Perhaps you’ll wander into the dressing room, where you’ll meet The Lady in White, bathed in the shimmer of a star long extinguished. She adjusts the tiara in her tangled hair and recites lines from the final act she never lived to finish.

Backstage, in the hush of the wings, The Understudy haunts the dark, always rehearsing, whispering lines from a borrowed script as though repeating it enough times might conjure the spotlight she was denied. And many more…

The wines call them forth. Each pour loosens another tongue, rattles another chain, draws another shadow closer. A glass of red may stir confession; a sip of white may spark a waltz with the unseen. Around every corner, someone - or something- waits to remind you that what is gone is never truly gone.

Theatre is Dead is a wake, a revel, a séance between the living and the lost. It is communion with impermanence, an ode to strangeness, a raising of glasses to the beauty that refuses to be buried. The ghosts will not be silent. They will drink with us, dance with us, and remind us that theatre is not bound to life or death at all, only to transformation.