What caught my eye most was the show's unusual setup. The actor steps onto the stage without having seen the script at all until the day of the performance, and only receives it for the very first time once the curtain has risen. I walked into the theatre brimming with curiosity about what kind of show would unfold.
On stage there was nothing but a desk, a chair, and a ladder.
Into that quiet, unadorned space, the actor appeared holding a small vial, and in that moment the performance began. Reading through a script encountered for the very first time, the actor wove in their own interpretations and thoughts naturally, steering the piece forward.
Throughout the show I could feel just how thoroughly this work rests on the actor's own capabilities. With no rehearsal, the actor must hold the stage alone for a full hour, which means split-second judgment and expressive instinct are demanded at every turn, and the actor's concentration and quick-wittedness are laid completely bare.
On top of that, "audience participation" was the decisive key to completing the piece. The actor called audience members up to the stage and cast them as bears or rabbits, and at times had the entire house shout out numbers in unison. It was wonderfully fresh to watch the atmosphere and rhythm of the performance shift moment to moment in response to each reaction from the audience.
The performance I attended had one unforgettable moment of spontaneous chaos. One audience member had looked up the show's content in advance using ChatGPT and, in a playful move, called out a number that wasn't theirs. Yet even this unexpected intrusion did nothing to break the spell — if anything, it heightened the sense of live immediacy and gave the whole thing an even more joyful, one-of-a-kind energy.
Through the script, the playwright too spoke directly and continuously to both actor and audience. The way the text conveyed the writer's own thoughts and the circumstances of its creation — as if quietly confiding them right there in front of us — made for a genuinely distinctive structure. If conventional theatre is a place where performers display the polished result of countless rehearsals, this work had a different kind of appeal: the actor uses a text encountered for the first time as a conduit, tuning in to the playwright and the audience in real time, building the performance as it goes.
The most breathless moment was, without question, the final scene. Within the play, the actor is faced with a choice: drink from the glass containing a real substance, or from the one that holds nothing at all. As the actor lay on the stage, sinking into deep deliberation, I held my breath and waited for the choice.
The actor performing that evening, Oh Jeong-taek, made a choice no one had anticipated. He mixed the two glasses together and drank them both. Even with the same script, the mood and message of a performance can shift entirely depending on the decision the actor makes — that was something I felt in my bones in that moment.
After the curtain came down, there was a post-show conversation with the audience. Hearing directly from the actor — the nerves of holding the script for the first time, the emotions felt up on stage — in his own words brought the work even closer. He even shared what the water actually tasted like at the end, offering candid and lighthearted behind-the-scenes details that made for a wonderfully warm exchange.
White Rabbit Red Rabbit was a singular stage, shaped by the shared breath of actor and audience. A new story is written each time, depending on who is there, and even the same actor will arrive at an entirely different interpretation from one performance to the next. This is not a play that presents a fixed answer — it is theatre that searches for the way forward together, in the same time and place. It is a work that will stay with me for a long time: one that awakened me to the unpredictable magic only live performance can offer, and to the preciousness of a moment that can never come again. A work that will linger in the memory for a long time to come.
