We live in a new age of art, or at least a new age of things masquerading as art with enough confidence that we’ve collectively agreed not to question it. The museums, once cathedrals of oil paint and hushed reverence, now struggle to lure anyone not already clutching a membership card and a tote bag. Movie theaters, too, have resorted to bribery with motion seats, 3D glasses, dessert toppings, and other forms of sensory extortion meant to distract us from the fact that we are, once again, watching two CGI capes debate philosophy mid-air.
Enter the immersive art experience, the modern American pilgrimage, which is equal parts spectacle, nostalgia, and Instagram backdrop. Disney and Universal, those amusement-park aristocrats, were the original architects of the phenomenon, training us from childhood to walk into a warehouse full of plywood and fog machines and call it “magic.” But now, the genre has a new mogul, and its name is Netflix.
Yes, Netflix, the streaming giant with the financial reserves of a small nation-state, has debuted its own immersive megaplex, Netflix House. And one of these can be found, improbably, in the once-illustrious Galleria Mall in Dallas, where Saks Fifth Avenue used to stand and where I once bought cologne that promised “notes of sandalwood” but mostly smelled like commitment issues.
Netflix House is what happens when a corporation throws several vaults’ worth of capital at a single question, What if you could walk into your favorite shows, preferably without having to act or bathe like someone from the actual 1980s?
Upon entering, guests are greeted by life-size statues of Netflix’s most memorable characters, such as the demogorgon from Stranger Things, Wednesday Addams, and the faceless assassins from Squid Game, though the effect is less “ominous” and more “Comic-Con with a larger production budget.” A grand, Netflix-red staircase leads to a food hall serving bite-sized burgers, grilled cheese sticks, pretzel-and-queso bites, and something called pickle pizza, which I can only describe as my own personal Saw trap.
Beyond that, there is Replay, a full Netflix-themed arcade, where I, a grown adult with taxes and back pain, found myself being humiliated by a Happy Gilmore 2 arcade cabinet. There is also a Bridgerton hedge-maze game for those who wish to experience Regency-era confusion without the corsets, a “floor is lava” room for the athletically confident, and an interactive Love Is Blind game that pairs you with a fictional soulmate, proving that even in a mall, even in Texas, even in virtual reality, you can still make terrible romantic choices.
There are escape rooms, of course. One based on Squid Game, and one based on Zack Snyder’s zombie universe of Army of the Dead. The Squid Game supermarket is as stressful as any real supermarket on a Sunday afternoon, but with more throwable items and fewer expired coupons.
But the crown jewels, the reason Netflix House exists at all, are the two sprawling immersive experiences on the first floor.
The Squid Game experience is, frankly, shockingly good. Guests receive numbered wrist devices, have their faces scanned (presumably not for nefarious reasons, presumably), and proceed through five games policed by stone-faced guards. It culminates, naturally, in Red Light, Green Light, complete with the giant murder-doll who swivels her head with unnerving precision. Screens track eliminations and points. If you come with friends, you will betray them immediately. If you come with family, you will discover who among you deserves to survive.
The Stranger Things experience, meanwhile, is part haunted house, part escape room, and part high-budget fan fiction. Equipped with flashlights, headphones, and around-the-neck speakers (a fashion crime in any dimension), guests wander through an eerily accurate Hawkins, complete with Eddie’s trailer, the high school, and the police station. Live actors roam in-character. When you shine your light at certain objects, events trigger spooky sounds, jump-scares, and things that go bump in your monthly subscription fee.
It all ends, dramatically, in the Upside Down. Which is thrilling, though I would’ve appreciated at least one tangible monster instead of a screen-based Vecna doing his best community-theater audition for “malevolent cosmic entity.” These attractions are not, it must be noted, for small children. Thirteen and up seems to be the sweet spot. Old enough to appreciate the references, young enough not to sprain a shoulder doing the “floor is lava.”
At $40 per person per experience, the price adds up quickly, especially if you’ve spawned multiple children or brought along that friend who always “forgets” their wallet. Whether it’s worth it depends entirely on how devoted you are to the particular shows featured, and how enthusiastically you subscribe to the church of immersive entertainment. For some, this is the promised land. For others, myself included, it’s an impressive, occasionally delightful, ultimately underwhelming maze of corporate fandom that could have soared with just a few extra monsters.
Still, Netflix plans to rotate the attractions as new shows arrive. So perhaps, someday, we’ll all go back for the inevitable Bridgerton duel simulator, or the Love Is Blind Reunion Maze of Poor Decisions. And we will love it. And we will post about it. Because in the new age of art, perhaps the truest masterpiece is the selfie you take on the way out with a giant pet hand.
