Uncumber Theatrics’ ‘The Stray’ Transforms the Audience into Cats (Review)

While I should be responsible and give you a seemingly important list of disclosures for this review (I will get to that in due course), more germane to the matter at hand is whether I am or am not a “cat person.” This is because The Stray, presented by Uncumber Theatrics, is an immersive theatrical experience nominally and ostensibly “about” — or at least containing a heavy dose of references to — cats. Maybe even actual cats. One can never know these things as you are heading down D — Way (address not disclosed until after tickets are purchased) which is more of an alley, in hipster trendy Lawrenceville, a charming and perpetually up-and-coming province of Pittsburgh, PA.

Those of you in the know understand that denizens of The Burgh are no strangers to immersive theatre. But while Bricolage and The ScareHouse have become adept at guiding their guests through imaginative realms, Uncumber is ever willing to join hands with the audience down a winding path of improvisation. I have seen other immersive companies try to create moments of open engagement with the audience, but I have not seen any company attempt and succeed at immersive improv to quite the extent that Uncumber does with every show.

Uncumber’s genius lies in the fact that they are so sure-footed with improv that whatever structures they create or recreate for each run they fearlessly upend if the moment calls for it. Lines, scenes, major turning points, even endings can branch off from major thoroughfares and head down a blind alley to a one-off climax (which we apparently experienced during our run). Good luck determining what exactly is scripted and what was totally unplanned.

Okay, I’ve put off my disclosures long enough: I’m very much an animal person and I like cats plenty, but I would not call myself a “cat person” to the extent that they would be my instant first choice for a house mate. I should also say that I have known the show’s creator, Ayne Terceira, for a few years and we worked together for a hot minute in the early days (2013) of the ScareHouse basement. Terceira is the guiding force behind Uncumber and we have been following each other’s work since we’ve met. And while my production company is in Baltimore, I did grow up in Pittsburgh. I think that covers it.

Regardless, I had some trepidation entering The Stray. My mind conjured visions of us mostly being petted and peppered with “who’s a good kitty!?” while we batted at balls of string. This did not happen. If you think this will be mostly about you and your kitty ways as the characters do nothing but coddle you, think again. And thank Bastet, I never once thought of Andrew Loyd Webber during the experience.

For all the improvised elements, it is clear that at least a few things must happen each time for The Stray to take place. The audience of seven (no more no less) gathers in the front room of a row house. We are greeted by a host who has us sign a waiver (the house owners made them do it) and gives us the spiel. We are here for a house tour and there are a few rules that all amount to not harming ourselves. We are also told that we can engage with touch, can explore and follow who we want, or just hang out in a room and see what happens.

Because the house, as it turns out, was actually on the market, Uncumber could not go nuts with set design, but the designers (Sarah Wojdylak on set design, Alexis Jabour on sound design, Remy Porter on “gadgets”) were able to do just enough to create a believably lived-in environment with a few theatrical flourishes to remind us not to be too tethered to any obvious reality. There were elements of back story to be found here and there, mostly in the form of written documents,

A few minutes later, Cali appears (played by Vanessa St. Clair), a character most fluid in her embodiment of cat and human. Through Cali, audience members are transformed into cats using a couple simple yet effective wearables. Meow. One of these wearables helps to dumb down (and also add some humor) to the extent that exploration is possible via our hands.

You might now find yourself feeling extra curious: Do we get to wear tails? No,, tails would likely have caused logistical complications in the space. Does the cast or audience wear full on cat costumes? Again no, the feline representations are more theatrical than physical and nobody involved is dressed up in a way you might classify as “furry.” Do I get to be a cat? Yes, for the most part, but there are complications.

The cat-as-audience premise works nicely to set the parameters of engagement. Don’t feel like following one of the humans from room to room? Why would you? You’re a cat. But the best cats are curious and at least pretend to care about humans, and as such you get to experience more of the story by being the friendly sort of feline. The story is the thing here and your cat-ness mostly serves to give you a plausible close-up view to the events that transpire.

The cat theme is also used on a deeper narrative level to provide a kind of kitty liminality to the proceedings. The show makes full use of cat myth, folklore, and all the other stories we project onto those mysterious and bloodthirsty little companions. This allows the story and characters to shift between past and present, feline and human, and allow the performers to shift through various characters and personalities.

As I write this, it is somewhat difficult to explain why cats would be the conduit to these narrative devices, but it definitely worked for me while I was there. One example: I found myself helping one character clean up the kitchen by batting plastic bags her way. Then, one scene later I followed the same character back to the same kitchen and watched as she became a force of chaos, undoing all that we did earlier. As a cat, I felt I understood this.

In a clever bit of show mechanics, an element is introduced (in the form of discoverable mice) that allows the audience to intervene and trigger a story by choosing one of the paintings (all original creations by Terciera) set around the house. The cast then pounces onto a semi-scripted portion of the show (no matter what they happened to be doing before) that delves into a digression, flashback, or side-bar narrative and then segues back into an increasingly ambiguous present. Tamara Siegert was especially adept at being whomever she needed to be for these scenes while shifting between different facets of Henry’s agent/gallery owner/patron/supporter/friend Tux as well as the stray (THE stray?) that Henry kicked out in a regretful fit of rage.

These devices for frictionless storytelling are all very helpful because Henry, the central figure in The Stray played by Bevin Baker, is essentially stuck. Unable to leave her house, unable to move on, unable to accept meaningful help from anyone, unable to produce paintings often enough to pay the rent, unable to declutter or find other homes for the more than seven cats who keep her company, sometimes unable to leave the bed, or move very quickly. You get the sense that we cats are all she has and the only ones she can confide in. Friends and family make attempts to help Henry break her painful cycle only to find they themselves are also stuck, falling into similar patterns when they enter the vortex of her home. Sometimes characters arrive at the door full of hope and expectation that this time it will be different and they will do or say the right thing to snap Henry out of it, only to find themselves stuck in the same patterns as well.

Through some of the flashback stories, you see scenes from Henry’s past that may explain how she arrived at her current state. Had this been a stage play, these points of narrative would have likely been all there is to understand her plight.

But immersive theatre, when done right, lets us truly be with a character, share close asides, and take as much from their interpersonal vibe as you do from the facts of the story. From that dimension, what I mostly saw was a severe depressive disorder — left unchecked, untreated, and made worse by her worsening circumstances. It takes skilled acting to sell this in close quarters over ninety-plus minutes, especially on a high wire of improv, and all I can say is that it often felt all too painfully real.

At several moments, usually during the flashbacks we were asked to speak. Not only speak, but to call upon memories from our own pasts to share with the group. This was a bit awkward to me, enjoying the non-verbal physicality of cat land, then having to pivot back into the world of words. I’ve been asked personal questions in other immersive shows, usually in one-to-one situations, and even then I have been torn between relating a watered-down version of an actual memory or just making something up. I cannot recall a time that I truly bared my soul in any deep or satisfying way. The few times I got even close to revealing something true about myself, I ended up disappointed, seeing my memory cast aside as fodder for minor narrative ends. It may seem counter-intuitive, but some of the most deeply personal and emotionally moving experiences I have had in immersive theatre were within stories that had absolutely nothing to do with me. Your experience may differ greatly on this issue, but that is where I am. (Please discuss this in the comments because I think it is something the immersive theater community is still grappling with as a whole.) Of course, we had the option to opt out (as any thoughtful show should provide) and most us did just that for this run. The moments of actual awkwardness were mercifully brief and the performers adeptly circled back around to the story at hand.

Will Henry ever be able to escape? Or will the dark clouds swallow her and take the house and all us cats down with it? In the end, we cats do have some say in the story’s final turns. I will not give anything away, and I’m not sure I even can, because apparently each show ended a little differently. In our case, there was a bit of hope that Henry might find her way out of it, but I had my doubts. Whatever the ending, the ways in which we were able to affect the world of The Stray may have led to the show’s most profound insights.

You find yourself wondering whether your actions as a cat within the experience would be any more or less effective in real life, and wondering moreover if that influence is any more effective than the fully enabled humans in Henry’s life. We get frustrated with people in our lives when our efforts fail to help them change. But people can and do change all the time — just rarely in the ways that we want them to.

Sometimes a hands-off, cat-like presence is the best we can offer.

The Stray has concluded its run. Glenn Ricci is a guest contributor and Co-artistic Director of Submersive Productions in Baltimore, Maryland.

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