"I'm sorry, there's just a lot going on right now," Lizzo tells me over the phone. The 28-year-old singer-rapper is on her way to the airport and what's going on is some problem with the car tires, a problem that's interrupting our interview as she hurriedly confers with the driver. But she may as well be talking about her career. Or America, for that matter.
Inside, participants endure pitch-black tunnels and hallways, and an eerie, fog-lit staging of The Crucible. At one point they're hooded and gently laid in a room of pulsing light, and at other times given simple yet apparently urgent tasks to complete: tying ribbons, dressing others, laying on tables, playing a piano. Actors prod, embrace and otherwise invade their personal space. And just when they think they know what's going on, they're grabbed or thrust along to the next disorienting part of the journey.