A Stage Hit With One Audience Member Per Performance

“The reactions have really impressive depth and breadth,” Neiden told me, “but all the reactions I’ve heard have been intense in one way or another. Ultimately, what I’ve taken pride in is hearing that regardless of how people felt about it, that they’ve never experienced anything quite like it. Even if they had seen a lot of experimental theater, maybe the themes in this were different, for instance… Most people that I’ve spoken to have found it in equal measure scary and silly, and maybe cathartic, and that’s the best-case scenario for me.

“Not everyone is going to like it,” Neiden continued. “And sometimes I don’t think there’s any way to fully know if something’s for you before going in. I’ve seen shows that I thought would be 100% up my alley, and then I saw them and it was maybe not so much, versus seeing something that seemed totally out of left field but like, ‘Oh, give it a shot,’ because I heard something good, from someone I trust. This is a place to take a risk, to surrender, and at the very least, to experience something that can only happen for you in that moment — something altogether fleeting that is just yours. You know, the most tangible souvenirs people walk away with from ‘The Pineapple’ are a lei and a memory.”

His reference to the actual lei that attendees leave with does require some setup, so now’s as good a time as any to attempt a plot summary. (I was about to say “fruitless” attempt, but well, you’ve seen the title.) Everyone exiting the show had a Hawaiian-style plastic flower chain placed around their neck to send the off into the NoHo night, which might seem like an unexpectedly comic touch at the end of a show that is focused on … aliens. Even though the narrative is sci-fi/horror-oriented, and participants are promised an actual alien encounter. It appears the aliens in question have become convinced that one thing all human beings love is beach culture, and that our national or global anthem is the Jimmy Buffett song “Margaritaville.” When an alien baby is finally produced, it takes the form of… a pineapple. So there’s an extent to which you might call the final subgenre the show lands in as, for lack of a better term, tiki horror.

But that’s getting ahead of the initial setup. When you sign up for the show (and sign waivers), you are ostensibly answered a classified ad for someone who needs a fellow believers in UFOs to help participate in a ritual that will bring the aliens out into the open. On the day of your encounter, you start getting texts from the young man who placed the ad, berating you if you don’t seem enthusiastic enough. He also sends coordinates about which back street parking lot to show up in, and which unmarked door to knock on (“underneath the State Farm sign”) at exactly the appointed time. Once admitted, after being sure I’d shown up at the wrong place, he shined a flashlight in my eyes, made certain I knew the safe word, recorded me giving consent, and relieved me of shoes, phone, and ost everything else. I was led into a dingy room that served as his bedroom, with a sleeping bag, walls full of conspiracy theory cutouts connected by thumbtacks and string, and kitchen tools to squeeze pineapple pulp into juice.

Without recounting every amusing or harrowing detail, a good deal of interactive psychological grilling ensued. I was asked questions about living and deceased family members, failed relationships, religious affiliations, etc…. all of which I knew could and would be used against me later. The young man spilled some details of his own, like how he was abandoned in a superstore parking lot when he was 8, and had lived a sad and itinerant life since then before eventually coming to realize that his real family was from space, and now it was time to meet up. My hands were taped together and I was made to crawl on all fours to a bathroom, where another man was soaking in a bloody tube, handcuffed, revealing that he’d been the previous respondent, chosen to be impregnated with an alien baby, but failed the attempt when it turned out he had lied about not having an allergy to pineapple juice. Then he, too, asked me personal details, asked me to hold his hands in prayer, and…

Perhaps it’s OK to stop there, as things got considerably weirder from there, including the introduction of the cast’s one woman, who is some kind of operative for the aliens… and whose otherworldliness is apparent, apart from the maniacal grin on her face, by the fact that she is wearing a sticker identifying her as “WOMAN.” I had learned ahead of time, from reading the L.A. Times’ review, that my encounter would likely involve some kissing on the lips, massaging and (no lie) spooning. I had a sneaking suspicion all of this would happen with the gnarlier male cast members and not the beautiful woman, which did turn out to be the case. (Names of the very improv-capable cast members were released only after the show concluded its run: Rett Keeter, Cece Kelly, Ian Michaels and Neiden.)

I had expected the show to be frightening, but apart from one moment where a flashlight came on to reveal a figure in the dark inches away, there were no jump scares, or anything that even induced very much anxiety. (The only truly scary moment was when someone pulled some opaque goggles off my face and my brand new $400 glasses went flying off with them. “We want you to have your spectacles,” a voice said quietly when I expressed panic about having them stepped on, and eventually I was able to rejoin the land of the sighted.) I think you can only experience so much fear in a show in which, toward the end, you will be dancing to “Margaritaville.” I laughed out loud a few times… maybe most when, not long after I was played back the recording of myself saying “I consent,” the tables were turned on my tormentor and someone played back his consent recording.