Words by Sarah Lapinsky.
I entered Hofesh Shechter’s Theatre of Dreams with few expectations or ideas of what was to come. Settling in, I flipped through the programme and was reassured to find that my not-knowing aligned with Shechter’s ideal audience who “just come off the street, land in their seat and start to tumble down the rabbit hole with whatever it is they are watching…” My companion and I chatted as we looked around the large theatre in anticipation.
With the house lights still up, I noticed a man curiously walking toward the stage from audience right. He climbed onto the stage, looked at the curtain and then out at us. The theatre had yet to take notice, but Shechter was already inviting us to expand our perception and see what might not be immediately apparent. As the performer drew attention, audience chatter softened as if this were the beginning of Shechter’s cinematic sound score. The curtains parted to reveal a small triangular entrance, and the performer stepped through, taking us along on a journey beyond this initial layer of consciousness.
The stage was deep, framed by at least three visible rows of side curtains. In the second layer, the middle parted to reveal and conceal eight, then six, then one, then two performers as they moved with quick precision through a sequence of dynamically juxtaposed, highly physical images ranging from stillness, simply looking toward us to running at full speed while removing items or clothing or engaging in complex partnering. Clean, quick and engaging, these flashes of the mind foreshadowed motifs and scenes to come. As time stretched, the performers burst forward from behind the curtain toward the audience and then retreated again. Scenes began to overlap, forming layers of imagery that rewarded close attention.
Shechter’s movement language was distinct, with a blend of contemporary and traditional folk dance. I wondered whether the folk elements reflected part of Shechter’s past, representing the histories that live within our subconscious minds. The imagery emerged from intertwining lines, duets and formations that evoked shifting relationships. One in particular reminded me of parents standing and perhaps admiring — or evaluating — the figure before them.
Although relationships surfaced, the performers did not appear to portray specific characters. In fact, there was notably little acting at all despite programme notes referencing “fears” and “fantasy.” Yet this was not a fault but a triumph: the dancers were so fully immersed in the movement that they didn’t need to pretend. I felt I was witnessing them in their element, experiencing the piece as it unfolded.
Each performer was (and is) undoubtedly talented and held their featured moments, but their ensemble work struck me most. Discussing this later, a friend and I recalled the precision of not just a hand lowering but the subtle release before it floated down and settled slightly lower still. Normally, I’m not a huge fan of unison, but my perspective shifted as I realised this was not twelve people attempting to execute the same movement. Each offered unique variations in quality and approach, yet they were united in intention. Like analysing data, I could synthesise the twelve interpretations into the essence of the movement’s meaning.
A striking image deepened this sense of translation as dancers continuously passed between the curtains in a seemingly endless loop. Like a magic trick, I had to track a performer’s costume to discern the pattern, discovering that they must have been cycling back somehow. This visual questioning of reality echoed the exploration of the unconscious, where reality is suspended. As the illusion continued, movement transitioned from crouched walking to glancing gestures like a living zoetrope.
I lost all sense of time in this piece. Perhaps halfway through, though there’s no real way of knowing, a formal announcement introduced Theatre of Dreams, raising the question: if this is the Theatre of Dreams, what have we been watching so far?
The piece shifted into a softer, more romantic reflection of perception as Molly Drake’s “I Remember” faded in. The contrast between the pulsing electronic soundscape and this sentimental old-fashioned song grounded the performers in a hazy human tenderness.
Later, a three-piece band dressed in red appeared, extending the exploration of layering into the auditory realm as their sounds mingled with the soundscore. Throughout the piece, the band created an opportunity to revisit the idea of seeing and being seen, with performers stopping or sitting to watch the band play. This served as a reminder of how easily we relegate sound to the background, like unconscious thoughts or feelings that persist out of focus.
A chaotic crescendo followed: the band blasted into microphones as dancers’ movements grew frenetic. I honestly can’t recall the resolution. I felt overwhelmed, engulfed, perhaps intentionally. (A side note: the theatre had posted warnings about haze and loud sounds. An usher kindly pointed out that earplugs were available. I didn’t need them for most of the performance but was grateful for them in this moment. I appreciate the effect Shechter may have been going for, along with the sensitivity and consideration for our agency through the experience.)
Then, unexpectedly, the band began to play a soft, intoxicating salsa. Performers descended into the audience, inviting us to dance. My friend and I gladly joined, and I felt overjoyed to be part of the moment. Turning to see the whole theatre moving together felt surreal. The fourth wall, if it ever existed, dissolved and while I bounced to the rhythm, I was grateful for the shift in tone and the chance to be included in the journey and reconnect with my own body. This communal moment contrasted beautifully with the earlier intensity, grounding the piece once again in human connection.
After we returned to our seats, a red light illuminated some of the performers. Through the piece, Tom Visser’s lighting design complemented the world-building of sound and movement, enriching each scene without overtaking. What followed felt like a series of endings. Movements from earlier reappeared and transformed. For example, a reach once directed upward now aimed toward us or a pulse of the chest that was initially accented outward now goes inward. An eerie could-be ending arrived as a fourth curtain was revealed and the performers stared at it. I sensed both anticipation and hesitation: would we go deeper still?
Surprisingly, “I Remember” returned, and we witnessed the group rounding up as they revisited familiar material from earlier in the piece. The repetition felt tender and almost nostalgic. I had to contact my friend to remember the actual ending, perhaps demonstrating the ongoingness of the journey or my deep-rooted immersion in the moment. As the song faded into silence, the dancers continued moving through a movement we had seen before, shifting weight, one hand reaching toward us, the other covering an ear. They didn’t stop, and they didn’t look tired, leaving open questions: Does the dreaming ever end, and did it ever happen in the first place?
Overall, this visceral journey carried me through sensations that challenged my perception not only of the piece but of the layered experiences constantly washing over me. The 90-minute work was digestible but far from easy; its difficulty was what made it so compelling. I appreciated how it blurred boundaries between performer and spectator, reminding us of the humanness of live performance and the value of shared presence. I know I’ll continue reflecting on this piece for years to come, and I hope to experience it again in London soon.
Header image by Tom Visser.