Theatre on Sacred Ground
- Pilar Uribe
- 3 hours ago
- 4 min read
This piece traces my journey from fearing cemeteries to embracing them as sacred, communal spaces where theatre, ritual, and memory bring the living and the dead into quiet conversation. Through experiences in Paris and at Hollywood Forever, I discover that these grounds are not places of dread, but stages of remembrance, connection, and shared humanity.
Growing up, cemeteries frightened me. The gossip at school was that if you passed one, you risked being swallowed by ghosts. The only remedy was to hold your breath. Whenever my family drove by a cemetery, I would abruptly stop talking, fill my cheeks with air, and wait it out. Silence became my protection. I treated it like a ritual—careful not to make a single mistake. Death, when it arrived in my family, came quickly and without ceremony. My aunt Clarita died suddenly in Colombia when I was eight and was buried the next day. A few years later, my grandfather died while we were in Ibagué; again, the funeral and burial happened the following morning. Walking past the plots, I felt like an intruder, as though I were stepping onto a stage uninvited, disturbing something sacred beneath the ground.
A Stage I Wasn't Meant to Enter
During a trip to Paris a few years back, I visited Père Lachaise Cemetery, hoping to pay my respects to Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, and Sarah Bernhardt. The entrance felt ominous—tall mausoleums lining a narrow avenue like closed theatre doors. It was raining and cold. I imagined the ghosts watching from above, perched on the rooftops of their stone homes, whispering for me to leave. After wandering for an hour, unable to find Jim Morrison’s grave, I gave up. As I exited, I was convinced the spirits would follow me onto the metro, angry at my presence. I had mistaken reverence for fear, and the cemetery felt like a stage I wasn’t meant to enter.
That changed last fall. My acting teacher invited a group of us to see Spinal Tap 2 at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. I hesitated, telling myself I could leave if it felt wrong. Instead, I had a wonderful time. This cemetery felt entirely different—open, warm, alive. As we walked through, I passed Mel Blanc’s tombstone, the greatest animated voice of the twentieth century, and blew him a kiss.
We sat on the grass a few feet from the graves, watching a movie projected under the open sky. The audience laughed together, surrounded by the dead, and no one seemed offended. This was theatre—not despite the setting, but because of it. A shared experience unfolding on sacred ground. I left alone after the film and felt completely at ease walking by myself back to the entrance. For the first time, a cemetery felt welcoming.
Theatre of Remembrance
A few weeks later, Hollywood Forever hosted a Día de los Muertos celebration. I bought a Mexican dress and rehearsed my makeup at a Halloween party. The next afternoon, my friend Eliza and I arrived at the south entrance at exactly 4:30 p.m., our assigned time. Everyone around us was dressed up—laughing, taking photos, waiting their turn to enter. Large statues flanked the entrance, like guardians ushering us inside. What had once been rows of headstones had transformed into something else entirely. The graves were now tableaux: intimate scenes layered with marigolds, candles, framed photos, favorite snacks, handwritten notes—tiny stages arranged for a single, meaningful audience. And the marigolds, they were everywhere.
During Día de los Muertos, marigolds—cempasúchil—serve as a bridge between the living and the dead. Their vibrant color and scent are believed to guide spirits back to their families’ altars. In Aztec belief, their golden hue represents the sun’s warmth and light. Walking through the cemetery, it felt as though the space itself had been redesigned for a performance—one built from memory, love, and intention.
I spoke with a woman whose space was filled with sentimental tchotchkes honoring her husband and mother.
“What time did you get here to set up?” I asked, assuming it had taken her a few hours.
“Oh, we all got here at 12:01 this morning,” she said, smiling. It was already five o’clock in the afternoon. All night, families had worked to build these offerings—knowing they would only last a day. One family had arranged their altar so they could watch Game 7 of the World Series together. Eliza and I stood there for an inning, surrounded by the living and watched—surely—by the dead as well. It felt like communal theatre, a shared act of remembrance performed for an audience that spanned generations.
Theatre Without Fear
As the light faded, judges moved through the cemetery, evaluating each altar. The temperature dropped, and our costumes—perfect for the afternoon—began to feel flimsy. We eventually had to leave to make room for the evening crowds. Walking back to the parking lot, we said goodbye to the figures, the flowers, the families who would dismantle their sets by morning. I came down with a cold a few days later, but it was worth it.
I no longer see cemeteries as places to fear or tiptoe through. They are sacred ground, yes—and also spaces of ritual, and memory. Places where the living gather, and where the dead, if only metaphorically, remain part of the audience.