I knew I was in for an intimate performance when I walked into the lobby of The Flea Theater and everyone seemed to know each other. The audience was made up mostly of women in breezy summer sundresses who greeted each other with hugs and excited cries of “Hi! How are you?!” As we were ushered into the blackbox theater by the extremely gracious theater staff and settled into the mostly filled seats, my brother and I exchanged glances. I had read Oscar Wilde’s Salome in high school in French, but remembered little of the plot and couldn’t imagine how it would be staged. My brother, a self-professed theater geek, had never even heard of the play. But one thing was certain: if the white-faced men frozen at the sides of the stage were anything to go by, this play was going to be super creepy.