I’ve been invited to a stranger’s house for a birthday party. I don’t know the host, I don’t know the guest of honor. All I have is an address, a time and date, and a single can of premixed gin and tonic.

I’ve been loitering around a street for the last ten minutes in the Fitzrovia neighborhood of central London — a commercial area with more restaurants, universities, and museums than private residences. Not the kind of area where one would expect to attend a house party unless one had particularly affluent friends who could afford a penthouse in Zone 1. I consider the thought that production company Any One Thing must either be paying a pretty penny for the flat rental, or they have very lovely friends in measurably high places (I learn afterward that the case is the latter — the production is intended to float from location to location and can pop up anywhere in London so long as a host is willing to donate their home to the show for a night or two).

We’re greeted on the street by production staff, and as our names are checked off a digital attendance list it’s evident that the world of Souvenir only begins at the penthouse door. I’m momentarily disappointed as I’d hoped for a bit more immersion from the start: having been invited to a birthday party, it would be easy for the hosts to welcome us in along the same fashion as anyone inviting guests to their house via street-level buzzer, but we’re directed to take the elevator to the top floor and to knock at the designated flat. Once we do, however, the performance begins and we are warmly welcomed into the party by the hosts.

I spend the first fifteen minutes making awkward conversations with strangers the same way I would if I were at a genuine acquaintence’s party. The discussion is affable but hesitant and I genuinely can’t tell who of my fellow ten-or-so attendees is an actor apart from the hosts: a man named Richard (Damian Gildea) and his partner’s friend Margot (Bonnie Adair) have arranged this surprise party for Anna (Sonya Cullingford), who eventually makes her appearance and greets us with varying levels of familiarity. While she appears to know some of the other guests, she doesn’t recall meeting me before. For me, this mix of remembrances further muddies the waters of who is ‘in’ the show and who is not. I find myself questioning the actions and motives of everyone in the room.

The party continues and speeches are made, gifts are given, cake is presented. I sip at my single premixed drink which I was encouraged to bring along, but shortly I begin to feel uncomfortable drinking it as it becomes evident that the evening is being subtly managed to deter the guest of honor’s alcoholism. There’s something rotten at the heart of this party and hints continue to drop that there’s something fundamentally wrong: a candle that won’t blow out, a cheering scream of joy that lasts a bit too long. Gildea’s continued toasts and Cullingford’s speeches swiftly become more self-involved and feel like the height of selfish grandstanding; it feels like the core three partygoers are slowly losing interest in keeping their guests engaged and are becoming more involved in each other, and before too long the facade of hospitality comes crashing down.

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Once the fight starts, a normal guest at a party would look away or politely excuse themselves out of the area, but because this is theatre we’re staring, and the performers aren’t embarrassed or show any signs of abating. This cultural schism is felt in the moment — I find myself really having to fight the urge to leave the room and give everyone their privacy. But even as I stay put, the fight takes a very strange and unsettling turn — one of the hosts drags me into it, using my name (which I shared with him that evening; not surprising) and then referring to specific event I took part in six months ago (which I had not shared with anyone; downright terrifying).

Production company Any One Thing promotes the tactic of using social media to actively engage their audience, but to experience this level of personalization in situ was both impressive and deeply jarring — someone at some point between booking my ticket and this scene searched my name on the internet, found me, and used my personal history as part of the performance to further build on the world they were creating.

It could have happened a week before, or it could have happened in the forty-five minutes after our arrival. While it charmed my inner attention-seeking immersive junkie in the moment, devised theatre of this style raises questions about personal privacy and ownership in the social media age: how much of your life belongs to you if it’s published about online?

At only ninety minutes, Souvenir is an excellent weeknight treat or late-night weekend rendezvous. Writer Tristan Bernays has crafted a cleverly malleable story that invites guests in for a drink and gets them comfortable before shoving their face against a mirror and demanding to know why they thought they’d be so welcome in a stranger’s home. With immersive elements that dance the blade’s edge between enthralling and invasive, the production is a short but sweet experience. It’s not a cultural touchstone and its effect would be highly subjective depending on which house it’s being performed in, but Souvenir is a lovely hit of site-reactive theatre outside of the saturated Vault Festival season. Audience size is limited and locations are regularly being sought — my advice would be to book soon to keep the show running as long as possible.

Souvenir takes place in a different secret location in London every night; to find out more, sign up for Any One Thing’s email list.

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