Alex Casey embarks on a murderous journey aboard the Tormore Express.
It was a dark and stormy night and I had never seen so many fedoras in my life. Christchurch’s Addington Station was teeming with guests dressed up – or should I say, 1939 – and sparkling more than their complimentary glass of Sherwood Estate Cuvee. What awaited us all was a five-hour, immersive crime thriller experiencewhich is to take place on the Tormore Express in the midst of a high society wedding party of the 1930s.
My esteemed guest for the evening was my long-suffering husband Joe, who enthusiastically described the idea of being in a sealed vessel with over a hundred costumed strangers for five hours as his “exact version of hell.” Think of it as a sort of revenge date for when he took me out to see noise artist Merzbow early in our relationship and I nearly peed my pants due to the combination of unusual frequencies and incessant clanging.
At the station, the outfits of many of the guests were so impressive that it was impossible to tell who was actually part of the show. A woman in curlers with a dead fox over her shoulder looked demurely around, and an elderly gentleman in cream who looked just like Colonel Sanders held court with a group of Al Capones. I was almost certain that the guy in the Sherlock Holmes hat and Tatua Co-operative Dairy Company puffer vest was not part of the main cast, but it was too early to tell.
I recognised two of the court jesters – the notorious Christchurch improv troupe who brought their skills to the evening’s events – and approached them. “Is there trouble?” I blurted out, before immediately realising that no one had been murdered yet and I had ripped an interstellar rift in the timeline. Professional as ever, “yes, and” they pointed out my error and introduced themselves in thick American accents as film star Rex Cable (Dan Allan) and film director Donald R. De Miles (Jeff Clark).
They told me about the chaos that comes with planning a wedding in just a few weeks. A spontaneous wedding, perhaps? That seemed suspicious to me. Even more so when they promptly ignored my questions about the short time frame and turned straight to the man behind us, who was wearing a starkly anachronistic outfit of bright red, orange and green psychedelic ’70s squiggles. “Oh, if we made films in color, it would be spectacular on the screen,” De Miles said of the ensemble.
When they had gone, I asked Mr Swirls what he thought. “They all seem pretty damned suspicious,” he mused. “Especially that vicar.” In fact, the dodgy priest had been hanging around nervously in the crowd and had quickly become the talk of the town. “It would be too obvious if it was the groom,” a man in a tie in the canapé queue told me. “Funny thing is, we’re watching a crime drama on UKTV,” his wife whispered, “…and it was the vicar.”
We gathered to hear speeches from the newlyweds and their friends, all expertly peppered with contradictions and possible motives. The mother-in-law hates the movie business. The bride has a hot temper. Also, someone had stabbed the wedding cake, which seemed like a bad omen. Clues were thrown into the crowd as the bride, Lady Arabella (Riley Harter), waxed lyrical and thanked everyone for coming to her dream wedding where “nothing will go wrong.”
“That’s kind of the reason we’re here,” joked Al Capone No. 1 behind me.
“Yes, we are here because of the tragedy, honey,” added Al Capone No. 2.
We boarded the train and found our seats opposite a very nice couple from Sweden who enjoy crime dramas, especially Only Murders in the Building. Around us were a few flourishes in the set decor – a nice lantern here, heart confetti there, and a copy of Silver Screen Weekly full of clues. Not quite as elaborate as the Court Theatre’s stunning set for Murder on the Orient Express earlier this year, but then again, that wasn’t performed on a moving train.
As the Tormore Express left the station, the characters moved through the carriages performing a series of funny introductory scenes, followed by a man in a black turtleneck who was either the director of the show or the murderer. The priest misquoted the Bible at one point and I thought of the UKTV fans who would probably freak out over this slip-up. Suddenly a sound rang through the carriage as we heard the victim being shot and then there was nothing else to be heard except the howling wind.
“You’re going to the bathroom!” someone behind us giggled when they heard the swirling sound, buoyed by that special kind of confidence that comes with a couple of warm wines and a Look Sharp suit. “Definitely going to the bathroom! Number two!” The table erupted in laughter.
From that moment on, a manic energy was unleashed in the carriage. Not only was there a murder to solve, but the food and wine were flowing freely, thanks to an extremely well-coordinated wait staff (who were as much the stars of the show as the jesters themselves). I can only speak for our carriage, but the atmosphere was that of a drinking spree in international waters, where anyone could be anything (but most people were Al Capone) and anyone could say anything (but most people were making toilet and/or dick jokes).
Between scenes and aisles, the audience’s attention often focused on whoever got up to use the bathroom – the aisle had become the stage, after all. “YOU’RE THE MURDERER,” a guest wearing a Hallenstein fedora shouted to a portly older gentleman in a cummerbund as he shuffled to the bathroom. Others were applauded in the aisle, some received an impromptu “Happy birthday.” I’m far too excited for this kind of banter and was far too scared to go to the bathroom for the first hour. It was going to be another Merzbow defilement.
Despite my sore bladder, the complicated story offered plenty of twists and turns, and the court jesters provided plenty of variety for the more stern audience members who, ironically, were hell-bent on ruining every scene. For example, whenever a character mentioned “Rex,” one guy would crow about “sex.” Another was obsessed with making jokes about a character’s testicles and repeatedly told them to “have an orgasm.” A red-haired man in a vest demanded to see an actress’s ankles every time he saw her.
“I don’t think anyone is interested in solving the mystery,” the Swede sighed.
Except for my Joe, who had come to life as the surprise chief detective at our table. He scribbled notes next to character bios, underlined evidence in newspaper articles and letters, and questioned passing cast members about their favorite books, movies, and other interesting tidbits from their careers. I only managed the occasional “Sorry for your loss,” as I was mostly focused on not shitting my pants in front of a guy in a bow tie.
As a mango sorbet was served as a palate cleanser, the new course took up the carriage’s attention and I took the opportunity to get up and visit the royal apartments. In the no man’s land of the toilets, I encountered the director Brendon Bennetts (the real director, not the fake director) watching a scene in the next carriage. He nodded to the actors who were gesturing silently behind the sliding doors as they approached us. “I’d want to see that if I were you.”
With my dastardly plan foiled, I returned to my seat to listen to more confusing statements and shady confessions from the characters. But the biggest revelation of all was that the train was no longer moving – we were peering into the darkness with no idea where we were. Although this added to the overall eerie atmosphere of being completely disconnected from time and space, I expect upcoming trips in December will offer a much more enjoyable view out the window.
“Drop a nut!” a spectator shouted again to one of the actors.
“I won’t drop a nut, thank you very much,” he replied coolly.
As the main courses were served – lamb for the meat-eaters, gnocchi, mushrooms and pesto for the vegetarians, gnocchi and mushrooms for the vegans – I ran the gauntlet to the toilet. A man in a bronze brocade waistcoat looked completely bewildered as he opened the toilet door and a line of waiters rushed past, balancing plates of lamb. Through the door I heard more hard-hitting questions from guests, including “Mate, what colour were her underwear?”
That’s always the risk with these events – there will always be a few fighters who think they’re funnier than the professional comedians. Or, perhaps worse, those who give up on the act altogether. “You’ve lost interest in the murder, you’re more interested in the rugby,” one of the actors joked to a spectator who had presumably paid $380 to watch the All Blacks game on his phone. “Who’s out there getting murdered?”
But there was no more impressive rescue by the cast than in the climactic scene of the entire show. We had all been asked to fill out an arrest warrant form, and when it came time to reveal the killer, a viewer who guessed correctly was called upon to provide the dramatic J’ACCUSE moment. The problem was that the chosen viewer had apparently forgotten who they had written, and confusedly shouted out the completely wrong name.
Without giving it away, a clever moment of improvisation from Jeff Clark interrupted our drunken detective and arguably saved the whole show, just in time for our return to Addington station. As we got off the train and collected ourselves after a whopping five-hour journey of mushrooms and murder, sorbet and suspicion, I read some of the unfiled warrants that lay scattered on the tables. Someone had written his own name in capital letters as a murderer, crossed it out and then torn it up.
Maybe room for a sequel?
The author was invited as a guest of Great Journeys NZ to Murder on the Tormore Express.
