In all our lives, there comes a frightful day when catastrophe strikes. We look around the room to find support from the nearest adult or superior, as we have always done, but when we do, we realize with great suddenness: Oh no. We are the adults in the room. The Grown-Ups, written by Simon Henriquez and Skylar Fox and originally devised by Nightdrive, took its humble place as Dacha Theatre’s third mainstage show of their season. It toured parks and campfires in and around the Seattle area, bringing its nostalgic story to a widespread public. 

Three prisoners staggered out of the truck: two men and a woman. The men knew each other. Their hands grazed and their gazes met. The woman stood alone, clinging to the broken neck of a violin. They were all unchained, but fear and shock were as good a shackle as any. Until it was disrupted, at least. 

Ivy watched as the evening workers and night dwellers shuffled down the sidewalks, heads bowed against the omniscient glow of the streetlights that’d borne witness to their savage furies. 

Warning, the voice began again. 

Ivy lifted a cigarette to her lips, inhaled, let the smoke sit and coil through her lungs like a breath of life before she blew it through the crack of her propped window. Only the stub of the cigarette remained, its embers hot against her fingers. But it was good for a few more puffs at least, and god did she need it. 

While the play had a lot of workshopping to do, its commentary was important. It gave a wide representation of LGBTQ+ lives and showed the isolation felt beneath the weight of conservative cultures throughout the world. It also showed the resilience of Queer communities in the face of oppression and brought the conflicts in the Middle East centerstage, demanding viewers to remember them. 

Firelight flickered on the walls, and the crackling grew into a roar. In the amber glow, a face watched her pass, little eyes staring out from an old photograph of her daughter. 

Ivy was twelve when Leonna last saw her. The girl was Leonna’s greatest pride. The one creation of hers whose heart seemed truly pure. She hoped Ivy had remained that way, indelible and defiant against the cruelties of the world, never letting them break her. 

When Leonna was six, wildfires turned the sky a wrathful shade of red. 

The sun seemed to be the glowing eye of a giant beast veiled within the smoky horizon. She feared it would consume the world. That morning, her mother had soothed her despondent cries and promised it would be all right, but Leonna never quite forgot the dreadful memory of that burning sky. 

Now, for the first time in forty years, the fury of those flames returned.

The barkeep opened a side door and waved them in. There, in the gilded haze of flame-lit lamps, artists gathered. Poets, painters, sculptors, musicians, dancers. Artists of all sorts came to the garden to talk, create, and workshop. It was a safe place for unfettered expression. One of the last of its kind.

So naturally, when Dacha Theatre, who so often defies the status quo of theatre, took on Kate Hamill’s Emma, they began the show by having audience members pluck up the women’s etiquette guide pages—which had been left on every seat—and shred them, stating they were throwing etiquette out the door.

Audience members held onto these shreds and threw them when cued. The pieces fluttered down as white confetti upon the jubilant opening wedding scene of Mrs. Weston (Kayla Walker), and Mr. Weston (Van Lang Pham).

It began slowly—the plague, the greed, the riots. Revolutionaries rose up behind symbols, murals, and songs, while the masses were fed machinery and religion. In the wake of the destruction, politicians deemed art a dangerous thing—a worthless thing—and the masses agreed. They took away the paint, the books, and the instruments. But they could not wholly silence the artists. These are the stories they left behind.

Digital matchmaking algorithms grow exhausting and disheartening, so it’s no wonder many hopeless romantics flock to tales of the ‘Ton with their lavish balls, promenades through the parks, and swoon-worthy, witty banter. 

The matriarch of such tales, Jane Austen, turns 250 years old this year. In celebration, Dacha Theatre is hosting a theatrical bash with a presentation of Emma, a contemporary, feminist take on Austen’s novel, written by Kate Hamill. 

The setting sun outside steeped the city in gold, and a pleasant breeze carried the scent of budding flowers. He remembered the open fields of Anna’s family home, breaths of summer wind rustling the curtains as Anna painted by the window. 

He never should have brought her to the city.

It began slowly—the plague, the greed, the riots. Revolutionaries rose up behind symbols, murals, and songs, while the masses were fed machinery and religion. In the wake of the destruction, politicians deemed art a dangerous thing—a worthless thing—and the masses agreed. They took away the paint, the books, and the instruments. But they could not wholly silence the artists. These are the stories they left behind.

Equipoise, defined as a balance of forces, is a name well suited for the debut Seattle dance company created by Heather Smith and Samantha Weissbach. The company, which set upon their first performance at the Yaw Theater on Friday, February 28, offered audiences a blended style of movement, tapping into the grounded athleticism and aesthetics of modern dance and the emotionally driven, raw beauty of contemporary dance.

It began slowly—the plague, the greed, the riots. Revolutionaries rose up behind symbols, murals, and songs, while the masses were fed machinery and religion. In the wake of the destruction, politicians deemed art a dangerous thing—a worthless thing—and the masses agreed. They took away the paint, the books, and the instruments. But they could not wholly silence the artists. These are the stories they left behind.

It began slowly—the plague, the greed, the riots. Revolutionaries rose up behind symbols, murals, and songs, while the masses were fed machinery and religion. In the wake of the destruction, politicians deemed art a dangerous thing—a worthless thing—and the masses agreed. They took away the paint, the books, and the instruments. But they could not wholly silence the artists. These are the stories they left behind. 

It began like many myths do: in darkness. Thin beams of light panned over the space from the back of the house, curious and searching. Nishimura and Kohl descended upon the stage with headlamps strapped to their brows, exploring the space with a playful curiosity. Once they arrived, lighting by Jessica Trundy illuminated the set and established the world of the performance. Transparent projection screens stretched across three points of the set, two of which concealed platforms the performers utilized throughout the performance.

“Long ago,” Theo said, “this land was ruled by beings of another world. Sprites and hidden folk. Nymphs and animal spirits. But the largest of all were the trolls.” He gestured to the giant ahead, and Thomas took in the vast, wooden creature, awestruck. “They tended to the land, caught fish in the rivers, and planted trees. Then one day, Man came to the forest. With axes brandished, they felled the trees that had been planted. They tore up the land and declared it their own.

“A moot was held in the forest between all who lived within it. The rodents cried out, filled with terror, ‘What do we do?’

All Hallows may have come and gone, but some ghosts still come haunting. It is a tradition of the holiday season after all—spirits haunting the arrogant wealthy. And as Charles Dickens said in A Christmas Carol, “There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor.” 

I discovered The Pomegranate Tree by a fleeting chance. I was discussing the potential of immersive theater in large scale productions when one of my cohorts told me I must see a Dacha show if I hadn’t already. I followed Dacha on Instagram and admittedly forgot about the suggestion shortly after—until a post of theirs crossed my feed.

In the last century, theater has met its greatest adversary yet: film. Much can be accomplished through the eye of a camera which cannot be easily done in a live space, like  forced viewpoints, CGI, and extravagant settings to name just a few. But there is one limitation to film which it may never truly conquer: It exists predominantly behind the fourth wall.