Night of Dread
Chronicle and gallery by André Escobar-Linares
I had never come face to face with so many different manifestations of fear until Saturday, October 24, 2026. The day had begun quietly. I had breakfast with my partner, checked the weather, went out for a cold autumn walk, and made plans for the rest of the afternoon. Among them was a screening of Latin American short films organized by the HCHC (Hispanic Canadian Heritage Council). Nothing particularly memorable: a rather poor selection, with one or two exceptions. The main event of the day was still to come, and I knew very little about it. “They burn these enormous puppets for Halloween,” a friend had told me when describing the event.
We arrived at Dufferin Grove Park around six in the evening. The place was teeming with families, most of them in costume. We approached a community building near the centre of the park, where skeletal puppets of all sizes stood motionless, some of them truly colossal. We then resumed our walk through the park, taking in the crowds, recognizing the familiar, overused costumes and trying to decipher others that remained beyond our understanding. Shortly afterward, the organizers and collaborators from Clay and Paper Theatre invited us to join the crowd, strategically assembled in front of one of the park's exits. We did as they asked. In the distance, a batucada was drawing near, and as its rhythms converged with the crowd we had become part of, the procession began.
We made our way around the perimeter of the park. The sun was setting, bringing everything into a kind of rhyme: the reddish, fallen leaves, the children, the elderly, joy and fear. The procession eventually came to an end in the surrounding neighbourhood, and the presentation of the puppets began. Each bore the name of a particular fear. There, in the midst of the event, I found myself reflecting on the remarkable work this theatre company was carrying out. Naturally, I decided to learn more about it afterward.
I discovered that the company, founded and directed by David Anderson, was conceived with the intention of conveying messages about contemporary social injustices in simple, accessible ways, through a theatrical language that could reach all kinds of audiences, particularly children. Since 1994, the company has maintained a remarkably consistent trajectory. Its solstice performances have become popular among Toronto's progressive downtown community. Night of Dread and Day of Delight stand out among them.
The fears brought to life through these giant puppets struck me as particularly astute. They gave shape to anxieties that loom large in the lives of millions of people today. “The Fear of Oligarchs” brings to mind the rise of fascism across Latin America; “The Fear of War” recalls the recent, barbaric images of massacres in Palestine; while “The Fear of Poisonous Power” evokes the sheer vileness with which billionaire elites establish their dominion through oppression, annihilation, and the absolute subjugation of other human beings, all the while believing such domination to be their rightful privilege.
I had certainly encountered terrifying characters made of paper, wire, and paint: giant puppets that gave material form to the deepest depths of human cruelty and horror. And yet, at the same time, I could not help but notice how fragile they were before the voracious flames of a community that had chosen to overcome them through the gift of Prometheus..
The event came to an end, and my partner and I made our way home. After such an intense encounter, after standing face to face with fears of such magnitude, something unexpected took place: through fire, a deeper sense of tranquillity emerged, one far greater than the one with which I had begun the day.
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