Photo: Ciaran Bagnall

Part history tour on acid, part vaudeville, and part test of the audience’s patience, Solas Nua and the Performance Corporation’s much-anticipated Swampoodle comes storming into the Uline Arena, injecting some theater into a neglected corner of the District.

The quick rundown for those who missed our previous features: Swampoodle was once a well-defined, rough-and-tumble Irish neighborhood near H Street. Eventually, Union Station ended up over top of much of it. The area later became the home of the Uline Arena/Washington Coliseum, which in years past hosted The Beatles’ first American concert, the circus, roller derby, Icecapades, Malcolm X, a church and a trash transfer station. It is currently an indoor parking lot — and, for one week, the unlikely stage for Swampoodle, the show.

Walking into the dim arena, the audience sees, on the far side, a janitor with a push broom (Michael John Casey) brightly spotlighted. They walk across the arena to hear what he has to say. He leads them back into the middle of the arena, where new spotlights pick up some other actors in fabulous costumes. Things range all over from there, from arguments over Swampoodle’s history to a trumpet performance to gals in swastika-adorned bathing costumes giving a rendition of Swampoodle’s troubled racial history. (Marianne Meadows deserves a medal for her acrobatic lighting design.) And so on.

It becomes clear that the show (scripted by a fellow from Ireland named Tom Swift) has two main narrative threads: the actors’ continuing disagreement over what the show is and whether there even is a show, and a highlights tour of the complex history of the place and its residents. The two threads come together in a neat way in the end; but for the most part, trying to keep up with the lip-service plot is both unnecessary and nearly impossible.

It’s because of one very large and unfortunate problem: sound. The Uline is an echo chamber. When the actors play music and sing, the effect is glorious, but any time the actors attempt to speak plain dialogue, no one can hear a word. There are sight issues, too; anyone caught in the back after a move will probably miss the scene entirely. Too often, all there is to look at is fellow audience members frowning and cupping their hands to their ears. As stated, following the narrative word-for-word isn’t necessary, but it can be very annoying having to essentially give up and wait five minutes for the scene to shift.

Because of all this, the show is at its best when it abandons dialogue and instead just evokes the spirits of Swampoodle’s past through unexpected brass band entrances, dance routines, weird costumes and archival film projection. The show’s promotions advertise live roller derby and high-wire acts, but there are none to be seen, sadly.

Anyone who goes to see Swampoodle is strongly advised to bring a bottle of water. Also, anyone who has their mobility or their hearing impaired, or who has difficulty standing for a long time, might reconsider entirely.

So, in conclusion: Dreamy ballet! Snarky janitors! Irish vs. Italians! Bouncing on tiptoes to see and hear! For those willing to accept the considerable challenges, Swampoodle the show — or Swampoodle the neighborhood, which, in some form, still exists for those who know where to look — just might have something truly special to offer.

Swampoodle runs through May 28 at the Uline Arena next to the New York Avenue Metro station. Tickets are available online.