The Death of Rasputin Was a Dark Dream on Governors Island

As someone who has seen Sleep No More three times, wandered the jazz-aged world of The Great Gatsby immersive show, and gotten lost in Alice’s dreamy world in Then She Fell, I can say with some confidence: immersive theater isn’t just something I enjoy—it’s something I chase. So when The Death of Rasputin opened at LMCC’s Arts Center on Governors Island this past spring, I knew I had to be there. And I’m so glad I was.

If you had simply boarded the Governor’s Island ferry for a casual afternoon picnic or bike ride, the scene would have stopped you in your tracks. Nearly every passenger—myself included—was dressed in black, as required. It looked less like a summer outing and more like a funeral procession or eerie cult gathering making its way across the water. The destination? A modest performance space just a few hundred feet from the ferry dock that had been turned into something grand and otherworldly.

Like many immersive shows, this one had rules: you weren’t to speak unless spoken to, and you were expected to be fully present. The story wasn’t meant to be lightly observed—it was meant to consume you.

Each performance began in Katya’s Bar, a shadow-lit watering hole named Libations for the Lost. Potions for the Possessed. Step quietly, speak softly. This was the prelude—a smoky, candlelit space where mystics, monarchists, and wandering souls gathered to drink and drift. Beneath the hum of spirits (both poured and summoned), guests mingled in small groups or arrived solo, exchanging quiet glances and hushed theories of what was to come over cocktails. Of course, vodka was ever-present throughout the experience—true to Russia’s spirit—with an in-house selection offering a tempting array of flavored varieties.

Then, without warning, the story began. Cast members burst into the bar, and we were swept into the nightmarish beauty of The Death of Rasputin.

Courtesy of Maria Baranova

The story unfolded through multiple scenes and locations, making it impossible to catch everything in one visit. You might be focused on one space while distant screams, laughter, and music echoed from other rooms, creating a living, breathing world. Like Sleep No More, all threads eventually converged in a dramatic finale. Set in a reimagined 1916 Petrograd—transplanted to the ruined elegance of Governors Island—it followed Rasputin’s final days. Or maybe it didn’t. Narrative was slippery. Rasputin, in particular, appeared like a hallucination: part prophet, part predator, part seducer. Traveling from Rasputin’s apartment to Katya’s Bar, the sultry palace, shadowy back rooms, and war room, you encountered a cast of complex characters—plotters, lovers, believers, spies, and of course Rasputin, the reason we were all there—each adding depth to the world you stepped into.

The design and choreography (by James Finnemore) blurred space and time—rituals and riots, comedy and conquests collided. The Romanovs were clinging to their crumbling empire. Revolutionaries whispering in corners. And Rasputin’s sexy magnetism draws us all in.

Courtesy of Maria Baranova

Unlike Sleep No More, The Death of Rasputin featured actual dialogue, which made each character’s unique personality shine through in such a fun and captivating way. Even though we were wandering through a dark, dreary dreamland, comedy was skillfully woven throughout, adding unexpected lightness to the mood.

As with any immersive experience worth its salt, no two visits were the same. What truly mattered was who you followed, whose hand you touched, and which door you slipped through. Some moments hit with shocking intimacy, while others felt grand and mythic. The entire show pulsed with desire and decay.

Unlike Sleep No More, The Death of Rasputin featured actual dialogue, which made each character’s personality shine in unexpected and delightful ways. Even in this bleak, dreamlike world, comedy was cleverly laced throughout—dry one-liners, absurd moments, and bits of warmth that made you laugh just when things got too heavy.

And it wasn’t just immersive—it was interactive. I mean, really interactive. We helped stage a sexy cult ritual involving a rope (nothing too wild, I promise), snuck around planting bombs to take Rasputin down, waltzed with strangers in a grand ballroom, and even helped our favorite cross-dressing comrade choose the perfect outfit for the revolution. It was playful, chaotic, and deeply alive.

As with any immersive experience worth its salt, no two visits were the same. What truly mattered was who you followed, whose hand you touched, and which door you slipped through. Some moments hit with shocking intimacy, while others felt grand and mythic. The entire show pulsed with desire and decay.

By the time Rasputin “died”—if he truly did—it didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like crossing a threshold.

Unfortunately, I only made it to the show during its final weekend. After my afternoon performance, I walked thoughtfully back toward the ferry that shuttled guests to and from Manhattan, already feeling the weight of what I might never see again.

Onboard, I struck up a conversation with someone who had seen the show multiple times. I mentioned how I wished I could return, just once more. As with all great immersive works, The Death of Rasputin was never the same twice. With so many characters, rooms, and secrets unfolding simultaneously, you could only ever catch a fraction of the story in one go.

Courtesy of Maria Baranova

Then, as if the spirits were still listening, she turned to me and said she had two tickets for that evening’s performance—tickets she could no longer use. I did not hesitate. That night, I stepped back into the world once more. And somehow, it was both entirely familiar and completely transformed.

Oddly enough, I felt less indulgent going twice in one day after chatting with several delightfully culty fans who had seen it over ten times—and were still uncovering new threads each visit. That’s the nature of immersive theater at its best: it lingers, shapeshifts, and—if you’re lucky—calls you back just when you think it’s over.

To celebrate the end of the run, the team hosted a post-show scavenger hunt and dance party for those who stayed behind to catch the final ferry off the island. It was the perfect send-off—joyful, strange, and the same chaotic energy that made the entire experience unforgettable.

That’s the nature of immersive theater at its best: it lingers, shapeshifts, and—if you’re lucky—calls you back just when you think it’s over.

If you were fortunate enough to witness The Death of Rasputin before its final performance, you know: this wasn’t just theater. It was a rare invitation into a cooler, stranger side of art—one that doesn’t just ask you to watch, but to join in.