“Theater of the Mind,” David Byrne’s immersive new show, is funny, light and disjointed

Some of the best parts of “Theater of the Mind” happen after the show has ended, its long tail cracking, whip-like, as you try to eat dinner or fall asleep.

That’s intentional, and one of the most successful aspects of a production that is fundamentally light and playful. Audience members leave “Theater of the Mind” with a note encouraging them to turn it over in their minds. “With a show like this, what it is can often be revealed when we talk about it and rewind the experience,” co-creator David Byrne writes. “You can change the story anytime.”

The immersive, interactive production has been a long time coming. Its world premiere in Denver on Tuesday, Sept. 13, follows a two-year pandemic halt that found the creators (Byrne and Mala Gaonkar), director Andrew Scoville and producers rethinking the contours. Whatever the changes, or doubling-down on themes, as the case may be, they’ve resulted in a good-natured but lanky, disjointed production.

Co-written by former Talking Heads leader Byrne and businesswoman Gaonkar, the show is a partnership with Off Center, the experimental arm of the Denver Center for the Performing Arts. “Theater of the Mind” adds credibility and value to the city’s renowned immersive scene (part of the reason it’s set here), and is often laugh-out-loud funny amid its bittersweet drama.

Instead of seating a large audience — as in Byrne’s Tony-winning musical “American Utopia” concert/musical — “Theater of the Mind” whisks groups of 16 people at a time through shifting “memories” of Byrne’s semi-fictionalized childhood. They’re rendered in movie set-like detail as interconnected, themed rooms that attempt to pull the rug out from under our senses of vision, taste and hearing.

Set at Northeast Denver’s York Street Yards, a faceless line of red-brick docks, the show spans 15,000 square feet but feels intimate and labyrinthine. At the world premiere on Sept. 13, attendees guffawed and oohed-and-aahed their way through a tight, 75-minute narrative punctuated by experiments developed with neuroscientists in order to destabilize the brain.

An attendant initially guides the group through a door and onto the show’s starting line — a nondescript room surrounded by identical, seafoam-green doors. The 1960s-style purgatory seems influenced by midcentury set design, a la Billy Wilder’s “The Apartment,” and fittingly, attendees are asked to grab seemingly random nametags that further play with notions of identity.

If you’re not comfortable being part of the show, beware: “Theater of the Mind” doesn’t give you a choice. On the premiere night, the actor-guide (a plucky, crisp Annie Barbour) addressed a group with scripted dialogue, but also seemingly slipped out of character at times to query them about their own experiences. From a funeral parlor with a coffin/piano (it’s as morbidly delightful as it sounds) to a mission-control room wreathed in wires and monitors, the variety of environments keeps things moving fast.

“We’re all old friends here,” the dialogue essentially posits, and the intimacy is immediate as you’re asked to introduce yourself to, dance with, and otherwise deeply consider your fellow attendees. The show picks up speed as it winds on, especially in moments where Byrne (who is not present, but whose pre-recorded voice and music is sprinkled throughout) leans into his absurd sense of humor. An oversized, 1950s-style kitchen makes the audience feel like a 6-year-old, practically inviting you to jump up on a huge chair, a la Lily Tomlin’s Edith Ann.

If you’re into extra-textual experiences — or continuing to research and engage with the show after it’s over — “Theater of the Mind” is a smorgasbord. Sans playbill, you can scan a QR code on your parting note that tells you more about the experiments and how they work. But the production also leaves a lot on the table, squandering a late-show opportunity to make a virtual-reality segment even more meaningful and interactive, and padding “scenes” with awkward monologues.