The Jekyll and Hyde club is, without a doubt in my mind, New York’s tackiest bar. Like a Rainforest Cafe designed by the Addams Family, it’s seen far better days — now the old animatronics clack louder than the speakers, and the primary patrons of the bar seem to be gay kitsch hounds, such as myself, drinking in its heady blend of out of place jazz, tacky horror robots, quarter-hourly floor shows, and the cheap, stiff drinks that make it all so much fun. As such, it almost felt perfectly natural to meet Verdigris there.
Verdigris, an agent of chaos we had been warned to avoid, clad in a top hat and corset, sat perched at the end of the bar, smiling like the cat that ate the canary. She beckoned us over with a conspiratorial little nod and a wink, and our party scurried towards her.
“That gentleman sitting near the door…he may promise you all sorts of scientific access, but I know what you’re seeking…the true magic. Isn’t that right, my dears? Trouble is he has all sorts of little secrets that I’m dying to get my hands on. I have this — ” she paused, pulling a vial from her clutch — “vial of truth serum, but he keeps checking his drink, and will be all too suspicious with me around. Can one of you be a dear and slip it into his cocktail? You’ll just have to lie and say the test is a negative once he conducts it — he’s colorblind, and will need to trust you. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Needless to say, of course we poisoned the professor. Who, especially after a couple drinks, could pass up such an opportunity? Let alone the true magic.
Described as a theatrical bar crawl, The Infinity Engine sends players from bar to bar, negotiating, playing games, and solving puzzles with a colorful cast of steampunk flavored characters. Players are agents of “Section 12”, a shadowy organization seeking to recover the lost invention of Professor Nigel Thurgood: the titular Infinity Engine. Each bar is home to a different agent of Section 12, holding part of the code to unlock Professor Thurgood’s will, but also to a rival agent, seeking to undermine them. Players can choose to align themselves with either, or both. The choices have consequences — depending on who you ally with, the evening can progress a number of different ways.
The entire event has clearly been exhaustively designed. Each agent has their own distinct theatrical mission, easy enough to complete, to get that agent’s part of the final code, but has an optional puzzle, just challenging enough for an increasingly drunk audience. We chose to challenge all of them, but after a few stiff drinks, were not afraid to ask for hints.
Incantrix (the original designers) and Sinking Ship (their partner to mount it in New York) do their best to draw you in. You’re encouraged to come in costume, and to pick a pulpy identity from a set of options at the start; I was playing the role, resplendent in steampunk attire, of “Valentine Esperanto, International Dilettante”. This framing is a clever design, as it lets each team decide their level of engagement. I would advise to fully play along though; the whole event is far more fun if you buy into it wholesale. Our team agonized over a final decision, trying to come to some compromise before bringing it to a dramatic vote.
The plot is light, and seems, at the surface, fairly standard; a missing artifact of immense power has disappeared, and rival factions of order and chaos are feuding over it. What shocked me was how deftly the production turned typical tropes on their head. In an evening of almost exclusively intimate conversations with actors, a few scenes managed to be particularly affecting in their subversion. For example: an agent of order, giving our party gallows humor about the ways the endless missions and stresses of Section 12 drove her to drink, making her appear to be nothing but chaos on the outside. Compare that to an agent of chaos, an African American illusionist, seeking not to unleash any great power, but just to use the device to return to the one place he felt at home. For a very simple framework, designed to be digested in bite sized chunks in between conversations among the inebriated, the story managed to go far further than I expected.
That isn’t to say it isn’t constantly and foremost pure fun; I kept thinking to myself that it would make the perfect nerdy bachelor or bachelorette party. Also, as someone who hangs out in the West Village fairly frequently, it was a delight to be introduced to new venues. The choices of bars were spectacular, ranging from raucous pubs to perfectly thematic, classier joints. And now each of them has the energy of the production infused into it — every time I return to Jekyll and Hyde for their absurdly cheap, absurdly strong happy hours, I’ll remember poisoning the professor at the sunny little window table.
No matter what ending you choose, The Infinity Engine sets the stage for a larger theatrical universe, previously performed in Boston — it is my sincere hope that the partnership between Incantrix and Sinking Ship continues. Fusing a simple story told well and a new way of engaging with a neighborhood, I plan on not missing any future installments.
The Infinity Engine has concluded its run. Tickets were $65.
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