David McKay, Alasdair Macrae, Melody Grove and Andy Clark in ‘The Strange Undoing of Prudencia Hart.’ (Shakespeare Theatre Company/Drew Farrell)
By DCist contributor Alexis Hauk.
Anyone who has ever been to an academic conference will tell you that intellectual pretentiousness can be its own kind of hell.
In the National Theater of Scotland’s The Strange Undoing of Prudencia Hart, presented by Shakespeare Theatre Company, that grating quest for researched superiority leads its title character to actual Hell.
Staged under the neon Guinness signs and Nationals pennants at Bier Baron, a tavern in Dupont Circle, this performance feels as if the five-person cast is throwing a really awesome party and they just want to entertain the kilt right off of you.
The show begins with a free Scotch tasting. So far, so good. The intimate, in-the-round table setting lends itself to constant up-close interaction with the actors, and lots of invaded personal space (this was especially true for one young man seated next to me, who got a special lap dance during a scene straight out of Mercutio’s Queen Mab speech).
Pre-show, we were asked to rip up our napkins to create a “snowstorm” effect (for what is the old country without a little blizzard); later, we’re invited to sing and clap along to a variation of “Guantanamera.” I watched with amusement as, several times, people hastily cleared their drinks away to make room for the actors leaping onto their tables.
After a brief, tongue-in-cheek prologue (in which “autism spectrum” and “Electra” are melodically paired), we meet our heroine, Prudencia Hart (played with wide-eyed sensuality and kinetic energy by Melody Grove). “Pru” is an expert on ballads, literature and “the topography of Hell.” She’s headed to a conference about 40 miles from Edinburgh in a snowstorm.
It’s a pleasure to suspend your disbelief as the five-person ensemble labors to create an imaginary world with what they have lying around. Propped up on the bar, Prudencia mimes driving and her supporting cast creates a car right in front of you. The aforementioned paper shreds are tossed in front of her, while a swaying fiddle bow creates the windshield wiper, a flashlight becomes headlight. There’s even a turn signal, as the actors all pivot in unison, making clicking sound effects.
When she arrives, she runs into her academic nemesis, the swaggering, leather-clad Collin, played with doofus-y charm by Andy Clark. And of course, as anyone who watched Sam and Diane on Cheers knows, where there’s opposites, there’s sexual tension.
Collin’s theory is that contemporary forms of expression, like a Facebook status update, are just as “valid” as a Sir Walter Scott poem, which of course horrifies the nerdy, socially awkward Pru. Things get worse as she finds herself snowed in, attending a dreary open mic acoustic night at a townie pub and then being subjected to raucous, sloppy karaoke.
She gets harassed by the yokels. All the lights go out (seriously, that bar gets dark). And then the weirdness amps up.
There’s a fine line, it seems, between the truly supernatural and the experience of public intoxication (one townie character got a big laugh with his description of the revelry: “It was like something out of Bruegel!”). With one step leading to the next, Pru wanders easily into the clutches of the Lord of Darkness (David McKay), projected in equal parts menace and resignation.
McKay’s casting is a nice touch. He has an expressive character actor face — a combination of Mike White and Brad Dourif— so familiar you swear you’ve seen him quietly stealing scenes onscreen somewhere (though, disappointingly, his IMDB profile reveals that his biggest Hollywood stint was a nameless role in Braveheart).
The Devil turns out to be a bit pretentious himself. “We don’t have such different roles,” he tells Pru, while showing her his collection of rare vinyl. “You’re a collector of songs. I’m a collector of souls.”
At first, Pru’s refusal to resign to her fate comes from a conviction in her own expertise, but as time goes by—a ripping calendar effectively showing the passage of time—that determination withers, and Satan ceases to be merely a troll at the drawbridge. Bending time, space and expectations, the play pushes itself to look at the complex affection that can emerge during imprisonment; the kind of love borne out of boredom and desperation.
I will say that there is an orgiastic dance in there, which is lovely to behold. And there’s my favorite exchange in the script, one between the Devil and Pru: She tries to trick him into rhyming with her (sort of like the classic “anybody want a peanut” scene The Princess Bride). Poetry, she asserts, is the language of love and humanity, while the Boss of Hades prefers prose, which is rigid and orderly. But try as he might, his face and body scrunching up miserably, the Devil can’t seem to prevent the rhymes from slipping out of his mouth at her prompting.
Buoyed on the shoulders of David Greig’s clever, creative writing—in which a Costco parking lot is as likely a place as any for eternal damnation as any, and Kylie Minogue provides the soundtrack—this pleasurably eerie tale demonstrates the joys of good, old-fashioned storytelling.
It’s an ensemble piece to its core, and without the obvious chemistry and comfort between the players—who happen to be shockingly talented musicians (playing everything from accordion to fiddle to glasses)—it wouldn’t work. But these guys, rounded out by Annie Grace and the awesomely mustached Alasdair MacRae, seem like they must have miraculously emerged from the womb together, all the while singing and hollering up a storm.
***
The Strange Undoing of Prudencia Hart, performed by the National Theatre of Scotland and presented by Shakespeare Theatre Company, runs through December 9 at Bier Baron (1523 22nd Street). Tuesday-Friday at 7 p.m. Saturdays and Sundays at 2 and 7 p.m. Tickets $60-65. Audience members required to bring photo identification, as the show is in an actual bar. Guests under 21 must be accompanied by a guardian.
