An Ark, premiering at The Shed, is touted by its creative team as “the first play created for mixed reality.” What exactly does that mean? Producer Todd Eckert emphatically points to what it is not, saying, “An Ark is not a work of AI.” Instead, he says “it’s a humble yet radical reimagining of how stories work at their most human.” Put more simply, I would say it’s a new way of using technology to present reality in the most intimate and communal way possible. And thankfully, they’ve assembled a terrific company led by the incomparable Ian McKellan.
If you were hoping to see the legendary thespian in the flesh, you would be disappointed. He’s not there, nor are any of the other three actors. But with the use of specially designed optical headsets that allow you to experience both the space around you and images projected through the goggles, the actors do appear to you, as if in a hologram, close enough to touch. It’s a stunning effect at first and you will marvel at the way they seem to be looking at you directly. But while much is made of the innovative “photonic” technology (as it’s called), the creators of An Ark are insistent that its purpose is merely to create a more intimate form of storytelling. And they sought out one of the best playwright storytellers alive: Simon Stephens.
[Read Frank Scheck’s ★★★☆☆ review here.]
Anyone who saw his brilliant stage adaptation of the novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time should not be surprised by Stephens’ gift for exposing the emotional heart of a story amid high-tech imagery. And he doesn’t shy away from big ideas. In this very compact 47 minute work, he tackles the meaning of life and death. More specifically, he asks: “How do we live when we know that we die?” And for answers, he’s enlisted a quartet of outstanding actors: In addition to McKellan, Golda Rosheuvel, Arinze Kene, and Rosie Sheehy are all at the top of their game.
Under Sarah Frankcom’s meticulous direction, it’s a unique experience from beginning to end. The audience must first check their coats and deposit their shoes in cubbies before entering. The performance space is arranged in concentric rows of seats surrounding a giant illuminated orb at the center. Each of the seats has the headgear attached; and once it’s donned, you will see fur small white chairs in front of you.
When the play begins, the nameless characters enter barefoot from behind you and, once seated, launch into second-person patter that I can best describe as a spoken form of chamber music, starting with the words: “Don’t panic.” The actors then alternate lines in an almost rhythmic counterpoint as they take you through the experience of birth to death, hitting on notions both big — “If I told you all the things you have ever known have existed in the dance between the neurones in your mind, would you believe me?” — and small: “On the day you are born there is a rainbow in the sky to the west of the hospital.” The actors continually comment to you and occasionally to each other as they mature in random stages: “You spend a lot of your life in despair at how stupid and pointless people are. Imagine your surprise at 25 after everything that’s happened, when you find yourself falling in love.” And later: “At 52 you’re surprised to realise you have become enthusiastic about Gardening.”
On one level it has the vibrancy of profound truth. On another, you might be dulled by the simplicity of its design. Anyone expecting to be dazzled by an array of special effects might be disappointed again. I overhead a young guy complaining that the technology (created by Eckert’s company, Tin Drum) was thoroughly unimpressive and there was no point in going out to a theater when it could be experienced with better equipment at home. But that misses the point altogether. The mixed reality concept wants audiences to experience the story together, as a community. Forcing us to remove our shoes is explained as a way to make us feel a connection with one another in that shared space.
Did it work? I’m sure not for everyone. This is, after all, the first effort in what I’d call a high-tech existential thought experiment. But despite all the hoopla about the innovative technology, the play’s still very much the thing here, and this is a sweet one.
An Ark opened January 13, 2026, at The Shed and runs through March 1. Tickets and information: theshed.org
