Full disclosure: I’ve struggled to write this for a solid week because I want to be fair. I liked the show. Not at first, but it grew on me. But the conversations I had with others who experienced it were polarizing, so I gave myself time to weigh that as well.
We’re talking about Candle House's The Pineapple. It’s a departure from the company’s phone-only shows, placing a single participant inside an increasingly bizarre ritual to summon an alien. This — and the warning that the participant can’t be allergic to pineapple — is about all anyone learns before the show begins.
Since going through a week ago, I’ve talked to people who loved it, who liked it, and who hated it. I think a lot of this has to do with boundaries and how they’re crossed. It’s as wildly creative as it is uncomfortable, and there’s certainly an audience for The Pineapple — but that audience isn’t a general one.
I can’t really talk about my experience without noting that it was a little weird. I wasn’t given an address. I was given coordinates. I followed the GPS on my phone until I was standing exactly, and I mean exactly, on the dot. As soon as I arrived, a person approached.
They asked my name and because I couldn’t be sure they weren’t an actor confirming I was the participant, I told them. They started spouting off conspiracy theories. For example, they told me a mysterious “they” could “get in” through holes in our phones when we play music on them.
This person was not a part of The Pineapple, as it would turn out. But when you arrive at a show where the flyer is a Craigslist-esque ad in which someone is looking for people who want to find aliens, it’s not entirely far-fetched to wonder if someone babbling conspiracies is an actor — especially if they just so happen to be standing exactly where the show’s coordinates led you.
I humored this person for a good eight minutes until I began receiving texts asking if I had arrived. I texted back that I had followed the arrival instructions, but it turned out the GPS on my phone was off by several feet. I left the random person talking to themselves, and entered the venue.
There was no time to decompress. The first character you meet in The Pineapple is an asshole who repeatedly tries to embarrass you and calls you names, which isn’t really my favorite type of button-pushing. I love full-contact extreme haunts, so I’ve been tied up, jammed in a coffin, and sent home with bruises and welts, but, gosh, please be polite about it.
So when he told me I must be an idiot because I couldn’t find the correct door, there was a moment where I wanted to turn around and walk right back out. Narratively, what purpose do I — with so little information about what we’re doing here — have to sit here and be told I’m stupid when you are supposed to be the one who gave me those coordinates? Ten minutes in, I was both annoyed and distracted by the apparently random weirdo I’d just encountered. I found it hard to be, as they say, immersed.
(Note: A text that told me not to talk to or look at anyone outside the venue was sent to my phone. That would have been helpful except it arrived about two hours after the performance had ended. I’d also explain more about why coordinates were so confusing, but we’ve been asked to keep the venue and the names of the performers a secret.)
So, we were off to a rocky start, but soon enough, the show changed, sliding off whatever loose rails it’d had before.
While the first several minutes of The Pineapple feel like a juvenile humiliation ritual daring you to buck back, the rest invites you to just give in to the pineapple-scented absurdity it becomes. The story is bonkers, the scenes are tonally varied and often surprising, and each of the four performers is excellent. It’s funny, it’s moving, it’s creepy, it’s forever shifting. Even the asshole is good at being just that, and eventually becomes someone you could be persuaded to care about.
There were some moments of physicality I’ve never experienced in any immersive show. Sometimes forceful, sometimes awkward, sometimes uncomfortably intimate, but sometimes fun. There were wonderfully weird moments of music and dance. There were more serious moments that asked me to contemplate forgiveness and what it means. There seemed to also be an alternate track I could choose to veer onto, but narratively, I felt better sticking to the path of least resistance.
In the end, I thoroughly enjoyed a show I initially disliked, and I found myself appreciating so many of the creative swings it took.
Which brings me back to the beginning again. If I hadn’t had such a weird encounter outside the venue, I would have started writing this review the next day. But because I felt inclined to ask people I knew who’d done The Pineapple about their own onboarding experiences, I found that for some, the show was far too much. (I also felt very validated when three of the four people I spoke to confirmed they also had issues with the coordinates. Look, tech is fickle.)
One friend, who loves immersive theatre but not extreme haunts, was surprised by how rough certain scenes were and by some of the subject matter. She described these things as “annoying,” but her friend apparently found the show too intense and didn’t enjoy it.
The show does provide a safe word for participants who want to pause or stop, so when I — a person who’s never come close to using a safe word — signed the waiver, I was expecting more than the level of physical intensity I received. This just goes to show how two people can experience the same thing, but feel so differently about it.
Another friend pointed out that because the language of the waiver was so broad, it made it hard to tell what the show actually contained. For immersive enthusiasts who are used to filling out waivers that say you can’t hold an escape room liable for decapitation, that could explain why some people weren’t adequately prepared for the more extreme elements.
Why does this matter? Because The Pineapple is not for everyone. It is intense, it does require a lot of its audience, and it isn’t cheap. A ticket is $247.
The people who are going to love this show deserve to find it, while those who are going to hate it deserve to spend that money somewhere else. Beyond that, the actors and creators also deserve to have the right people appreciate what they’re doing here. This isn’t to say people don’t enjoy or shouldn’t experience having their boundaries pushed. That’s what art is so often for, but you should go into a boundary-pushing experience knowing that’s what you’re doing and in what ways.
So, I guess here’s what I’d ultimately say about The Pineapple. It’s an ambitious, strange, challenging, and sometimes delightful experience that you’ll probably like if you like that kinda thing and you enjoyed the tone of Candle House’s previous shows. I hope they continue to explore in-person work. I hope to see these actors again.
Should you do The Pineapple? Initially, I wrote that if you’re an extreme haunt fan, this would be a cakewalk, even if it isn’t a haunt. I think that might be true for some of us, but I have since heard from someone who loves extreme haunts that they felt this show did not initially take into account the physical issues he disclosed.
So, I think it’s okay — necessary, even — to really evaluate how comfortable you are with being touched, and maybe talk to some people who’ve done it. (My DMs are open!) List injuries, allergies, and potential issues in the waiver when you fill it out and if you have specific concerns, I think it’s okay to reach out to find out more about a show so you can decide if it is or isn’t for you.
The Pineapple, by Candle House, runs through Oct. 2, 2026 "somewhere" in the North Hollywood area of Los Angeles. Tickets are $247 for one participant at a time. If you have any questions/concerns the company encourages you to reach out via email at info@candlehouse.org.
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