LABYRINTH MASQUERADE
Millennium Biltmore Hotel
Los Angeles
Aug. 16 – 17, 2024
Last Thursday night, I posted an urgent inquiry to my Insta story: “Where can I buy a masquerade mask?” Almost immediately, my inbox flooded with the same question: “Are you going to an Eyes Wide Shut party?” If such an affair exists in Los Angeles, I’m (blissfully?) unaware. I was prepping for the Labyrinth Masquerade—a massive ball inspired by the 1986 cult film of the same name, a collaboration between George Lucas and Jim Henson.
Labyrinth is not a film that elicits neutral reactions: either you’re rolling your eyes at David Bowie’s Fushigi tricks or you’re wiping them at Jennifer Connelly’s climactic final monologue. I’m firmly in the latter camp. At 12, I had “complicated” feelings about Bowie’s Goblin King Jareth; at 21, I donned an oversized vest and dressed as Connelly’s Sarah for Halloween. Now, at 25, I leapt immediately into detective mode when cursory mention of a Labyrinth-themed function graced my social media feed. Google told me that the ball, an annual soiree founded as a tribute to the film’s famous masquerade scene in 1997, would be returning to the Millennium Biltmore Hotel the next day. Much like Sarah had 13 hours to retrieve her baby brother from the goblins’ clutches, I had 24 hours to get a costume together — and I was up to the task.
The Labyrinth Masquerade wasn’t very Kubrickian; it didn’t have much to do with Lucas or Henson either. Yet the tableaux I saw at the historic Biltmore — transformed into a mythical land called “the Realms” by the Sypher Arts Studio — were nothing short of cinematic. The celebration was aptly named: striding into the hotel lobby, undercover in a black gown and silver mask that were simple enough to let me slink about the crowd with ease, I felt delightedly disoriented. A series of ornate ballrooms opened into one another, forming a maze that was lovely to get lost in. While I spied plenty of Sarahs and Jareths, their hair teased to high heaven, most guests had designed their own unique characters. Horns, wings, and pirate hats abounded; the mushroom hat made a triumphant return.
I didn’t see a lot of dancing — at least, not at first. The evening largely revolved around a slate of themed activities, à la Comic Con. In one room, a wisecracking emcee hosted a version of The Dating Game starring three grotesque goblins. In another, performers in elaborate body paint twisted and twirled onstage. Fictional creatures weren’t the only unlikely residents of the Realms: a group of wildlife volunteers was on hand with an array of avian guest stars, including falcons, hawks, and an owl so petite that it looked like a tiny Muppet. I soon learned that the basement Throne Room — “down in the Underground,” beneath a hallway where vendors peddled trinkets and accessories — was the best bet for those who wanted to kick up their feet. Beautifully printed programs announced a schedule of waltzes and polkas; of course, special dances to “As the World Falls Down” and “Magic Dance” would take place.
After a couple of songs, I stumbled upon a corner labeled the “Post Office.” There, I asked the attendant on duty what enrolling in the postal service entailed. Following a swearing-in ceremony, I was told, new inductees would be sent on quests across the Realms, which might include delivering letters and chatting with fellow partygoers. Now this was something special: an opportunity to star in my own story, with an emphasis on creativity and community. The final group of mail carriers had already been enrolled … but I could always come back tomorrow.
Would I do it? Pop the tape back in, rewind, press play? Alas, real-world duties called my name. Still, it was nice to know that the portal to the Realms would remain open for the most devoted fantasy fans. Here’s to many more years of Magic Dancing — Bowie above knows we need it.
