When a group of queer social media stars accepts an invite to an exclusive wilderness retreat, they’re expecting hashtags, hot tubs, and endless photo ops. What they get instead is Lesbian Wilderness Retreat from Hell—a blood-soaked, laugh-out-loud queer horror-comedy where revenge is on the menu and no one’s brand is safe. The stage-play plunges five influencers into a nightmare of shocking revelations, forcing them to confront their past sins while their fates hang in the hands of the audience. In this immersive production, viewers aren’t just watching the drama—they’re part of it, scanning QR codes to vote in real time on whether to FORGIVE or CANCEL each influencer. One click could save a character… or seal their doom. We spoke with producer/writer/creator Christina Saliba and director Mariah Inger about the show.
Hannah Zihui Wan: How long has this project been in the works for, and a related question; what was the division of labour like between Mariah (the director) and Christina (the producer)?
Christina (Producer): I was heavily involved as one of the co-creators, along with Gwyneth McFall Gorman; she co-created the play with me and is the playwright. So, as with anything I do, I’m deeply engaged in its development.
The process usually starts from a kernel of a very strong vision for the pieces I produce, co-create, or create. We’ve been developing this particular project for years—since late 2020 or 2021. That process goes from having an idea to actually writing the project, to assembling the team who will help bring it to life. This includes fleshing out the characters, concepts, and ideas, and then finding the right people for each position—designers, directors, and so on. A big part of it is also securing financing for the project, which is essential. I tend to do a bit of everything.
In terms of division of labour: I’ve worked with Mariah before on Lesbian Speed Date from Hell—an original play we did back in 2019 that acts as a sort of prequel to this play, as they share the same world and atmosphere. Mariah came on as the director. It’s a huge job. Once the script is completed, that’s essentially when Mariah takes over: she handles casting, makes some tweaks to the script if needed, and starts putting the show together. She works directly with the heads of departments—set design, props, costumes, lighting, sound, composition—as well as the tech team at the venue. She also works directly with the actors to tell the story.
I’m involved in writing and developing the script, but then Mariah takes that script and brings it to life, which is a massive undertaking.
Hannah: Okay, let me know if this analogy resonates: if the play is like a sculpture you’re trying to move, then Christina would be like the nervous system and the brain, and Mariah would be the hands and muscles.
Mariah (Director): Sometimes, yes—that analogy works in many ways. But I’d also say Christina can be like both the nerve endings and the clay itself. I have to figure out what she’s trying to communicate, and then mold it into something that can work onstage, in this environment.
When I receive a script as a director, I need to be interested in it. I have to want to participate. Once I’m on board, I bring my own perspective and vision to the piece. Sometimes my vision aligns completely with the creators’, and sometimes it differs. That’s because what they imagine in their minds might not directly translate to the stage, so I find ways to adapt the ideas—molding them into something practical for live performance, with actors, sets, design, and action. Together, we work to develop something as close as possible to the original concept and intentions.
Christina: What’s really exciting about working with Mariah is that not only is she highly skilled and talented, and a leader within her own community, but she just instinctively understood what Gwen and I were trying to convey. Since it’s a horror comedy—a genre people often either love or don’t take seriously—it can be tricky. But there are real messages and meanings in the show, and Mariah just naturally grasped what we were aiming to express.
Hannah: What is one element that you would think viewers ought to pay attention to or keep in mind, going into the show?
Mariah: For me, it’s really about inviting people to explore a genre that’s not often presented in theater. It’s a genre much more commonly seen in film and TV. Most people will recognize it and think, “Oh yeah, I’ve seen something like that—those campy horror films from the ’90s and 2000s—those were hilarious.” Whether you love it or hate it, you’ll know it. That familiarity is part of what makes it interesting—“This is a new piece, but I’ve seen this kind of thing before. How does it work in theater? Can they actually do that on stage?” That curiosity is what I hope draws people in.
I also hope people are ready for the immersiveness of the experience. Walking into the space feels completely different—we’re intentionally asking the audience to lean into the joy and absurdity of it. To allow themselves the freedom to play with the play, rather than just sitting back as passive spectators. You’ll feel something happening around you, not just in front of you—and I think that’s really fun.
Christina: I’d just add one thing: be aware of your preconceived biases—they’re going to come up. You’re going to see some pretty awful things in the play, and your initial reaction might be strong and instinctive. But try to pause and question that reaction.
These characters are shady; they’ve done dark things. But haven’t we all, in some way? So before jumping to judgment, take a moment to reflect on why you’re reacting that way. Do you see any part of yourself in these people? Do they deserve some grace?
That’s what I would encourage people to think about.
Hannah: TL;DR: Be ready—and be open-minded. I’m interested in understanding the origins or roots of why creative minds produce what they do. What do you think are the biggest influences on your artistic creativity, especially as they relate to this specific play? What are some of the reactions and reflections that you wish to provoke in the audience? For one, given that the show’s queerness is explicitly emphasized, is it right to assume that you are both queer?
Mariah: I’m not. But I’m not just an ally—I’m an accomplice. I participate to break boundaries and create representation. That’s just part of my world. I do that for all diverse and marginalized people: queer, Black, disabled—anyone who’s been pushed into the shadows. That’s who I fight for. Anyone who’s been oppressed or traumatized—that’s where I come in.
Christina: As one of the originators of this show, I can say horror has always drawn me in. You can use it to tell stories about major existential crises in a way that feels accessible and not too on-the-nose. The monster can be depression. The monster can be maternal rage. It’s poetic and powerful. And when it comes to horror-comedy, I think queer people connect deeply with it. We know the horror. We also know the comedy. We live in both extremes. Queer folks often gravitate toward that wild emotional ride—it’s always inspired me.
Hannah: Right, like Rocky Horror Show?
Christina: Exactly. So many queers and misfits love that show. They see themselves in it. Queer people, BIPOC, anyone who’s on the margins—we’ve been treated like outcasts, like monsters. So when we see monsters in horror, we relate. We’ve been villainized, and we see ourselves in them.
Mariah: As a person of colour, I know what it’s like to be oppressed, to be treated cruelly. And sometimes, you become the monster just to protect yourself and just to be heard. The “angry Black woman” trope? That’s society’s label. But maybe it’s not about being angry. Maybe it’s about being tired of being silenced. If you’re uncomfortable with that—maybe that’s your problem, not mine. I’m going to take up space.
Comedy horror gives us the tools to say uncomfortable things. You can push boundaries, joke about taboos, and still speak real truths. Like Christina said earlier—check your biases. And for those of us who’ve been oppressed, we have to check ours too. We’ve internalized a lot of the oppressive language and behavior from the systems around us.
We all know cancel culture came from a good place—it was about accountability, calling out harm, and using our voices. That’s powerful. But humans are pack animals. Once someone in a leadership role realizes their power, and social media amplifies that, it only takes a tiny spark of negativity for the crowd to follow without question.
Hannah: I agree that originally, cancel culture was used as a more “righteous” tool—for justice, for protecting people—but then it got stripped of that meaning.
Mariah: Yes. Now it’s like, “I don’t like your hair—cancel.” “I don’t like your nails—cancel.”
Christina: Or just “I disagree.” That’s the scary part. We’re not talking about human rights here, we’re talking about disagreement—and yet people get completely ostracized when enough others pile on.
Mariah: So when someone lashes out or cancels someone—ask: Why? Is it just reactionary, or is it rooted in deeper pain? This show creates space for those questions. We’ll make you laugh—but also think.
Christina: Exactly. The show holds up a mirror. It asks people to look at their own dark truths. We’re not offering neat answers. But hopefully, it starts conversations.
Hannah: So from what I’m understanding, you want the audience to be struck—to realize they might be judging others for things they also do themselves. You want them to sit with that, maybe feel some low-stakes anxiety, reflect, and grow.
Christina: Exactly. Anything I work on, I want the audience to leave questioning their morals—not necessarily feeling like the hero or the villain, but wondering how they treat others and how they judge. We all have dark parts—shadow selves. That doesn’t mean we should act on them, but we should acknowledge them. That awareness should help us extend grace to others.
Especially in the queer community, where there’s been so much trauma. We want justice, we want representation—but cancel culture has become rampant. It’s dividing us even further. It started from a good place, but now it’s turning into something really ugly.
We weren’t afraid to talk about queer topics. This show is very queer. We brought in queer creators, and it’s for queer audiences. And I’m proud of that. But the story is universal. It speaks to all marginalized groups, to anyone who’s experienced oppression.
I’m not trying to minimize the queerness of it—I love that it’s queer. But I also face this all the time as a woman of color. Every time something is written by or for a woman of color, it’s expected to be about trauma. Why can’t I just be a woman with friends? My Blackness is part of me—it’ll show up no matter what—but I want to create spaces where we can just be.
That includes the jokes, the inside references, all of it. That’s the joy of writing for your own community. But straight people should come see this show too. They should laugh and think and recognize themselves. Maybe even realize, “I’m the monster too.” And offer grace to others.
Hannah: What would be some of the motivations behind the interactive and immersive design of this play? Is it to keep the audience’s attention better, or is there some specific layer to the experience that you wished to add, or both and some more?
Christina: We were focusing on cancel culture. I think we wanted people to really feel the repercussions of making those kinds of decisions—feel some sense of accountability. We wanted the audience to physically participate in that, to experience those consequences, and then sit with the emotions and thoughts afterward: “What have I done? What did I go along with?”
I don’t know—I also just love monsters. There doesn’t always have to be a deep reason.
Mariah: Standard or traditional theater will always have its magical place—just like conventional filmmaking. Art is art. But art also constantly transforms, so why not embrace new concepts in theater?
Are we the first to do immersive theater? Absolutely not. But it’s still not the norm. It’s not common to see comedy horror on stage. It’s not common to see immersive theater.
If we had millions of dollars, we’d probably do all kinds of wild things—wind machines, pools, sensory effects—but even with limited resources, in a unique venue, we’re creating a space where the audience has to participate. And I hope people feel that.
What really interests me is pushing new boundaries, creating new norms in art—and immersive theater is a big part of that.
It also raises the question: How do we excite audiences now? Of course, people still love theater. Traditional forms aren’t going away. But attention spans and overall energy toward art have been shrinking for a while. The pandemic made it worse. Now, even as theater returns, venues across the country are struggling. Audiences got used to the digital world—small, individual, self-contained. Everything on laptops.
So how do we bring people back? We have to innovate. Be creative. Use what audiences are already engaged with—like their phones. Those used to pull them out of the experience. Now we can use them, almost like bait, to draw them in.
We can’t ignore the technology. So the question became: do we let it take over and say, “That’s it—live theater is only for the elite few who still care”? Or do we adapt?
We chose to adapt. To bring it in. To embrace it. To find innovative ways to collaborate with the moment instead of resisting it.
Let’s work with what’s here—not against it.
Hannah: You know, as a writer for Montreal Rampage, I am very curious to know about, like, you guys’ personal connections to the city. This is a very broad question, so feel free to answer it however you feel.
Christina: I was born and raised in St. Leonard, in the East End.
Mariah: I wasn’t born here, but I was mostly raised here. I’ve lived in other provinces and traveled a lot, but I always come back to Montreal—it’s always felt like home. I grew up mostly in the Plateau and Mile End, but I’ve also lived on and off in St. Henri for about four years, which is where I am now.
I actually started my career in French theater, so this city and its communities are very close to my heart. I’ve seen the evolution of art here—from French to English circles—and I’ve had the chance to grow both in theater and film. Montreal has such a unique energy when it comes to art.
Hannah: That’s perfect, actually—I was going to ask you, as someone who really knows the scene, what do you appreciate the most about Montreal’s arts and culture world?
Mariah: One thing I really appreciate is that there are so many community-based spaces here that allow emerging artists to show work that isn’t polished or perfect. In other provinces, if your work isn’t “perfect,” it can be really hard to get support. But here, people value the process.
C’est la communauté. The people make it work. Over decades, that’s built a space where experimentation and failure are okay. There are so many little artist sub-communities where people show up for each other, even for unfinished or risky work.
When you go to other provinces, you see how rare and supportive Montreal is by comparison. Of course, it depends on the province. In some places, the art and multicultural communities are just smaller, so they don’t have the same infrastructure to support a wide range of work. In bigger places like BC or Ontario, they’re often chasing international recognition, so there’s more pressure to compete at a high level—and that means less room for “imperfect” art.
Quebec, on the other hand, has its own unique dynamic. Sometimes that’s magical. But it can also feel insular. Like—okay, we’ve succeeded in Quebec… now what? Quebec art often stays in Quebec. It’s for Quebec. It’s from Quebec. And that’s beautiful, but it can also feel limiting.
That’s why you see people leaving. Even those who are deeply proud of being from Quebec—they still end up in L.A. or elsewhere to keep growing.
Christina: Right—and if you’re English-speaking, those opportunities can feel even further away.
Mariah: Exactly. I started my career in French, and honestly, Quebec still struggles with diversity and inclusion. There’s this deep-rooted feeling of being culturally oppressed within Canada, so they’re fighting their own fight—but that can create an unfortunate kind of exclusivity. Even if you were born and raised here, you might still be treated as an outsider.
Hannah: Oh my god, I’m so glad you said that.
Mariah: Yeah. I know so many pure laine Black women who’ve worked their entire careers in French but still don’t get hired in French theater—because they’re not “Québécoise enough.” That’s the subtext. It’s real.
Back in the ’90s and 2000s, it was kind of a joke—on any given night, you’d see the same five Quebec stars on every channel. That’s how protected the system was. But it worked—they built a real star system here. Canada as a whole doesn’t really have that, not at Quebec’s level. That’s how you get a Celine Dion.
So yes, Quebec has built this incredibly supportive structure for emerging artists. But if you’re not part of the higher circles or “accepted,” it can be stifling. You end up stuck. You plateau.
Thankfully, things are changing. Smaller theaters are now doing smart, real collaborations between French and English institutions—places like Centaur, for example. That’s where real bridges can be built.
Hannah: Okay, so last question. This might feel like I’m putting you guys on the spot, but how would you handle the situation if you became a victim of cancellation or cancel culture?
Mariah: I would call out everyone who canceled me.
To me, being “cancelled” raises two important questions: first, why am I being canceled? If there’s a valid reason—if I made a misstep, failed to take accountability, or hurt someone—then I believe it’s my responsibility to own up to that. I’d want to have an honest conversation, acknowledge where I went wrong, and keep that dialogue going. That’s how growth happens.
But if it’s the other kind of cancellation—the cheap, reactionary kind that cancel culture sometimes devolves into—then I’d call that out too. If you’re going to cancel me, do it live. Sit across from me and tell me face to face why. Let’s have a real conversation. Maybe we’ll agree, maybe we won’t, but at least it’ll be honest. At least we’ll actually listen to one another.
That’s the problem: we’re so quick to vilify people. So quick to jump to conclusions and label someone the villain before understanding the full story. And once that judgment is made, it becomes almost impossible to have any kind of real, respectful dialogue.
I just hope we keep creating more works like this—works that make people stop, reflect, and ask themselves hard questions. Listening is a skill. A real one. And not enough people do it. We’re just quick to attack, to chase justice in the moment without really seeking truth or understanding.
I’m not afraid of uncomfortable conversations. In fact, I welcome them. If someone’s being canceled for all the wrong reasons—because of gossip, hearsay, or just because it felt like the right thing to do in the moment—then we need to be brave enough to call that out too. You absolutely have every right to cancel me if I’ve done something wrong. But if you’re canceling me on a whim, without proof or accountability on your end, then you also need to take responsibility.
We need to be uncomfortable. That’s how we change things. Discomfort is essential—for growth, for evolution, for justice, for doing the right thing. You have to be willing to go through it.
That’s how we move forward.
LESBIAN WILDERNESS RETREAT FROM HELL continues as part of Fierté Montreal until August 9 at Cabaret Lion d’Or. Tickets available HERE.
