‘Life and Trust’ Review: Choose Your Own Faustian Adventure

In one room in Conwell Tower, a stately skyscraper in the Financial District, a police officer strips off his shirt and flogs himself — passionately, even sensually — before coolly donning his uniform again. At the end of a long hall, a woman performs a Houdini-esque escape from a straitjacket. Elsewhere, in a dark underground boxing ring, two men trade punches in a cinematic fight scene where lights flash and dim with each maneuver, the bodies sometimes moving in slow motion like scenes from a “Rocky” film.

What are these characters’ motivations, and what is their connection to one another? Your guess is as good as mine.

In “Life and Trust” — the new theatrical experience from Emursive, producers of the popular “Sleep No More” with Punchdrunk — the story never rises to meet the spectacle, creating a visually appealing yet narratively incoherent piece of exploration theater.

The show, directed by Teddy Bergman, begins on Oct. 23, 1929, the evening before the stock market crash. The audience has been invited to a “prospective investors fete” by the head of the Life and Trust Bank, a J.G. Conwell, who has made his fortune mass-producing a mysterious bright green syrup that’s something between a panacea and an addictive opiate.

There is, of course, something shady about this invitation: Early in the show a suited man purrs to the audience, “If you choose to invest with us, you’re one of ours … forever.” (It turns out “forever” means roughly three hours in this site-specific show … which can sometimes feel like an eternity.) Faced with the imminent fall of his financial empire, Conwell takes a devilish offer to travel back in time to the Gilded Age.

In this earlier time of glamour and pleasures, we meet a younger Conwell and dozens of other characters based on real historical figures, from eugenicists to magicians. The show is mostly dialogue-free; acrobatic choreography by the Tony nominees Jeff and Rick Kuperman is meant to fill some of the role speech would. Sometimes it works, as when one character shows otherworldly control over another through mirrored movements — a wave of one’s hand seems to command another’s body to tumble forward. Other instances, particularly during scenes of confrontation or seduction, when the characters’ bodies repeatedly swoon into one another, feel less novel and instead highlight how unclear the relationships and stories are.