innovative dance-theater company that produced the indelible Alice In Wonderland riff Then She Fell. Here they've traded Victorian trappings for tropical lassitude; it's the late 1970s and we're all guests at "a tropical resort that purports to be the home of the original, genuine Fountain of Youth whose waters promise to quench our deepest longings." There is a bar, but be forewarned the place is not all-inclusive.
The Grand Paradise is more languid and abstract than Then She Fell, and like many transformative trips, it's difficult to pin down exactly what it's all about. The large ensemble doesn't give much away, favoring mystery over literalism; attractive young dancers and actors twirl through the sand, drift through the gloomy nightclub, and plunge in and out of jumbo water tanks in sultry physical abstractions. (One sign you're getting older is when you start worrying whether that water tank is cleaned regularly.) Like Then She Fell (and, on a bigger scale, Sleep No More) you're free to wander where you like, as long as you don't try to open any closed doors—this is Third Rail's cunning way of imposing some order on the oneiric chaos.
There is trouble in paradise, but it remains elusive, permeating the general atmosphere but never, to my eyes, manifesting itself as a specific problem. A melancholy dread hangs over paradise, obscuring menacing forms on the deep periphery. Is there a narrative? If so, it remains largely opaque, a matter of what you see in the sand formations through the haze.
Each traveler's experience varies depending on which way he or she wanders through the spacious Bushwick warehouse that's been elaborately built out for the production. Sometimes you find yourself in a small crowd as a woman with a pile of exotic coins initiates everyone in a cryptic wishing well ritual; sometimes you're led by the hand into a dark room with two glittering egg chairs, where a strange priestess hypnotically incants truths about the inexorable passage of time. And sometimes you're standing alone in a little cubby next to an old Atari home gaming system, looking over at a beach marked with apocalyptic signage and a lifeguard stand that suddenly seems to evoke the Tower of Babel.
Maybe that was all in my head—you could attend this show multiple times and no doubt have a dramatically different experience every time. It's your trip, should you choose to join them in "paradise."
The Grand Paradise continues through March 31st at 383 Troutman Street, near the Jefferson L train stop in Brooklyn.
